“Tut! you must not talk that way to me; but it is my fault. Oh, the time I have had with your mother! I am not fit, it seems, to be left to take care of you. They talk of leaving you with Abijah Hapworthy—sour old dog! I wish you joy of him!”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed; for among my aunt’s gay friends I had picked up such exclamatory phrases as, used at home, would have astonished my father.
“Rest easy,” said Mistress Wynne; “it is not to be. I have fought your battle, and won it. But I have had to make such promises to your father, and—woe is me!—to your mother, as will damn me forever if you do not help me to keep them. I can fib to your father and not care a snap, but lie to those blue eyes I cannot.”
“I will try, Aunt Gainor; indeed I will try.” Indeed, I did mean to.
“You must, you must. I am to be a sort of godmother-in-law to you, and renounce for you the world, the flesh, and the devil; and that for one of our breed! I shall be like a sign-post, and never go the way I point. That was Bessy Ferguson s malice. Oh, I have suffered, I can tell you. It is I, and not you, that have repented.”
“But I will; I do.”
“That is all very well; but I have had my whipping, and you got off yours.”
“What do you mean, aunt?”
“What do I mean? Here came yesterday Sarah Fisher, pretty gay for a Quaker, and that solemn Master Savory, with his sweet, low voice like a nice girl’s tongue, and his gentle ways. And they are friends of thy people, who are distressed at thy goings on; and Nicholas Waln has seen thee with two sons of Belial in red coats, come out of the coffeehouse last month at evening, singing songs such as are not to be described, and no better able to take care of yourself than you should be. They did think it well and kind—hang ‘em, Hugh!—to consider the matter with me. We considered it—we did, indeed. There be five people whose consciences I am to make you respect. And not one of them do I care for, but Mother Blue-eyes. But I must! I must! It was all true, sir, what Friend Wain said; for you had reason enough left to come hither, and did I not put you to bed and send for Dr. Chovet, who grinned famously, and said, ‘Je comprends’ and went to call on your father on a hint from me, to declare you were enrhume’’, and threatened with I know not what; in fact, he lied like a gentleman. You made a noble recovery, and are a credit to the doctor. I hope you will pay the bill, and are ashamed.”
I was, and I said so.