"Quand tout renait à l'espérance,Et que l'hiver fuit loin de nous,Sous le beau ciel de notre France,Quand le soleil revient plus doux;Quand la nature est reverdie,Quand l'hirondelle est de retour,J'aime à revoir ma Normandie,C'est le pays qui m'a donné le jour!"
"Quand tout renait à l'espérance,Et que l'hiver fuit loin de nous,Sous le beau ciel de notre France,Quand le soleil revient plus doux;Quand la nature est reverdie,Quand l'hirondelle est de retour,J'aime à revoir ma Normandie,C'est le pays qui m'a donné le jour!"
The cares and doubts and worries of yesterday were gone—washed out of him, as it were, in nature'sbaptismal regeneration of mind and body. All that he himself recognized was a glad sense of the return of competence and of some self-assurance of capacity to face the new world of men and things.
He wandered into the wood and said good morning to two men who, as they told him, were "falling a tree." He gathered flowers, white violets, the star flower, offered tobacco for their pipes, which they accepted, and asked them what flower was this. "We call them Quaker ladies." He went away wondering what poet had so named them. In the town he bought two rolls and ate them as he walked, like the great Benjamin. About nine o'clock, returning to the hotel, he threw the flowers in his mother's lap as he kissed her. He saw to her breakfast, chatted hopefully, and when, about noon, she insisted on going with him to seek for lodgings, he was pleased at her revived strength. The landlord regretted that they must leave, and gave addresses near by. Unluckily, none suited their wants or their sense of need for rigid economy; and, moreover, the vicomtesse was more difficult to please than the young man thought quite reasonable. They were pausing, perplexed, near the southwest corner of Chestnut and Fifth streets when, having passed two gentlemen standing at the door of a brick building known as the Philosophical Society, De Courval said, "I will go back and ask where to apply for information." He had been struck with the unusual height of one of the speakers, and with the animation of his face as he spoke, and had caught as he went by a phrase or two; for thestouter man spoke in a loud, strident voice, as if at a town meeting. "I hope, Citizen, you liked the last 'Gazette.' It is time to give men their true labels. Adams is a monarchist and Hamilton is an aristocrat."
The taller man, a long, lean figure, returned in a more refined voice: "Yes, yes; it is, I fear, only too true. I hope, Citizen, to live to see the end of the titles they love, even Mr.; for who is the master of a freeman?"
"How droll is that,maman!" said De Courval, half catching this singular interchange of sentiment.
"Why, René? What is droll?"
"Oh, nothing." He turned back, and addressing the taller man said: "Pardon me, sir, but we are strangers in search of some reasonable lodging-house. May I ask where we could go to find some one to direct us?"
The gentleman appealed to took off his hat, bowing to the woman, and then, answering the son, said, "My friend, Citizen Freneau, may know." The citizen had small interest in the matter. The taller man, suddenly struck by the woman's grave and moveless face and the patient dignity of her bearing, began to take an interest in this stranded couple, considering them with his clear hazel eyes. As he stood uncovered, he said: "Tell them, Freneau! Your paper must have notices—advertisements. Where shall they inquire?"
Freneau did not know, but quick to note his companion's interest, said presently: "Oh, yes, theymight learn at the library. They keep there a list of lodging-houses."
"That will do," said the lean man. Madame, understanding that they were to be helped by this somber-looking gentleman, said, "Je vous remercie, messieurs."
"My mother thanks you, sir."
Then there was of a sudden cordiality. Most of the few French known to Freneau were Republicans and shared his extreme opinions. The greater emigration from the islands and of the beggared nobles was not as yet what it was to become.
"You are French?" said Freneau.
"Yes, we are French."
"I was myself about to go to the library," said the taller man, and, being a courteous gentleman gone mad with "gallic fever," added in imperfect French, "If madame will permit me; it is near by, and I shall have the honor to show the way."
Then Citizen Freneau of the new "National Gazette," a clerk in the Department of State, was too abruptly eager to help; but at last saying "Good-by, Citizen Jefferson," went his way as the statesman, talking his best French to the handsome woman at his side, went down Chestnut Street, while De Courval, relieved, followed them and reflected with interest—for he had learned many things on the voyage—that the tall man in front must be the former minister to France, the idol of the Democratic party, and the head of that amazing cabinet of diverse opinions which the great soldier president had gathered about him. East of Fourth Street, Mr.Jefferson turned into a court, and presently stood for a moment on the front step of a two-story brick building known as Carpenter's Hall, over which a low spire still bore a forgotten crown. Not less forgotten were Jefferson's democratic manners. He was at once the highly educated and well-loved Virginian of years ago.
He had made good use of his time, and the woman at his side, well aware of the value of being agreeable, had in answer to a pleasant question given her name, and presently had been told by the ex-minister his own name, with which she was not unfamiliar.
"Here, madame," he said, "the first Congress met. I had the misfortune not to be of it."
"But later, monsieur—later, you can have had nothing to regret."
"Certainly not to-day," said the Virginian. He paused as a tall, powerfully built man, coming out with a book in his hand, filled the doorway.
"Good morning, Mr. Wynne," said Jefferson. "Is the librarian within?"
"Yes; in the library, up-stairs."
Hearing the name of the gentleman who thus replied, the young vicomte said:
"May I ask, sir, if you are Mr. Hugh Wynne?"
"Yes, I am; and, if I am not mistaken, you are the Vicomte de Courval, and this, your mother. Ah, madame," he said in French, far other than that of the secretary, "I missed you at Oeller's, and I am now at your service. What can I do for you?"
The vicomtesse replied that they had been guidedhither by Mr. Jefferson to find a list of lodging-houses.
"Then let us go and see about it."
"This way, Vicomte," said Jefferson. "It is up-stairs, madame." Ah, where now were the plain manners of democracy and the scorn of titles? A low, sweet voice had bewitched him, the charm of perfect French at its best.
