"'Well played!' cried Schmidt—'the jest and the rapier'""'Well played!' cried Schmidt—'the jest and the rapier'"
"I am a man of peace, how shouldst I know? but the game looks easy." He threw up his head and stretched out his hand. "Let me look at the thing."
"Then take off your coat and put on a mask. But I shall not hurt you; there is no need for the mask."
He was quietly amused, and if only Nicholas Waln would come; for now the Quaker gentleman had put aside hat and coat, and in plainest gray homespun faced him, a stalwart, soldierly figure.
"How does thee hold it, Friend Schmidt? Ah, so?"
In a moment the German knew that he was crossing blades with a master of the small sword. Margaret and De Courval looked on merrily exchanging gay glances.
"Dead," cried De Forest, as he struck fair over the German's heart, "and a damn good hit!"
"Well played!" cried Schmidt—"the jest and the rapier. Another bout—no!" To his surprise he saw the Quaker gentleman's face change as he hastily put on his coat.
"Thank thee," he said to De Courval as the young man handed him his hat, and without other words than "I bid thee good day. I shall not bide this afternoon," went into the hall and out of the farther door, passing with bowed head and without a word a gentleman who entered.
Schmidt showed little of the astonishment easily read on De Courval's face, who, however, said nothing, having been taught to be chary of comments on his elders; and now taking up his foil again, fell on guard.
"A man haunted by his past," said Schmidt, as was in fact explained at breakfast next day, when Mrs. Swanwick, being questioned, said: "Yes. He was a colonel in the war, and of reckless courage. Later he returned to Friends, and now and then has lapses in his language and his ways, and is filled with remorse."
"The call of the sword was too much for him," said Schmidt. "I can comprehend that. But he had a minute of the joy of battle."
"And then," said the Pearl, "he had a war with himself."
"The maid is beginning to think," said Schmidt to himself. But this was all on the next day.
As the tall man came out on the porch, Margaret said: "My mother is occupied. Friend Schmidt, thou knowest Friend Jefferson; and this is our new lodger," and she said boldly, "the Vicomte de Courval."
"Ah," exclaimed Jefferson, "we have met before. And madame is well, I trust?"
"Yes; but at this hour she rests. We owe you, sir, our thanks for the good chance of finding what has been to us most truly a home."
Margaret looked up pleased, she did not fully know why. And so he did really like them and their quiet home?
Presently Schmidt said to Jefferson: "There is sad news from France, Mr. Secretary."
"Good news, Citizen; altogether good. What if men die that a people may live? Men die in war. What is the difference? Titles will go, a king beswept on to the dust-heap of history." A hot answer was on the lips of the young noble. He turned, vexed at the loss of his chance as Alexander Hamilton and Mrs. Swanwick joined them. Jefferson ceased to speak to Schmidt, and the two statesmen met with the formal courtesy of bitter hatred. Jefferson could see no good in the brilliant finance of the man who now talked with courteous ease to one or another. The new-comer was slight of figure, bright-eyed, with the deep line so rarely seen where the nose meets the forehead, and above all graceful, as few men are. The face was less mobile than that of Jefferson, who resembled to a strange degree the great actor of his name, a resemblance only to be explained by some common English ancestry in an untraceable past. He had been to a bad school in France as minister, and perhaps had by this time forgotten the day when he desired his agent in London to find for him a coat of arms.
Presently, after a talk with Mrs. Swanwick, Jefferson, ill-pleased to meet Hamilton, was of a mind to go. Quite aware that he meant to leave a little sting, he said: "I must be gone. Good-by"; and to Hamilton: "You have heard, no doubt, the good news from France—Citizen?"
"I have heard of needless murder and of a weak, ill-served, kindly king insulted by a mob of ruffians."
