“About what, Hugh?”
“About how we lost our Welsh estate.”
My father at this lifted his great bulk upright in the old Penn chair, and seemed more alive.
“It is Colonel Tarleton who asks, not I.”
“It is an old story.” He spoke quite like himself. “Our cousin must know it well. My father suffered for conscience’ sake, and, being a Friend, would pay no tithes. For this he was cast into jail in Shrewsbury Gate House, and lay there a year, suffering much in body, but at peace, it may surely be thought, as to his soul. At last he was set free on condition that he should leave the country.”
“And the estate?” asked Tarleton.
“He thought little of that. It was heavily charged with debt made by his father’s wild ways. I believe, too, there was some agreement with the officers of the crown that he should make over the property to his next brother, who had none of his scruples. This was in 1670, or thereabouts. A legal transfer was made to my uncle, who, I think, loved my father, and understood that, being set in his ways, he would defy the king’s authority to the end. And so—wisely I think—the overruling providence of God brought us to a new land, where we have greatly prospered.”
“And that is all?” said the colonel. “What a strange story! And so you are Wynne of Wyneote, and lost it.”
“For a greater gain,” said my father. “My son has a silly fancy for the old place, but it is lost—lost—sold; and if we could have it at a word, it would grieve me to see him cast in his lot among a set of drunken, dicing, hard-riding squires—a godless set. It will never be if I can help it. My son has left the creed of his father and of mine, and I am glad that his worldly pride cannot be further tempted. Dost thou hear, Hugh?”
There was a moment of awkward silence. My father had spoken with violence, once or twice striking the table with his fist until the glasses rang. There was something of his old vehemence in his statement; but as a rule, however abrupt when we were alone, before strangers he was as civil to me as to others. My cousin, I thought, looked relieved as my father went on; and, ceasing to drum on the table, he quietly filled himself a glass of Hollands.