The United States bank was on the first floor, and the clerks looked up with interest at the secretary and his companions as they passed the open door. De Courval lingered to talk with Wynne, both in their way silently amused at the capture by the vicomtesse of the gentleman with Jacobin principles.
The room up-stairs was surrounded with well-filled book-shelves. Midway, at a table, sat Zachariah Poulson, librarian, who was at once introduced, and who received them with the quiet good manners of his sect. A gentleman standing near the desk looked up from the book in his hand. While Mr. Poulson went in search of the desired list, Mr. Wynne said: "Good morning, James. I thought, Mr. Secretary, you knew Mr. Logan. Permit me to add agreeably to your acquaintance." The two gentlemen bowed, and Wynne added: "By the way, do you chance to know, Mr. Secretary, that Mr. Logan is hereditary librarian of the Loganian Library, and every Logan in turn if he pleases—our only inherited title."
"Not a very alarming title," said the Quaker gentleman, demurely.
"We can stand that much," said Jefferson, smilingas he turned to Madame de Courval, while her son, a little aside, waited for the list and surveyed with interest the Quakers, the statesman, and the merchant who seemed so friendly.
At this moment came forward a woman of some forty years; rose-red her cheeks within the Quaker bonnet, and below all was sober gray, with a slight, pearl-colored silk shawl over her shoulders.
"Good morning, Friend Wynne. Excuse me, Friend Jefferson," she said. "May I be allowed a moment of thy time, James Logan?" The gentlemen drew back. She turned to the vicomtesse. "Thou wilt permit me. I must for home shortly. James Logan, there is a book William Bingham has praised to my daughter. I would first know if it be fitting for her to read. It is called, I believe, 'Thomas Jones.'"
Mr. Jefferson's brow rose a little, the hazel eyes confessed some merriment, and a faint smile went over the face of Hugh Wynne as Logan said: "I cannot recommend it to thee, Mary Swanwick."
"Thank thee," she said simply. "There is too much reading of vain books among Friends. I fear I am sometimes a sinner myself; but thy aunt, Mistress Gainor, Hugh, laughs at me, and spoils the girl with books—too many for her good, I fear."
"Ah, she taught me worse wickedness than books when I was young," said Wynne; "but your girl is less easy to lead astray. Oh, a word, Mary," and he lowered his voice. "Here are two French people I want you to take into your house."
"If it is thy wish, Hugh; but although there isroom and to spare, we live, of need, very simply, as thou knowest."
"That is not thy Uncle Langstroth's fault or mine."
"Yes, yes. Thou must know how wilful I am. But Friend Schmidt is only too generous, and we have what contents me, and should content Margaret, if it were not for the vain worldliness Gainor Wynne puts into the child's head. Will they like Friend Schmidt?"
"He will like them, Mary Swanwick. You are a fair French scholar yourself. Perhaps they may teach you—they are pleasant people." He, too, had been captured by the sweet French tongue he loved.
"They have some means," he added, "and I shall see about the young man. He seems more English than French, a staid young fellow. You may make a Quaker of him, Mary."
"Thou art foolish, Hugh Wynne; but I will take them."
Then the perverted Secretary of State went away. Mrs. Swanwick, still in search of literature, received an innocent book called "The Haunted Priory, or the Fortunes of the House of Almy." There were pleasant introductions, and, to De Courval's satisfaction, their baggage would be taken in charge, a chaise sent in the afternoon for his mother and himself, and for terms—well, that might bide awhile until they saw if all parties were suited. The widow, pleased to oblige her old friend, had still her reserve of doubt and some thought as to what might be said by her permanent inmate, Mr. Johann Schmidt.
On reaching Mrs. Swanwick's home in the afternoon, the vicomtesse went at once to her room, where the cleanliness and perfect order met her tacit approval, and still more the appetizing meal which the hostess herself brought to the bedside of her tired guest.
Mr. Schmidt, the other boarder, was absent at supper, and the evening meal went by with little talk beyond what the simple needs of the meal required. De Courval excused himself early and, after a brief talk with his mother, was glad of a comfortable bed, where he found himself thinking with interest of the day's small events and of the thin, ruddy features, bright, hazel eyes and red hair, of the tall Virginia statesman, the leader of the party some of whose baser members had given the young vicomte unpleasant minutes at Oeller's Hotel.
When very early the next day De Courval awakened and looked eastward from his room in the second story of Mrs. Swanwick's home, he began to see in what pleasant places his lot was cast. The house, broad and roomy, had been a country home. Now commerce and the city's growth were contending for Front Street south of Cedar, but being as yet on the edge of the town, the spacious Georgian house, standingback from the street, was still set round with ample gardens, on which just now fell the first sunshine of the May morning. As De Courval saw, the ground at the back of the house fell away to the Delaware River. Between him and the shore were flowers, lilacs in bloom, and many fruit-trees. Among them, quite near by, below the window, a tall, bareheaded man in shirt-sleeves was busy gathering a basket of the first roses. He seemed particular about their arrangement, and while he thus pleased himself, he talked aloud in a leisurely way, and with a strong voice, now to a black cat on the wall above him, and now as if to the flowers. De Courval was much amused by this fresh contribution to the strange experiences of the last two days. The language of the speaker was also odd.
As De Courval caught bits of the soliloquy under his window, he thought of his mother's wonder at this new and surprising country.