Jefferson's thin face grew yet more somber; but what reply the secretary might have made was put aside by the cheerful coming of a man in plain, but not Quaker clothes, a republican Jacobin of the maddest, as was seen by his interchange of "Citizen"with Jefferson, and the warm welcome he received. Thus reinforced, Jefferson lingered where Mrs. Swanwick and Margaret were busy with the hot chocolate, which Hamilton, from youthful habit, liked. At a word from their hostess, De Courval took a basket, and presently brought from the garden slope peaches such as any back yard among us grew in my childhood—yellow clingstones and open hearts. The widow ministered to the other statesman, who liked peaches and was not to be neglected even for her favorite Hamilton, now busily discussing with Schmidt the news sent by Gouverneur Morris.
The new-comer had paid no least attention to his hostess, but sat down at the table and fingered the jumbles, apees, and cake known as "lovers'-knots" of Nanny's make, until he discovered one to his fancy. Mrs. Swanwick gave no obvious sign of annoyance, but smilingly stirred the chocolate, while Margaret quietly removed the dish of cakes and gave the guest a slice of sweetened bread known as "Dutch loaf."
"There are fewer currants in the cake than there were last week," remarked the astronomer, for, as Schmidt said in an aside to De Courval and Hamilton, as they watched the great eat like lesser folk: "This is the famous astronomer, David Rittenhouse. He divides his thoughts between the heavens and his diet; and what else there is of him is Jacobin."
"I wish," said Hamilton, "that heaven equally engaged the rest of his party. May not I have my chocolate, Mrs. Swanwick?"
"Certainly; and might I be noticed a little?" saidMrs. Swanwick to Rittenhouse. The absent-minded philosopher looked up and said:
"I forgot. Pardon me, Citess."
Hamilton laughed merrily. "Is that the last invention?"
"It sounds like the name of some wild little animal," said the Pearl.
"Neat, that, Margaret," said Hamilton; "and might I, too, have a peach? Mr. Jefferson has emptied the basket."
Margaret rose, and with De Courval went down the garden, a fair presentment of the sexes, seen and approved by Hamilton, while Jefferson said gaily:
"The transit of Venus, Rittenhouse," for it was that observation which had given this star-gazer fame and recognition abroad.
"My compliments, sir," said Schmidt. "I regret not to have said it."
Jefferson bowed. He was at his best, for neither manners nor wit were wanting in his social hour. The astronomer, without comment, went on eating sweet bread. They drank chocolate and chatted idly of the new luxury—ice-cream, which Monsieur de Malerive made for a living, and sold on the mall we now call Independence Square. They talked, too, of the sad influx of people from San Domingo; the widow, attentive, intellectually sympathetic, a pleasant portrait of what the silver-clad Pearl would be in days to come; she, the girl, leaning against a pillar of the porch, a gray figure silently watchful, curious, behind her for background the velvets of the rival statesmen, the long broideredwaistcoats, the ribbon-tied queues, and the two strongly contrasted faces. Perhaps only Schmidt recognized the grace and power of the group on the porch.
The warm August evening was near its close, and a dark storm, which hung threateningly over the Jersey shore, broke up the party. Warned by rolling thunder, the three men went away in peaceful talk.
"The hate they have buried in their bellies," said Schmidt; "but, René, they are of the peerage, say what they may. Equality!Der gute Himmel!All men equal—and why not all women, too! He left that out. Equal before the law, perhaps—not his slaves; before God, no—nor man. Does he think Hamilton his equal? He does not love the gentleman entirely. But these two are, as fate, inevitable withal, rulers of men. I have seen the labeled creatures of other lands—kings, ministers. These men you saw here are the growth of a virgin soil—Ach!'There were giants in those days,' men will say." Mrs. Swanwick listened quietly, considering what was said, not always as quick as Margaret to understand the German. He spoke further of the never-pleased Virginian, and then the widow, who had kindness for all and respect for what she called experienced opinion, avoiding to be herself the critic and hiding behind a quotation, said, "'There be many that say, Who will shew us any good?'"
"Fine Bible wisdom," said Schmidt.
By and by when she had gone away with Margaret about household matters, Schmidt said to De Courval: "That is one of the beautiful flowers of the formalgarden of Fox and Penn. The creed suits the temperament—a garden rose; but my Pearl—Ach!a wild rose, creed and creature not matched; nor ever will be."
