I was cool, as you may suppose, but it was difficult for man or woman to resist Arthur Wynne when he meant to be pleasant; and so, putting my dislike aside, I found myself chatting with him about the war and what not. In fact, he was a guest, and what else could I do?
My aunt kept herself indoors and would none of the Galloways and Allens, who had come back in swarms, nor even the neutrals, like Mr. Penn, whom she much liked. The day after the town was occupied, Captain Wynne appeared early in the morning, as we were discussing a matter of business. He took it for granted, I presume, that my aunt would see him, and went past the turbaned black boy despite his small remonstrances. My aunt rose to the full of her great height, her nose in the air, and letting fall a lapful of papers.
“To what,” she said, “have I the honour to owe a visit from Mr. Wynne? Is my house an inn, that any officer of the king may enter whether I will or not?”
Although he must have been surprised, he was perfectly at his ease. Indeed, I envied him his self-possession.
“Madam,” he said, “I am charged with a letter from Miss Peniston.”
“You may put it on the table,” says Mistress Wynne. “My brother may choose his society. I ask the same privilege. It will not consist of gentlemen of your profession.”
Mr. Wynne’s face grew black under its dark skin. “Madam,” he said, “I stay nowhere as an unwelcome guest. I thank you for past kindness, and I humbly take my leave. I could have done you a service as to this business of the quartering of officers, and you shall still have my good offices for the sake of the many pleasant hours I have passed in your house. As my Cousin Hugh says nothing, I am glad to think that he is of a different opinion from that which you have put in words so agreeably.” With this he went away, leaving my aunt red in the face, and speechless with wrath.
I thought he had the best of it; but I merely said, “My dear aunt, you should not have been so hard with him.” I did, indeed, think it both unwise and needless.
“Stuff and nonsense!” says Miss Wynne, walking about as my father used to do. “I do not trust him, and he has got that girl in his toils, poor child! I wonder what lies he has told her. How does he hold her? I did think that was past any man’s power; and she is unhappy too. When a woman like Darthea begins to find a man out, she can’t help showing it, and some are more frank on paper than in talk; that is her way. I am afraid I made mischief once, for I told him long ago that I meant her to marry you; and then I saw he did not like it, and I knew I had been a goose. Whatever is the reason he hates you, Hugh? Oh yes, he does—he does. Is it the woman? I will have no redcoats in my house.”
I got a chance to say—what I was sorry to have to say—how little need there was for him to fear poor me, whom Darthea wished to have nothing to do with, I thought.