What would she write Rochefoucauld d'Entin? She was apt to be on paper, as never in speech, emotional and tender, finding confession to white paper easy and some expression of the humorous aspects of life possible, when, as in writing, there needed no gay comment of laughter. If she were only here, thought the son. Will she tell the duke how she is "thou" to these good, plain folk, and of the prim welcomes, and of this German, who must be the Friend Schmidt they spoke of,—no doubt a Quaker, and whom he must presently remind of his audience? But for a little who could resist so comic an opportunity? "Gute Himmel, but you are beautiful!"said the voice below him. "Oh, not you," he cried to the cat, "wanton of midnight! I would know if, Madame Red Rose, you are jealous of the white-bosomed rose maids. If all women were alike fair as you, there would be wild times, for who would know to choose? Off with you, Jezebel, daughter of darkness! 'Sh! I love not cats. Go!" and he cast a pebble at the sleepy grimalkin, which fled in fear. This singular talk went on, and De Courval was about to make some warning noise when the gardener, adding a rose to his basket, straightened himself, saying: "Ach, Himmel! My back! How in the garden Adam must have ached!"
Leaving his basket for a time, he was lost among the trees, to reappear in a few minutes far below, out on the water in a boat, where he undressed and went overboard.
"A good example," thought De Courval. Taking a towel, he slipped out noiselessly through the house where no one was yet astir, and finding a little bathhouse open below the garden, was soon stripped, and, wading out, began to swim. By this time the gardener was returning, swimming well and with the ease of an expert when the two came near one another a couple of hundred yards from shore.
As they drew together, De Courval called out in alarm: "Look out! Take care!"
Two small lads in a large Egg Harbor skiff, seeing the swimmer in their way, made too late an effort to avoid him. A strong west wind was blowing. The boat was moving fast. De Courval saw the heavy bow strike the head of the man, who was quite unawareof the nearness of the boat. He went under. De Courval struck out for the stern of the boat, and in its wake caught sight of a white body near the surface. He seized it, and easily got the man's head above water. The boat came about, the boys scared and awkward. With his left hand, De Courval caught the low gunwale and with his right held up the man's head. Then he felt the long body stir. The great, laboring chest coughed out water, and the man, merely stunned and, as he said later, only quarter drowned, drew deep breaths and gasped, "Let them pull to shore." The boys put out oars in haste, and in a few minutes De Courval felt the soft mud as he dropped his feet and stood beside the German. In a minute the two were on the beach, the one a young, white figure with the chest muscles at relieving play; the other a tall, gaunt, bronzed man, shaking and still coughing as he cast himself on the bordering grass without a word.
"Are you all right?" asked De Courval, anxiously.
For a moment the rescued man made no reply as he lay looking up at the sky. Then he said: "Yes, or will be presently. This sun is a good doctor and sends in no bill. Go in and dress. I shall be well presently. My boat! Ah, the boys bring it. Now my clothes. Do not scold them. It was an accident."
"That is of the past," he said in a few moments as De Courval rejoined him, "a contribution to experience. Thank you," and he put out a hand that told of anything but the usage of toil as he added: "I waswondering, as I dressed, which is the better for it, the helper or the helped. Ach, well, it is a good introduction. You are mein Herr de Courval, and I am Johann Schmidt, at your honorable service now and ever. Let us go in. I must rest a little before breakfast. I have known you,"—and he laughed,—"shall we say five years? We will not trouble the women with it."
"I? Surely not."
"Pardon me. I was thinking of my own tongue, which is apt to gabble, being the female part of a man's body."
"May I beg of you not to speak of it," urged De Courval, gravely.
"How may I promise for the lady?" laughed Schmidt as they moved through the fruit-trees. "Ah, here is the basket of roses for the Frau Von Courval."
A singular person, thought the vicomte, but surely a gentleman.
Madame de Courval, tired of looking for a home, had resolved to give no trouble to this kindly household and to accept their hours—the breakfast at seven, the noonday dinner, the supper at six. She was already dressed when she heard the step outside of her door, and looking up from her Bible, called "Entrez, my son. Ah, roses, roses! Did you gather them?"
"No; they are for you, with the compliments of our fellow-lodger, a German, I believe, Mr. Schmidt; another most strange person in this strange land. He speaks English well, but,mon Dieu, of the oddest.A well-bred man, I am sure; you will like him."
"I do not know, and what matters it? I like very few people, as you know, René; but the place does appear to be clean and neat. That must suffice."
He knew well enough that she liked few people. "Are you ready,maman?Shall we go down?"
"Yes, I am ready. This seems to me a haven of rest, René—a haven of rest, after that cruel sea."
"It so seems to me,maman;and these good Quakers. Theytutoyerevery one—every one. You must try to learn English. I shall give you lessons, and there is a note from Mr. Wynne, asking me to call at eleven. And one word more,maman—"
"Well, my son?"
"You bade me put aside the past. I shall do so; but you—can not you also do the same? It will be hard, for you made me make it harder."
"I know—I know, but you are young—I old of heart. Life is before you, my son. It is behind me. I can not but think of my two lonely little ones in the graveyard and the quiet of our home life and, my God! of your father!" To his surprise, she burst into tears. Any such outward display of emotion was in his experience of her more than merely unusual. "Go down to breakfast, René. I shall try to live in your life. You will tell me everything—always. I shall follow you presently. We must not be late."
"Yes," he said; but he did not tell her of his morning's adventure. Even had he himself been willing to speak of it, the German would not likeit, and already Schmidt began to exercise over him that influence which was more or less to affect his life in the years yet to come. As he went down to the broad hall, he saw a floor thinly strewn with white sand, settles on both sides, a lantern hanging overhead, and the upper half of the front door open to let the morning air sweep through to the garden.
A glance to right and left showed on one side a bare, whitewashed front room, without pictures or mirrors, some colonial chairs with shells carved on feet and knees, and on a small table a china bowl of roses. The room to right he guessed at once to be used as a sitting-room by Schmidt.
The furniture was much as in the other room, but there were shining brass fire-dogs, silver candlesticks on the mantel, and over it a pair of foils, two silver-mounted pistols, and a rapier with a gold-inlaid handle. Under a window was a large secretary with many papers. There were books in abundance on the chairs and in a corner case. The claw-toed tables showed pipes, tobacco-jars, wire masks, and a pair of fencing-gloves. On one side of the hall a tall clock reminded him that he was some ten minutes late.