"I have had a delightful afternoon," said René, unable or indisposed to follow the German's lead. "Supper will be late. You promised me the new book."
"Yes; Smith's 'Wealth of Nations,' not easy reading, but worth while."
Thereafter the busy days ran on into weeks, and in October of this tragic 1792 came the appalling news of the murdered Swiss, self-sacrificed for no country and no large principle beyond the pledge of an oath to a foreign king. More horrible was the massacre of the priests in the garden of the Carmelites.
To René's relief, these unlooked-for riots of murder seemed to affect his mother less than he had feared might be the case. "My husband's death was, my son, a prophecy of what was to come." To her it was all personal. For him it was far more, and the German alone understood the double anguish of a man in whom contended a puzzled horror at deaths without apparent reason, of murders of women like the Princesse de Lamballe,—an orgy of obscene insult,—and a wild anger at the march of the Duke of Brunswick upon Paris. It was his country, after all, and he left his mother feeling disappointed that she did not share his hostile feeling in regard to theémigrésin the German army.
The wonderful autumn colors of October and November came and passed, a new wonder to the youngman; his mother, to all seeming contented, spending her evenings with him over English lessons, or French books out of Logan's excellent library, or busy with never-finished embroidery. On Sundays they went to Gloria Dei, the modest little church of the Swedes. There to-day, amid the roar of trade and shipyards, in the churchyard the birds sing over the grave of their historian, Wilson, and worn epitaphs relate the love and griefs of a people whose blood is claimed with pride by the historic families of Pennsylvania.
During these months, Aunt Gainor was long absent in Boston on a visit, a little to the relief of the vicomtesse. Schmidt, too, was away in New York, to the regret of René, who had come more and more to feel wholesomely his influence and increasing attachment. The money help had set him at ease, and he could now laugh when, on counting the coin in the drawer, he found it undiminished. He had remonstrated in vain. The German smiled. "A year more, and I shall be out of debt." Had René not heard of the widow's cruse? "I must be honest. 'T is my time. The grateful bee in my bonnet does but improve the shining hour of opportunity. What was there to do but laugh?" And René at last laughed.
December came with snow and gray skies, and the great business De Courval had grown to feel his own felt the gathering storm caused by the decree of freedom to white and black in the French islands. The great shipmasters, Clark, Willing, Girard, the free-thinking merchant, and Wynne, were all lookingas bleak as the weather, and prudently ceased to make their usual sea-ventures before the ice formed, while at the coffee-houses the war between England and France, more and more near, threatened new perils to the commerce of the sea.
On January 27, 1793, being Saturday, while De Courval, Wolcott, and Gilbert Stuart, the artist, sat chatting with Hamilton in the dining-room and drinking the widow's chocolate, the painter was begging leave to make a picture of Margaret, and asking them to come and see the portrait of Mrs. Jackson, one of the three charming sisters of Mr. Bingham.
"No, there must be no portrait. It is against the way of Friends," said the mother. "I should hear of it from Friend Waln and others, too."
What more there was, René did not learn. The painter was urgent. Stuart did paint her long afterward, in glorious splendor of brocade, beautiful with powder and nature's rouge. But now came Nanny, the black maid, and waited while Margaret shyly won a little talk with Hamilton, who loved the girl. "I have been thinking," she said, "of Friend Jefferson. Why, sir, do they have any titles at all, even Citizen? I think a number would be still more simple." She was furnishing an elder with another of the unlooked-for bits of humor which attest the florescence of a mind gathering sense of the comic as the years run on and the fairy godmother, Nature, has her way.
"Good heaven, child! if Mr. Jefferson had his will with your numeration, I should be zero, and he the angel of arithmetic alone knows what."
"What is it, Nanny!" said the mother.
"Massa Wynne want to see Massa Courval—right away in the front room."
De Courval, wondering what had happened, and why he was wanted in haste, found Wynne in Schmidt's sitting-room. "Close the door," said the master, "and sit down. I have much to say to you, and little time. There is great disturbance in San Domingo. I have debts due me there, and, by ill chance, a cargo probably to be there soon—theGeorge Washington, as you may remember. You made out the bill of lading in French."
