One day, late in November, my aunt and I were, for a wonder, alone, when she dropped the cards with which she was playing, and said to me: “Hugh, there is something serious between that mischievous kitten and your cousin. They are much talked of. If you have a boy-fancy that way, get rid of it. I don’t see through the man. He has been telling her about the fine house at Wyncote, and the great estate, and how some day he will have it, his elder brother being far gone in a phthisis.”
“There must be some mistake,” I said. “Thou knowest what he told my father.”
“Yes; I don’t like it,” she went on; “but the girl is caught. He talks of soon having to join Sir Guy Carleton in Canada. And there is my dear girl-boy trapped too, I fear. But, really, he is such a child of a fellow it hardly matters. How many does she want in her net? The fish may squabble, I fear. A sweet thing she is; cruel only by instinct; and so gay, so tender, so truthful and right-minded with all her nonsense. No one can help loving her; but to-day she has one mood, and to-morrow another. There will be a mad massacre before she is done with you all. Run away, Hugh! run! Make love to Kitty Shippen if you want to get Miss Darthea.”
I laughed, but I had little mirth in my heart.
“Aunt Gainor,” I said, “I love that woman, and no other man shall have her if I can help it.”
“If? if? Stuff! you can’t help it. Don’t be a fool! The sea is full of fish. This is news indeed.”
“The land has but one Darthea,” said I. “I am a boy no longer, Aunt Gainor. Thou hast made me tell thee, and, now it is out, I may as well say I know all about my cousin. He as good as told me, and in a way I did not like. The man thinks I am a boy to be scared out of going my own way. I have told no one else; but if I can get her I will, and it is no laughing matter.”
“I am sorry, Hugh,” she said. “I knew not it was so serious. It is hard to realise that you are no more a boy, and must have the sorrows my sex provides for you. I like her, and I would help you if I could, but you are late.” And she went on shuffling the cards, while I took up a book, being inclined to say no more.
That evening two letters came by the New York packet. One from my father I put aside. It was dated outside, and was written two weeks later than my mother’s, which I read first. I opened it with care.
“MY OWN DEAR SON: Thy last sweet letter was a great refreshment to me,
and the more so because I have not been well, having again my old ache in
the side, but not such as need trouble thee. I blush to hear the pretty
things thy letters say; but it is love that holds thy pen, and I must not
be too much set up in my own esteem. How much love I give thee in return
thou knowest, but to pay in this coin will never beggar us. I love thee
because thou art all I can desire, and again because thou lovest me, and
again for this same dear reason which is all I can say to excuse my
mother-folly. Thy father is well, but weary of this great town; and we
both long to be at home.”