The little party was about to sit down at table when he entered. "This is Friend de Courval," said the widow.
"We have met in the garden," returned Schmidt, quietly.
"Indeed. Thou wilt sit by me, Friend de Courval, and presently thy mother on my right." As she spoke, Madame de Courval paused at the doorwhile the hostess and her daughter bent in the silent grace of Friends. The new-comer took her place with a pleasant word of morning greeting in her pretty French; an old black woman brought in the breakfast. A tranquil courtesy prevailed.
"Will thy mother take this or that? Here are eggs my uncle sent from the country, and shad, which we have fresh from the river, a fish we esteem."
There was now for a somewhat short time little other talk. The girl of over sixteen shyly examined the new-comers. The young man approved the virginal curves of neck and figure, the rebellious profusion of dark chestnut-tinted hair, the eyes that could hardly have learned their busy attentiveness in the meeting-house. The gray dress and light gray silk kerchief seemed devised to set off the roses which came out in wandering isles of color on her cheeks. Madame's ignorance of English kept her silent, but she took note of the simple attire of her hostess, the exquisite neatness of the green apron, then common among Friends, and the high cap. The habit of the house was to speak only when there was need. There was no gossip even of the mildest.
"June was out all night," said Mrs. Swanwick. "That is our cat," she explained to De Courval.
"But she brought in a dead mouse," said the girl, "to excuse herself, I suppose." Schmidt smiled at the touch of humor, but during their first meal was more silent than usual.
"I did not tell thee, Margaret," said Mrs. Swanwick, "that William Westcott was here yesterday atsundown. I have no liking for him. I said thou wert out."
"But I was only in the garden."
"I did say thou wert out, but not in the garden."
Schmidt smiled again as he set his teaspoon across his cup, the conventional sign that he wished no more tea.
Then the girl, with fresh animation, asked eagerly: "Oh, mother, I forgot; am I to have the book Ann Bingham thought delightful, and her father told thee I should read?"
"I am not so minded," replied the mother, and this seemed to end the matter. De Courval listened, amused, as again the girl asked cheerfully:
"Aunt Gainor will be here to take me with her to see some china, mother, at twelve. May I not go?"
"No, not to-day. There is the cider of last fall we must bottle, and I shall want thy help. The last time," she said, smiling, "thou didst fetch home a heathen god—green he was, and had goggle eyes. What would Friend Pennington say to that?"
"But I do not pray to it."
"My child!" said the mother, and then: "If thou didst pray to all Aunt Gainor's gods, thou wouldst be kept busy. I have my hands full with thee and Gainor Wynne's fal-lals and thy Uncle Langstroth's follies." She smiled kindly as she spoke, and again the girl quietly accepted the denial of her request, while De Courval listened with interest and amusement.
"I shall go with Miss Wynne," said Schmidt,"and buy you a brigade of china gods. I will fill the house with them, Margaret." He laughed.
"Thou wilt do nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Swanwick.
"Well, Nanny would break them pretty soon. Brief would be the lives of those immortals. But I forgot; I have a book for thee, Pearl."
De Courval looked up. "Yes," he thought; "the Pearl, Marguerite. It does seem to suit."
"And what is it?" said the mother. "I am a little afraid of thee and thy books."
"'The Vicar of Wakefield' it is called; not very new, but you will like it, Pearl."
"I might see it myself first."
"When Pearl and I think it fit for thee," said Schmidt, demurely. "I did see also in the shop Job Scott's 'The Opening of the Inward Eye, or Righteousness Revealed.' I would fetch thee that—for thyself."
The hostess laughed. "He is very naughty, Friend de Courval," she said, "but not as wicked as he seems." Very clearly Schmidt was a privileged inmate. Madame ate with good appetite, pleased by the attention shown her, and a little annoyed at being, as it were, socially isolated for want of English. As she rose she told her son that she had a long letter she must write to Cousin Rochefoucauld, and would he ask Mr. Wynne how it might be sent. Then Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come to my room. There we may smoke, or in the garden, not elsewhere. There is here a despotism; you will need to be careful."
"Do not believe him," said the Pearl. "Mother would let him smoke in meeting, if she were overseer."
"Margaret, Margaret, thou art saucy. That comes of being with the Willing girls and Gainor, who is grown old in sauciness—world's people!" and her eyebrows went up, so that whether she was quite in earnest or was the prey of some sudden jack-in-the-box of pure humor, De Courval did not know. It was all fresh, interesting, and somehow pleasant. Were all Quakers like these?
He followed Schmidt into his sitting-room, where his host closed the door. "Sit down," he said. "Not there. These chairs are handsome. I keep them to look at and for the occasional amendment of slouching manners. Five minutes will answer. But here are two of my own contrivance, democratic, vulgar, and comfortable. Ah, do you smoke? Yes, a pipe. I like that. I should have been disappointed if you were not a user of the pipe. I am going to talk, to put you inpays de connaissance, as you would say. And now for comments! My acquaintance of five years,—or five minutes, was it, that I was under water?—may justify the unloading of my baggage of gossip on a man whom I have benefited by the chance of doing a good deed, if so it be—or a kind one at least. You shall learn in a half hour what otherwise might require weeks."
De Courval, amused at the occasional quaintness of the English, which he was one day to have explained, blew rings of smoke and listened.
"I shall be long, but it will help you and save questions."
"Pray go on, sir. I shall be most thankful."