"I recall it, sir."
"The debts may go for hopeless. The cargo is lost if landed. Port au Prince and Cap Français are in terror, the planters flying to the towns, the plantations in ruins. The decree of freedom for the black has roused the devil among the slaves, and the low-class whites are ruling the towns." He paused to think, and then added: "I send out to-morrow with the flood my fastest ship, the schoonerMarie, without cargo, mind you. Will you go, nominally as supercargo? You are more thoughtful than your years would imply. You are twenty-seven, I think you said. What you are worth in danger—and there will be much—I do not know. There may be questions involving grave decisions, involving courageous action, not merely what every gentleman has—mere personal fearlessness. I am plain, I trust."
De Courval was silent.
"If you get there first, I save a large loss. Once ashore, the cargo will be seized, and not a cent paidfor it. It is to take or leave, Mr. de Courval; I shall not blame you if you say no. But if you do say no, I must go. The loss may be serious."
Here was a chance to repay much kindness, and the threat of danger stirred the young man's blood. "How long should I be absent?"
"I do not know. The ship may have gone to Martinique, also. There were goods for both islands."
"There is but one question, sir—my mother. She has no one else. And may I talk to Mr. Schmidt?"
"To no one better, if he were here. He is not, and I cannot wait. I shall call for your answer at nine to-night. The tide serves at 6 A.M. I ought to say that your perfect English and as perfect French enable you to pass for being of one nation or the other. Best to be an American. And De Courval? No; that is too plainly French."
"I am Louis René. Why not Mr. Lewis, sir, at need?"
"Good! Excellent! I shall write my instructions with care. They will be full; but much must be left to you and the master."
"Captain Biddle, I suppose."
"Yes. A resolute old sea-dog, but who will obey because I order it. Good night. At nine—I must know at nine."
De Courval lost no time. His mother was alone, as usual avoiding the Saturday visitors.
"Oh," he said to himself as he stood outside of her door, "you must let me go."
He paused before he knocked. Gratitude, interest, awakened eagerness for perilous adventure, calledhim to this voyage. He had then, as on later occasions one source of indecision—the mother. If she said no, he must stay; but would she? He knocked gently, and in a moment was standing at her side.
She set aside her embroidery-frame. "What is wrong?" she said. "I do not want to hear any more evil news—or at least, no details. Who else is dead of those we cared for?"
"No one, mother. Mr. Wynne wishes me to sail for him at dawn to-morrow for San Domingo. I may be in time to save him much money."
"Well," she said coldly, "what else?" Her face, always grave, became stern. "And so, to save a trader's money, I am to be left alone."
"Mother, it seems hard for you to understand these people; and there is another side to it. I have been treated with kindness for which there seems to me small reason. Twice my wages have been raised, and this offer is a compliment, as well as a chance to oblige a man I like."
"Wages!" she cried. "Do not imagine me deceived by these good-natured bourgeois, nor by your desire to spare me. Secretary, indeed! Do they fancy me a fool? You are a clerk."
"I am," he said; "but that is not now of importance. He has said that he must go or I must go."
"Then let him go. You must not disobey me, René."
"Mother," he said, "these people have, God knows why, found us a home, and covered us with obligations never possible to be repaid. Here at last comes a chance—and you know our old French saying."
"Yes, yes, I know. But any clerk could go. It is—oh, my son!—that I should miss you day and night."
"Any clerk could not go,maman. It asks this thing—a man not afraid. No timid clerk can go. Do not you see,maman?"
"He will think you afraid if you stay?"
"Oh, mother, do understand this man better! He is a gentleman—of—of as good a race as ours, a soldier of distinction in the war. He will not think me afraid; but others may."
"Is there danger, my son?"
"Yes. To be honest, very great danger. The blacks are free. The lower whites rule the seaports. It is to be more terrible than the riot of murder at home."
