With the date of a week or so later I find added: “The man thought better of it, I dare say, when the drink wore off; how much of his folly was due to that I cannot tell. It was plain that my dear Darthea had let him go at last. Was it because her sweet pity distressed her to wound a man once dear that she was held so long in this bondage? or was it that absence, said to be the enemy of love, was, in a woman of her sense of honour, a reason why she should not break her word until she had a more full assurance of being right?
“I think he slowly lost his place in the heart won when Darthea was younger, and perhaps carried away by vain notions, which lost value as time went on. Such men have for the best of women a charm we cannot understand.”
I have left Jack to tell a part of my life which I am glad to leave to another than I. I heard no more of my cousin except that he had made up his mind to go home under his parole. This did not fill me with grief. I had the sense to know that for many a day Darthea were better left alone.
My Aunt Gainor had recovered from the remorse which, as usual with her, followed upon some futile attempt to improve the machinery of other folks’ fates. In fact, although Darthea closed her doors upon Mistress Wynne and would on no account see her, my aunt was already beginning to be pleased with the abominable trap she had set, and was good enough to tell me as much.
For three days after Jack had informed me as to the drama my aunt had planned I stayed away from her, being myself in no very happy state of mind, and unwilling to trust myself. When at last, of a Saturday afternoon, I came in on Mistress Wynne, she got up from her accounts, which she kept with care, saying at once: “It is a week since you were here, sir, and of course I know why. That long-tongued girl-boy has been prating, and your lordship is pleased to be angry, and Darthea is worse, and will not see me because I had the courage to do what you were afraid to do.”
“Upon my word, Aunt Gainor,” said I, “you are a little too bad. I was here four days ago, and have I said an impatient word? If I was angry I have had no chance to say so.” Nor had I.
“Then if you are not angry you ought to be.” She seemed to me bigger than ever, and to have more nose than usual. “You ought to be. I made a fool of myself, and all for you; and because I have burned my fingers in pulling your goose out of the fire, you must get into a passion. You have no need to smile, sir. I suppose it were finer to say chestnuts, but a goose she is, and always will be, and I love her like a child. Your soft-hearted Excellency was to see me last week, and saying that he had no children, I, that have no right to any, said I was as ill off, and we looked at each other and said nothing for a little, because God had given to neither the completeness of life. Is he stern, sir! I don’t think it. We talked of General Arnold, and of poor Peggy his wife, and as to all this he was willing enough, and frank too. Despite Dr. Bush and Mr. Adams, he can talk well when he has a mind to. But when I said a word of poor Andre”, I had better have kept my tongue quiet, for he said quickly: ‘Mistress Wynne, that is a matter I will never hear of willingly. I ask your pardon, madam.’ I could do no more than excuse my want of thought, and we fell to discussing tobacco-growing.”
“But what more of Darthea?” said I, for all the generals in the world were to me as nothing compared with one little woman.
“Oh, there is no more, except that I am unhappy. I will never again be kind to anybody. I am only a miserable, useless old maid.” And here she began to cry, and to wet a fine lace handkerchief.
Just now comes in saucy Miss Margaret Chew,—we call her Peggy,—and is rather flustered by my aunt in tears. “O Mistress Wynne,” she says, “I beg pardon. I—”