"Imprimis, there is Mrs. Swanwick, born in the Church of England, if any are born in church—Cyrilla Plumstead. She was brought up in luxury, which came to an end before they married her to a stiff Quaker man who departed this life with reasonable kindness, after much discipline of his wife in ways which sweeten many and sour some. She has held to it loyally—oh, more or less. That is the setting of our Pearl, a creature of divine naturalness, waiting until some Quaker Cupid twangs his bow. Then the kiss-defying bonnet will suffer. By the way, Mrs. Swanwick is a fair French scholar, but a bit shy with you as yet.
"Soon thou wilt see Josiah Langstroth, uncle of Mrs. Swanwick. Ah, there's a man that mocks conjecture; for, being a Quaker by pride of ancestral damnation, he goes to meeting twice a year, swears a little to ease his soul, toasts George the Third of Sundays, and will surely tell you how, driven out of the country, he went to London and was presented to the king and triumphantly kept his hat on his head. He is rich and would provide for his niece, who will take help from no one. He does at times offer money, but is ever well pleased when she refuses. As for Hugh Wynne, I will go with you to see him, a Welsh squire to this day, like the best of them here. I shall leave you to make him out. He is a far-away cousin of Margaret's mother.
"It is a fine menagerie. Very soon you will hearof Aunt Gainor Wynne,—every one calls her aunt; I should not dare to do so,—a sturdy Federalist lady, with a passion for old china, horses, and matchmaking, the godmother of Mrs. Swanwick. Take care; she will hate or love you at sight, and as great a maker of mischief as ever perplexed good sense; as tender an old woman at times as ever lacked need of onions to fetch tears; a fine lady when she chooses.
"There, I have done you a service and saved your wits industry. You listen well. There is a savor of grace in that. It is a virtue of the smoker. Question me if you like."
Nothing could better have pleased the young man.
"I would know more of this town, sir," and he told of his quest of a tavern. The German laughed.
"A good lesson—Federalists and ape democrats—wild politics of a nation in its childhood. Three great men,—Washington, Hamilton, James Wilson, and perhaps John Adams; well—great merchants, Willings, Bingham, and Girard; and besides these, Quakers, many of them nobler for a creed unworkable in a naughty world, with offshoots of 'world's people,' which saved some fortunes in the war; and, ah, a sect that will die away,—Free Quakers, high-minded gentlemen who made up for a century of peace when they elected to draw the sword. I fear I have been tedious."
"No, not at all; you are most kind, sir, and most interesting. I am sure to like it all. I hope my mother will be contented. We have never of late years been used to luxuries."
"She can hardly fail to be satisfied; but it is a simple life. There are only two servants, Cicero, and Nanny, once a slave, now, as Mrs. Swanwick says, a servant friend—ah, and a stiff Episcopal. She has never ceased to wonder why her mistress ever became a Quaker. I am much of her way of thinking. Are you of a mind to walk and see a little of the city? Later we will call upon Mr. Wynne." As they rose, he added: "I did not speak of the wrecks of French nobles cast on these shores—only a few as yet. You will see them by and by. They are various—but in general perplexed by inheritance of helplessness. Once for all you are to understand that my room is always and equally yours. Of course you use the foils. Yes; well, we shall fence in the garden. And now come; let us go out."
"I forgot, sir. My mother bade me thank you for the roses. She has as yet no English, or would herself have thanked you."
"But I myself speak French—of a kind. It will serve to amuse madame; but never will you hear French at its best until Miss Wynne does talk it."
As they went northward on Front Street, with the broad Delaware to the right, for as yet no Water Street narrowed the river frontage, the German said: "I left out of my portrait gallery one Schmidt, but you will come to know him in time. He has a talent for intimacy. Come, now; you have known him five years. What do you think of him?"
More and more strange seemed this gentleman to his young companion. He glanced aside at the tall, strongly built man, with the merry blue eyes, and, a little embarrassed and somewhat amused, replied with habitual caution, "I hardly know as yet, but I think I shall like him."
"I like the answer. You will like him, but we may leave him and time to beget opinion. How dignified these Georgian fronts are, and the stoops! Once folks sat on them at evening, and gossiped of the miseries of war. Now there are changed ways and more luxury and a new day—less simpleness; but not among the good people we have left. No. They are of the best, and aristocrats, too, though you may not suspect it. The habit of hospitality in a new land remains. A lady with small means loses no social place because, like our hostess, she receivesguests who pay. Here will come rich kinsfolk and friends, visitors on even terms—Whartons, Morrises, Cadwaladers, Logans,—the old, proud Welsh, grandsons of Welsh, with at times Quaker people and the men in office, for madame is clever and well liked. I tell her she has a Quaker salon, which is not my wit, but true."
"I had supposed Friends too rigid for this."
"Oh, there are Quakers and Quakers, and sometimes the overseers feel called upon to remonstrate; and then there is an unpleasantness, and our hostess is all of a sudden moved by the spirit to say things, and has her claws out. And my rose, my rose Pearl, can be prickly, too."
"She does not look like it, sir."
"No? When does a young woman look like what she is or may be? She is a good girl—as good as God makes them; her wits as yet a bit muzzled by the custom of Friends. A fair bud—prophetic of what the rose will be."
They wandered on to Arch Street and then westward. "Here," said Schmidt, as they turned into the open entrance of a graveyard—"here I come at evening sometimes. Read that. There are sermons in these stones, and history."
De Courval saw on a gray slab, "Benjamin Franklin and Deborah, his wife." He took off his hat, saying as he stood: "My father knew him. He came to Normandy once to see the model farms of our cousin, Rochefoucauld Liancourt."
"Indeed. I never knew the philosopher, but the duke—I knew the duke well,—in Paris,—oh, verywell, long ago; a high-minded noble. We will come here again and talk of this great man, under the marble, quiet as never in life. You must not be late for Wynne. He will not like that."
Turning southward and walking quickly, they came in half an hour to the busy space in front of Wynne's warehouse. He met them at the door, where Schmidt, leaving them, said, "I leave you a man, Colonel Wynne."