He had remained standing while he talked. For half a minute the dark figure and unchanging face bent over the embroidery-frame without a word of reply. Then rising, she set a hand on each of his shoulders and said, "You must go, René." Centuries of the training and creed of a race of warlike men could not have failed to defeat love-born anxiety, and the dread of loss, in a woman through whom had passed into the making of a man certain ancestral qualities. "You must go," she repeated.
"Thank you, mother. I was afraid—"
"Of what?" she cried. "That I should be afraid for a man of my blood to risk life where duty calls him?"
"No, mother; I was afraid that you might not see it all as I do."
"If, René, this were but a peaceful errand of months away, I should have said no. The debts, all—all might have stood. I should have been ashamed, but obstinate, my son. We will not discuss it. You must go. And is it for long?" The clear, sweet voice broke a little. "Is it for very long?"
"I do not know."
"Ah, well. I do not want to see you in the morning. When you are ready to-night, you will say good-by."
"Yes, mother. And now I must pack my bag." And he left her.
That was strange, he thought. What would have made some women say no decided her to say go. He smiled proudly. "It was like her," he murmured.
When at eight that night he came to say good-by, she kissed him and said only, "Write to me when you can." At nine Hugh Wynne had the answer he confidently expected.
At dusk of day, the old black Cicero tramped after De Courval through the snow, as full of thought he went on, his camlet cloak about him, and under it the sword he had left in the Quaker's attic. He had told Mrs. Swanwick and left a letter for Schmidt, taking, after some hesitation, fifty dollars out of the drawer.
At daybreak, on the slip, Mr. Wynne waited with the captain. "Here," said the merchant, "are your instructions. Use your good sense. You have it. Have no fear of assuming responsibility. Captain Biddle, in case of doubt, trust Mr. Lewis to decide any question involving money."
"Oh, that is his name—Lewis."
"Yes; Mr. Lewis will show you my instructions." Then taking De Courval aside, "You said no word of pay."
"No, sir."
"Very good. Some men would have bargained. I shall see that your salary while absent, eighty dollars a month, is put in Mary Swanwick's hands for your mother."
"Thank you. That leaves me at ease."
"Ah, here is some of my own Maryland tobacco and a pipe the Germans call meerschaum; and one word more: you have infinitely obliged me and my wife. God bless you! Good-by!Bon voyage!Your boat is ready, and Captain Biddle is impatient to be gone."
In a few minutes theMarie, wing-and-wing, was flying down the Delaware with the first of the ebb, the skim of ice crackling at her bow and a fair wind after her. They were like enough to carry the ebb-tide with them to the capes or even to outsail it.
De Courval stood on the quarter-deck, in the clear, sharp wintry air, while the sun rose over Jersey and deepened the prevalent reds which had so struck his mother when in May, nine months before, they first saw the city. Now he recalled his sad memories of France, their unhappy poverty in England until their old notary in Paris contrived to send them the few thousand livres with which they had come to Pennsylvania with the hopes which so often deceived the emigrant, and then God had found for them friends. He saw as he thought of them, the German, who held to him some relation of affectionate nearnesswhich was more than friendship and seemed like such as comes, though rarely, when the ties of blood are drawn closer by respect, service, and love. He had ceased to think of the mystery which puzzled many and of which Hamilton and Mr. Justice Wilson were believed to know more than any others. Being of the religion, he had said to Schmidt in a quiet, natural way that their coming together was providential, and the German had said: "Why not? It was provided." Then he saw Gainor Wynne, so sturdy and full of insistent kindness; the strong, decisive nephew; the Quaker homes; all these amazing people; and, somehow with a distinctness no other figure had, the Pearl in the sunlight of an August evening.
The name Margaret fits well—ah—yes. To sing to her the old French verse—there in the garden above the river—well, that would be pleasant—and to hear how it would sound he must try it, being in a happy mood.
