This was by no means my father’s intention. I saw his face set in an expression I well knew; but my mother laid a hand on his arm, and, with what must have been a great effort, he controlled his anger, and said coldly: “I have talked this over with thy friend, Joseph Warder, and he desired that his son should share in my decision as to Hugh. Talk to him, Gainor.”
“I do not take counsel with my agent, John. He does as I bid him. I could shift his opinions at a word. He is a Tory to-day, and a Whig to-morrow, and anything to anybody. Why do you talk such nonsense to me? Let me tell you that he has already been to ask me what I think of it. He feels some doubt, poor man. Indeed, he is disposed to consider. Bother! what does it matter what he considers?”
“If he has changed his mind I have not. Joseph hath ever a coat of many colours.”
“I shall tell him,” she cried, laughing. The Quaker rule of repression and non-resistance by no means forbade the use of the brutal bludgeon of sarcasm, as many a debate in Meeting could testify. She rose as she spoke, and my mother said gently:
“Thou wilt not tell him, Gainor.”
Meanwhile I stood amazed at a talk which so deeply concerned me.
“Shall it be a smithy?” said my father.
“Oh, what you like. The Wynnes are well down in the world—trade, horseshoeing. Good evening.”
“Gainor! Gainor!” cried my mother; but she was gone in wrath, and out of the house.
“Thou wilt leave the academy. I have already arranged with Lowry, in South street, to take thee. Three months should answer.”