FullReads

As time passed by, and the family became a permanent part and parcel of the remote community, wearing its peaceful color and breathing its untroubled atmosphere, nothing occurred to disturb the esteem and respect which its members enjoyed. From time to time the postmaster at the corner delivered to Henry Donnelly a letter from New York, always addressed in the same hand. The first which arrived had an “Esq.” added to the name, but this “compliment” (as the Friends termed it) soon ceased. Perhaps the official may have vaguely wondered whether there was any connection between the occasional absence of Friend Henry–not at Yearly-Meeting time–and these letters. If he had been a visitor at the farm-house he might have noticed variations in the moods of its inmates, which must have arisen from some other cause than the price of stock or the condition of the crops. Outside of the family circle, however, they were serenely reticent.

In five or six years, when De Courcy had grown to be a hale, handsome man of twenty-four, and as capable of conducting a farm as any to the township born, certain aberrations from the strict line of discipline began to be rumored. He rode a gallant horse, dressed a little more elegantly than his membership prescribed, and his unusually high, straight collar took a knack of falling over. Moreover, he was frequently seen to ride up the Street Road, in the direction of Fagg’s Manor, towards those valleys where the brick Presbyterian church displaces the whitewashed Quaker meeting-house.

Had Henry Donnelly not occupied so high a seat, and exercised such an acknowledged authority in the sect, he might sooner have received counsel, or proffers of sympathy, as the case might be; but he heard nothing until the rumors of De Courcy’s excursions took a more definite form.

But one day, Abraham Bradbury, after discussing some Monthly- Meeting matters, suddenly asked: “Is this true that I hear, Henry,–that thy son De Courcy keeps company with one of the Alison girls?”

“Who says that?” Henry asked, in a sharp voice.

“Why, it’s the common talk! Surely, thee’s heard of it before?”

“No!”

Henry set his lips together in a manner which Abraham understood. Considering that he had fully performed his duty, he said no more.

That evening, Sylvia, who had been gently thrumming to herself at the window, began singing “Bonnie Peggie Alison.” Her father looked at De Courcy, who caught his glance, then lowered his eyes, and turned to leave the room.

“Stop, De Courcy,” said the former; “I’ve heard a piece of news about thee to-day, which I want thee to make clear.”

“Shall I go, father?” asked Sylvia.

“No; thee may stay to give De Courcy his memory. I think he is beginning to need it. I’ve learned which way he rides on Seventh- day evenings.”

“Father, I am old enough to choose my way,” said De Courcy.

“But no such ways NOW, boy! Has thee clean forgotten? This was among the things upon which we agreed, and you all promised to keep watch and guard over yourselves. I had my misgivings then, but for five years I’ve trusted you, and now, when the time of probation is so nearly over–“

He hesitated, and De Courcy, plucking up courage, spoke again. With a strong effort the young man threw off the yoke of a self-taught restraint, and asserted his true nature. “Has O’Neil written?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Then, father,” he continued, “I prefer the certainty of my present life to the uncertainty of the old. I will not dissolve my connection with the Friends by a shock which might give thee trouble; but I will slowly work away from them. Notice will be taken of my ways; there will be family visitations, warnings, and the usual routine of discipline, so that when I marry Margaret Alison, nobody will be surprised at my being read out of meeting. I shall soon be twenty-five, father, and this thing has gone on about as long as I can bear it. I must decide to be either a man or a milksop.”