The captain turned to listen, for first he whistled the air and then sang:
LE BLASON DE LA MARGUERITE
En Avril où naquit amour,J'entrai dans son jardin un jour,Où la beauté d'une fleuretteMe plut sur celles que j'y vis.Ce ne fut pas la pâquerette,L'oeillet, la rose, ni le lys:Ce fut la belle Marguerite,Qu'au cœur j'aurai toujours écrite.
En Avril où naquit amour,J'entrai dans son jardin un jour,Où la beauté d'une fleuretteMe plut sur celles que j'y vis.Ce ne fut pas la pâquerette,L'oeillet, la rose, ni le lys:Ce fut la belle Marguerite,Qu'au cœur j'aurai toujours écrite.
He laughed. That would hardly do—"au coeur écrite"; but then, it is only a song.
"Well sung," said the captain, not ignorant of French. "Do you sing that to the lady who is written in your heart?"
"Always," laughed De Courval—"always."
It is well for us to follow the fortunes of some of those who were in De Courval's mind as theMarielost sight of the steeple of Christ Church.
Mrs. Swanwick, born in the creed and customs of the Church of England, was by many ties of kindred allied to the Masters, Willings, Morrises, and to that good Whig rector, the Rev. Richard Peters. She had conformed with some doubts to the creed of John Swanwick, her dead husband, but was of no mind to separate her daughter altogether from the gay cousins whose ways her simpler tastes in no wise always approved.
It was also black Nanny's opinion that the girl should see the gayer world, and she expressed herself on this matter to her mistress with the freedom of an old servant. She could neither read nor even tell the time, and never left the house or garden, except for church or the funeral of some relative. Just now, a week after the vicomte had gone, she was busy in the kitchen when Mrs. Swanwick came in.
"Were there many at thy cousin's burial?" asked the mistress.
"Yes, there was; but this goin' out don't agree with me. I ain't young enough to enjoy it." Then she said abruptly: "Miss Margaret she's pinin' like. She ain't no Quaker—no more than me."
Mrs. Swanwick smiled, and Nanny went on peeling potatoes.
"I don't go with Friends—I'm church people, and I likes the real quality."
"Yes, I know, Nanny." She had heard all this many times.
"I heard the Governor askin' you—"
"Yes, yes. I think she may go, Nanny."
"She'll go, and some time she'll stay," said Nanny.
"Indeed? Well—I shall see," said the mistress.
"Potatoes ain't what they used to be, and neither is folks."
Now and then, with more doubt as Margaret grew and matured, her mother permitted her to stay for a day at Belmont, or at Cliveden with the Chews, but more readily with Darthea Wynne. Just now an occasional visitor, Mr. John Penn, the Proprietary, had come with his wife to ask the girl to dine at Landsdowne. It would be a quiet party. She could come with Mr. Schmidt, who, like Nanny, seeing the girl of late somewhat less gay than usual and indisposed to the young Quaker kinsfolk, with whom she had little in common, urged the mother to consent. She yielded reluctantly. "Ann," said the gentleman in the ruby-colored coat, "would take care of her." This Ann, the daughter of the Chief Justice Allen, was a friend of Mary Swanwick's youth. There was advice given, and some warnings, which the pleased girl, it is to be feared, thought little of as, wrapped in furs, Schmidt drove her in his sleigh over the float bridge at the middle ferry, and at lastalong the Monument Road from the Lancaster Pike to the front of the Italian villa John Penn built where now in the park stands the Horticultural Hall.
The sky was clear, the sun brilliant. There were far-away glimpses of the river, and on the terrace to meet them, at three o'clock, a group of gay young cousins, who came out with Mrs. Byrd of Westover, the hostess, Ann Penn, very splendid in gown and powder, with Mr. Peters, their neighbor, of late made a judge, and the Governor in purple velvet short-clothes and gold buckles. He put out in welcome a lace-ruffled hand, of which he was said to be proud. A hood, and over it a calash for shelter from cold, had replaced the girl's Quaker bonnet, and now it was cast back, and the frost-red cheeks were kissed, and the profuse compliments of the day paid to the really charming face of Margaret, whom nature had set off with color and whom stern decrees of usage had clad for contrast in relieving gray silks.