Wynne said, smiling: "I am no longer a colonel, Vicomte, but a plain merchant. Have the kindness to follow me, Vicomte," and so passed on through a room where clerks were busy and into a small, neatly kept office.
"Sit down, Vicomte. We must have a long talk and come quickly to know one another. You speak English, I observe, and well, too. And, now, you have a letter of exchange on me for five thousand livres, or, rather, two hundred pounds. Better to leave it with me. I can give you interest at six per cent., and you may draw on me at need. Have you any present want?"
"No, sir; none—just yet none."
"I am told that you left France for England and have had, pardon me, much to lament."
"Yes, we have suffered like many others." He was indisposed to be frank where there was no need to say more.
"What do you purpose to do? A few thousand livres will not go far."
"I do not know. Anything which will help us to live."
"Anything? You may teach French like De Laisne, or fencing like Du Vallon, or dancing like the Marquis de Beau Castel. I offered him a clerkship."
"Offer me one," said De Courval. "I write a good hand. I speak and write English. I can learn, and I will."
Wynne took stock, as he would have said, of the rather serious face, of the eyes of gray which met his look, of a certain eagerness in the young man's prompt seizure of a novel opportunity.
"Can you serve under a plain man like my head clerk, run errands, obey without question—in a word, accept a master?"
"I have had two bitter ones, sir, poverty and misfortune."
"Can you come at eight thirty, sweep out the office, make the fires at need in winter, with an hour off, at noon, and work till six? Such is our way here."
The young man flushed. "Is that required?"
"I did it for a year, Vicomte, and used the sword for five years, and came back to prosper."
De Courval smiled. "I accept, sir; we have never been rich, and I ought to say that we are not of the greater noblesse. When our fortunes fell away, I worked with our peasants in the field. I have no false pride, and my sword is in a box in Mrs. Swanwick's attic. I fancy, sir, that I shall have no use for it here. Why gentlemen should prefer to teach French or dancing to good steady work I cannot understand."
"Nor I," said Wynne, beginning to like this grave and decisive young noble. "Think it over," he said.
"I have done so."
"Very good. You will receive thirty dollars a month—to be increased, I trust. When will you come?"
"To-morrow—at eight and a half, you said."
"Yes; but to-morrow a little earlier. The junior clerk you replace will tell you what you are to do, and for the rest Mr. Potts will give you your orders. A word more: you had better drop your title and be plain Mr. de Courval. When, as will chance, you go among our friends, it would be an affectation. Well, then, to-morrow; but,—and you will pardon me,—to-day we are two gentlemen, equals; to-morrow, here at least, you are a simple clerk among exact and industrious people, and I the master. Let us be clear as to this. That is all."
"I think I understand. And now may I ask how I may find the French minister? There is a letter my mother would send to her cousin, and I am at a loss, for I fear there are no mails I can trust."
"Jean de Ternant is the French minister, but he will hardly be likely to oblige aci-devantvicomte. They talk of a new one. Give it to me; I will see that it goes by safe hands." With this he rose and added: "Mrs. Wynne will have the honor to call on the vicomtesse, and we shall be at her service."
"Thank you," said De Courval, a little overcome by his kindness. "My mother is in mourning, sir. She will, I fear, be unwilling to visit."
"Then my wife will come again. We may leave two good women to settle that; and now I must let you go." Then, seeing that De Courval lingered, he added, "Is there anything else?"
"Only a word of thanks, and may I ask why you are so good to us? I am—sadly unused to kindness. There was not much of it in England."
Wynne smiled. "I have heard a little about you—some things I liked—from my correspondents in Bristol and London; and, Vicomte, my mother was French. When you visit us at Merion you shall see her picture Stuart made for me from a miniature, and then you will understand why my heart goes out to all French people. But they are not easy to help, these unlucky nobles who will neither beg nor do a man's work. Oh, you will see them, and I, too, more and more, I fear. Good morning."
With this the young man walked thoughtfully away. Hugh Wynne watched him for a moment, and said to himself, "A good deal of a man, that; Schmidt is right." And then, having seen much of men in war and peace, "there must be another side to him, as there was to me. I doubt he is all meekness. I must say a word to Mary Swanwick," and he remembered certain comments his wife had made on Margaret's budding beauty. Then he went in.
The thoughts of the young man were far from women. He went along the road beside Dock Creek, and stood a moment on the bridge, amused at the busy throng of which he was now to become a part. On the west side of Second Street a noisy crowd at a shop door excited his curiosity.
"What is that?" he asked a passing mechanic. "I am a stranger here."
"Oh, that's a vandoo of lottery shares. The odd numbers sell high, specially the threes. That's what they're after."
"Thank you," said De Courval, and then, as he drew nearer, exclaimed, "Mon Dieu!" The auctioneer was perched on a barrel. Just below him stood a young Frenchman eagerly bidding on the coveted number 33. Not until De Courval was beside him was he disillusioned. It was not Carteaux, nor was the man, on nearer view, very like him. When clear of the small crowd, De Courval moved away slowly, vexed with himself and disturbed by one of those abrupt self-revelations which prove to a man how near he may be to emotional insurrection.
"If it had been he," he murmured, "I should have strangled him, ah, there at once." He had been imprudent, lacking in intelligence. He felt, too, how slightly impressed he had been by his mother's desire that he should dismiss from his life the dark hour of Avignon. More than a little dissatisfied, he put it all resolutely aside and began to reconsider the mercantile career before him. He was about to give up the social creed and ways in which he had been educated. He had never earned a sou, and was now to become a part of the life of trade, a thing which at one time would have seemed to him impossible. Would his mother like it? No; but for that there was no help, and some of it he would keep to himself. Thirty dollars would payhis own board, and he must draw on his small reserve until he made more. But there were clothes to get and he knew not what besides; nor did he altogether like it himself. He had served in the army two years, and had then been called home, where he was sorely needed. It would have been strange if, with his training and traditions, he had felt no repugnance at this prospect of a trader's life. But it was this or nothing, and having made his choice, he meant to abide by it. And thus, having settled the matter, he went on his way, taking in with observant eyes the wonders of this new country.