There was whispering among those madcap cousins as they hurried her away to Ann Greenleaf's room, a niece of Mrs. Penn, "to set thy hair in order for dinner, thou darling Quaker." She was used to their ways, and went merry with the rest up the great stairway whence William Penn, in the serene beauty of his youth, looked down at the noisy party, now bent upon a prank altogether in the fashion of their day.
As Margaret entered the room, she saw Miss Ann Greenleaf being trussed up in stays by a black maid.
"Why, dear, is the room so dark?" asked Margaret;for the curtains were drawn, and there were candles on the mantel and in sconces.
"The better to see how we shall look—in the evening," replied Miss Willing.
Gowns, silken hose, high, red-heeled shoes, and powder-puffs lay about on bed and chairs.
"We have a little secret," cried Miss Willing, "and we will never tell, dear."
"Never!" cried they.
"We want to dress thee just for to see how thou wouldst look in the gown of decent Christians."
"I could never think of it."
"Come, girls," cried Miss Willing, "let us dress her just once."
"Oh, but just for a half-hour," they said, and gathered around her, laughing, urgent.
Nice Christians these! She would not. Mother would not like it, and—ah, me, she was not unwilling to see herself once in the long cheval-glass. She had had naughty dreams of brocade and powder. Despite her resistance, they had off the prim Quaker dress, and blushing, half-angry, half-pleased, she was in slim attire, saying: "Thou really must not. My stockings, oh, not my stockings! Oh, Molly Greenleaf, how can I? It is dreadful—please not." But the silk stockings were on, and the garters, with compliments my modest pen declines to preserve. There was enough of the maiden neck in view above the undervest, and very splendid length of brocade gown, with lace of the best, and a petticoat, pearl-tinted, "Because, dear, we are all Quakers," they cried. "And do keep still, or the powder will be allover thee. What color, girls! Can it be real? I must kiss thee to see if it be rouge."
"For shame!" cried Margaret, between tears and laughter.
"Now a fan—and patches, Molly Greenleaf! No. The old women wear them; but gloves, crumpled down at the elbow. So!" She had given up at last.
It was only for a frolic half-hour. "Go now and see thyself." Two of the merriest seized lighted candles, for the room was made dark by the drawn curtains, and stood on each side of the long cheval-glass, a pretty picture, with Margaret before the mirror, shy and blushing. "Great heavens! you are a wonder! Isn't she, oh, isn't she, the sweetest thing!"
The Quaker maiden looked down at the rich brocade and then looked up, and knew that she was beautiful. She stood still, amazed at the revelation, and the gods who give us uncalled-for thoughts set in her mind for a moment the figure of the young vicomte. She colored, and cried, laughing, as she turned away from the glass: "You have had your way with me, and now—undress me, girls, please. I should scarce know how."
"Oh, the sweet, innocent thing!" cried they. "But wait a little. Now thy hair—so—and so, and a bit more powder. La, but you are dangerous! Where are thy Quaker gown and stockings? Where can they be! Molly Greenleaf, what have you done with them? And, oh, Cinderella, the slippers fit to a charm." No one knew where had gone the gown, the shoes, the shawl, the rest of the simple garb."The fairy godmother has done it," cried Miss Cadwalader. "What shall we do?" cried Betty Morris. The gong, a new fashion, rang for dinner. The girl was angry.
"This passes the limit of a jest," she cried. "Go down? I? No. I will die first." They implored, laughing; but she refused, saying, "I sit here till I have my gown," and would speak no more.
At this minute came Mrs. Penn. "What is all this noise, young women? Good Lord! Margaret Swanwick! So this is what these minxes have been at all the morning?"
"I have been tricked," said Margaret, "and—and I will never forgive them—never."
"But come down to dinner, my dear. You will have your revenge when the men see you. There, the Governor dislikes to wait. He has sent up to say dinner is ready."
"I want my gown," said the Pearl, "and I will not go down." Only anger kept her from tears.
"But the Governor must see you. Come, no one will know, and, bless me! but you are a beauty!"