He made for his mother a neat little tale of how he was to oblige Mr. Wynne by translating or writing French letters. Yes, the hours were long, but he was sure he should like it, and Mrs. Swanwick would, she had said, give him breakfast in time for him to be at his work by half after eight o'clock; and where was the letter which should be sent, and Mrs. Wynne would call. The vicomtesse wished for no company, and least of all for even the most respectable bourgeois society; but she supposed there was no help for it, and the boarding-house was very well, indeed, restful, and the people quiet. Would she be expected to say thou to them? Her son thought not, and after a rather silent noon dinner went out for a pull on the river with Schmidt, and bobbed for crabs to his satisfaction, while Schmidt at intervals let fall his queer phrases as the crabs let go the bait and slid off sideways.
"There is a man comes here to pester Mrs. Swanwickat times. He goes out of the doors sideways, there, like that fellow in the water—Monsieur Crab, I call him. He is meek and has claws which are critical and pinch until madame boils over, and then he gets red like a crab. That was when Pearl had of Miss Gainor a gold locket and a red ribbon, and wore it on a day when with Miss Gainor the girl was by evil luck seen of our Quaker crab.
"But not all are like that. There is one, Israel Morris, who looks like a man out of those pictures by Vandyke you must have seen, and with the gentleness of a saint. Were I as good as he, I should like to die, for fear I could not keep it up. Ah you got a nip. They can bite. It can not be entirely true—I mean that man's goodness; but it is naturally performed. The wife is a fair test of humility. I wonder how his virtue prospers at home."
De Courval listened, again in wonder where had been learned this English, occasionally rich with odd phrases; for usually Schmidt spoke a fluent English, but always with some flavor of his own tongue.
The supper amused the young man, who was beginning to be curious and observant of these interesting and straightforward people. There were at times long silences. The light give and take of the better chat of the well-bred at home in France was wanting. His mother could not talk, and there were no subjects of common interest. He found it dull at first, being himself just now in a gay humor.
After the meal he ventured to admire the buff-and-gold china in a corner cupboard, and then two great silver tankards on a sideboard. Mrs. Swanwickwas pleased. "Yes," she said, "they are of Queen Anne's day, and the arms they carry are of the Plumsteads and Swanwicks."
He called his mother's attention to them. "But," she said, of course in French, "what have these people to do with arms?"
"Take care," he returned under his breath. "Madame speaks French."
Mrs. Swanwick, who had a fair knowledge of the tongue, quickly caught her meaning, but said with a ready smile: "Ah, they have had adventures. When my husband would not pay the war tax, as Friends would not, the vendue master took away these tankards and sold them. But when the English came in, Major André bought them. That was when he stole Benjamin Franklin's picture, and so at last Gainor Wynne, in London, years after, saw my arms on them in a shop and bought them back, and now they are Margaret's."
De Courval gaily related the tale to his mother and then went away with her to her room, she exclaiming on the stair: "The woman has good manners. She understood me."
The woman and Pearl were meanwhile laughing joyously over the sad lady's criticism. When once in her bed-room, the vicomtesse said that on the morrow she would rest in bed. Something, perhaps the voyage and all this new life, had been too much for her, and she had a little fever. A tisane, yes, if only she had a tisane, but who would know how to make one? No, he must tell no one that she was not well.
He left her feeling that here was a new trouble and went down-stairs to join Schmidt. No doubt she was really tired, but what if it were something worse? One disaster after another had left him with the belief that he was marked out by fate for calamitous fortunes.
Schmidt cheered him with his constant hopefulness, and in the morning he must not fail Mr. Wynne, and at need Schmidt would get a doctor. Then he interested him with able talk about the stormy politics of the day, and for a time they smoked in silence. At last, observing his continued depression, Schmidt said: "Take this to bed with you—At night is despair, at morning hope—a good word to sleep on. Let the morrow take care of itself. Bury thy cares in the graveyard of sleep." Then he added with seriousness rare to him: "You have the lesson of the mid-years of life yet to learn—to be of all thought the despot. Never is man his own master till, like the centurion with his soldiers, he can say to joy come and to grief or anger or anxiety go, and be obeyed of these. You may think it singular that I, a three-days' acquaintance, talk thus to a stranger; but the debt is all one way so far, and my excuse is those five years under water, and, too, that this preacher in his time has suffered."
Unused till of late to sympathy, and surprised out of the reserve both of the habit of caste and of his own natural reticence, De Courval felt again the emotion of a man made, despite himself, to feel how the influence of honest kindness had ended his power to speak.
In the dim candle-light he looked at the speaker—tall, grave, the eagle nose, the large mouth, the heavy chin, a face of command, with now a little watching softness in the eyes.
He felt later the goodness and the wisdom of the German's advice. "I will try," he said; "but it does seem as if there were little but trouble in the world," and with this went away to bed.
Then Schmidt found Mrs. Swanwick busy over a book and said: "Madame de Courval is not well, I fear. Would you kindly see to her?"
"At once," she said, rising.
The young man's anxiety about his mother kept him long awake, and his sleep was troubled, as at times later, by a dream of Carteaux facing him with a smile, and by that strange sense of physical impotence which sometimes haunts the dreamer who feels the need for action and cannot stir.
When at six in the morning De Courval went down-stairs, he met Mrs. Swanwick. She turned, and when in the hall said: "I have been with thy mother all night, and now Margaret is with her, but thou wilt do no harm to enter. She does not seem to me very ill, but we must have a doctor, and one who has her language. When after a little sleep she wakens, she wanders, and then is clear again." Seeing his look of anxiety, she added, "Be sure that we shall care for her."
He said no word of the pain he felt and scarce more than a word of his gratitude, but, going up-stairs again, knocked softly at a chamber door.
"Come in," he heard, and entered. A low voice whispered, "She is just awake," and the slight, gray figure of the girl went by him, the door gently closing behind her. In the dim light he sat down by his mother's bed, and taking a hot hand in his, heard her murmur: "Mon fils—my son. Angels—angels!I was a stranger, and they took me in; naked and they clothed me, yes, yes, with kindness. What name did you say? Carteaux. Is he dead—Carteaux?"
The young man had a thrill of horror. "Mother," he said, "it is I, René."
"Ah," she exclaimed, starting up, "I was dreaming. These good people were with me all night. You must thank them and see that they are well paid. Do not forget—well paid—and a tisane. If I had but a tisanede guimauve!"
"Yes, yes," he said; "we shall see. Perhaps some lemonade."
"Yes, yes; go at once and order it." She was imperative, and her voice had lost its sweetness for a time. "I must not be made to wait."
"Very well,maman." As he went out, the gray figure passed in, saying, "She is better this morning, and I am so grieved for thee."
"Thank you," he murmured, and went down-stairs, seeing no one, and out to a seat in the garden, to think what he should do. Yes, there must be a doctor. And Carteaux—what a fool he had been to tell her his name! The name and the cropped hair of the Jacobin, the regular features, by no means vulgar, the blood-red eyes of greed for murder, he saw again as in that fatal hour. Whenever any new calamity had fallen upon him, the shrill murder-counseling voice was with him, heard at times like a note of discord even in later days of relief from anxiety, or in some gay moment of mirth. "He was wise," he murmured, remembering theGerman's counsel, and resolutely put aside the disturbing thought. At last Nanny, the black maid, called him to breakfast. He was alone with Schmidt and Mrs. Swanwick. They discussed quietly what doctor they should call; not their friend, Dr. Redman, as neither he nor Dr. Rush spoke French. Schmidt said: "I have sent a note to Mr. Wynne not to expect you. Set your mind at ease."
There was need of the advice. De Courval felt the helplessness of a young man in the presence of a woman's illness. He sat still in his chair at breakfast, hardly hearing the German's efforts to reassure him.
It was near to eight. Nanny had gone up to relieve Margaret, who presently came in, saying, "Aunt Gainor is without, back from her morning ride."
There was a heavy footfall in the hall and a clear, resonant voice, "Mary Swanwick, where are you?"
In the doorway, kept open for the summer air to sweep through, the large figure of Gainor Wynne appeared in riding skirt and low beaver hat, a heavy whip in her hand. The years had dealt lightly with the woman, now far past middle life. There was a mass of hair time had powdered, the florid face, the high nose of her race, the tall, erect, massive build, giving to the observant a sense of masculine vigor. On rare occasions there was also a perplexing realization of infinite feminine tenderness, and, when she pleased, the ways and manners of an unmistakable gentlewoman.
As the two men rose, Mrs. Swanwick said quietly, "Aunt Gainor, Madame de Courval is ill."
"As much as to say, 'Do not roam through the house and shout.'"
"This is Friend de Courval," said Mrs. Swanwick.
"You must pardon me, Vicomte," said Miss Wynne. "You must pardon a rude old woman. I am Hugh Wynne's aunt. May I ask about your mother? Is she very ill? I meant to call on her shortly. I am heartily at your service."
"I fear she is very ill," he replied.
"Have you a doctor?"
"We were just now thinking whom we should have," said Mrs. Swanwick. "The vicomtesse speaks no English."
"Yes, yes," said Mistress Wynne; "who shall we have? Not Dr. Rush. He would bleed her, and his French—la, my cat can meow better French. Ah, I have it. I will fetch Chovet. We have not spoken for a month, because—but no matter, he will come."
There was nothing to do but to thank this resolute lady. "I will send for him at once, Aunt Gainor," said Mrs. Swanwick.
To De Courval's surprise, it was Margaret who answered. "He will come the quicker for Aunt Gainor, mother. Every one does as she wants." This was to De Courval.
"Except you, you demure little Quaker kitten. I must go," and the masterful woman in question was out of the house in a moment, followed by Schmidt and De Courval.
"A chair. I can't mount as I used to." Her black groom brought out a chair. In a moment she was on the back of the powerfully built stallion andclattering up Front Street with perilous indifference to an ill-paved road and any unwatchful foot-passenger. She struck up Spruce Street and the unpaved road then called Delaware Fifth Street and so down Arch. It was mid-morning, and the street full of vehicles and people a-foot. Suddenly, when near her own house, she checked her horse as she saw approaching a chaise with leather springs, the top thrown back, and in front a sorry-looking white horse. Within sat a man who would have served for the English stage presentation of a Frenchman—a spare figure, little, with very red cheeks under a powdered wig; he was dressed in the height of the most extravagant fashion of a day fond of color. The conventional gold-headed cane of the physician lay between his legs. At sight of Mistress Wynne he applied the whip and called out to his horse in a shrill voice, "Allez. Get on, Ça Ira!"
The spinster cried to him as they came near: "Stop, stop, Doctor! I want you. Stop—do you hear me?"
He had not forgotten a recent and somewhat fierce political passage of arms, and turned to go by her. With a quick movement she threw the big stallion in front of Ça Ira, who reared, stopped short, and cast the doctor sprawling over the dash-board. He sat up in wrath. "Sacré bleu!" he cried, "I might have been killed.Quelle femme!What a woman! And my wig—" It was in the street dust.
"Why did you not stop? Get the man's wig, Tom." The groom, grinning, dismounted and stood still, awaiting her orders, the dusty wig in his hand.