"Isn't she?" they cried in chorus. A glance at the mirror and a triumphant sense of victorious capacities to charm swept over the hesitating girl. Life of late had been as gray as her garb.
"Come, dear. You really must. You are making too much, quite too much, of a bit of innocent fun. If you wait to dress, I shall have to explain it all, and the Governor will say you lack courage; and must I say I left you in tears? And the mutton, my dear child—think of the mutton!"
"I am not in tears, and I hate you all, every one of you; but I will go."
Her head was up, as fan in hand she went down in front of the cousins, now mildly penitent, Mrs. Penn at her side. "Did they think to show off an awkward Quaker cousin, these thoughtless kittens? Give them a lesson, my dear."
"I mean to," said Margaret, her eyes flashing.
The men were about the fire in the great drawing-room, one little girl just slipping out, the future wife of Henry Baring. The party was large—young Mr. Rawle and General Wayne and the Peters from Belmont near by.
The men turned to bow as Mrs. Penn stepped aside, and left to view a startling vision of innocence and youth and loveliness. The girl swept a curtsey, the practice when dreams of the world were teasing her had not been in vain. Then she rose and moved into the room. For a moment there was silence. Except Schmidt, no one knew her. The Governor, bowing, cried, "By George! Margaret, you beat them all! What fairies have metamorphosed you?"
"We, we," cried the chorus. The men paid her compliments after the downright fashion of their set. She was gay, quick to reply, amazingly at ease. Schmidt watched her, comprehending as no one else did the sudden revelation to the young woman of the power and charm of her beauty and the primal joy of unused weapons. To the younger men she was a little reserved and quiet, to the elder men all grace and sweetness, to the trickster cousins, disconcertingly cool.
"Where on earth did she learn it all?" said Mrs. Byrd, as she went out to dinner with Mr. Penn.
"Heaven knows. But it was a saucy trick and she will pay for it, I fear, at home."
"Will she tell?" said Morris, the master of the rolls, as he followed behind them with Mrs. Wayne.
"Yes," said Mrs. Byrd, "she will tell; but whether or not, the town will ring with it, in a day or two. A pity, too, for the child is brought up in the straightest way of Friends. None of Madame Logan's fine gowns and half-way naughtiness for her."
At dinner Margaret quietly amused Mr. Morris with Schmidt's terror of June, the cat, and with Mr. Jefferson's bout with Hamilton, and the tale of the sad lapse of De Forest, which greatly pleased General Wayne, her right-hand neighbor. When they left the men to their Madeira, she insisted on changing her dress. A not duly penitent bevy of maids assisted, and by and by it was a demure Quaker moth who replaced the gay butterfly and in the drawing-room helped Madame Penn to make tea. They paid her fair compliments, and she smiled, saying: "I, dear Mrs. Penn—was I here? Thou must be mistaken. That was Grandmama Plumstead thou didst have here. Oh, a hundred years ago."
"Ask her to come again," said Mrs. Penn.
"And to stay," said Mrs. Wayne; "a charming creature."
"The maid is clever," said Mrs. Masters.
Meanwhile the wine went round on the coasters over the mahogany table in the dining-room, andmen talked of France, and grew hot with wine and more politics than pleased their host, who had no definite opinions, or, if any, a sincere doubt as to the quality of a too aged Madeira.
He gave a toast: "The ladies and our Quaker Venus." They drank it standing.
"This wine needs fining," said his reverence, the rector of Christ Church. They discussed it seriously.
Mr. Rawle cried, "A toast: George Washington and the Federal party."
"No politics, gentlemen," said Penn; "but I will drink the first half of it—His Excellency."
Mr. Langstroth on this day rode to town, and there learned that Margaret was at Landsdowne, and also a surprising piece of news with which he did not regale Mary Swanwick.
Full of what he had heard, Mr. Langstroth, being now on horseback and on his way to Gray Pines, his home, was suddenly minded to see his great-niece. Therefore he rode up the avenue at Landsdowne, and hitching his horse, learned that the men were still over their wine. "I will go in," he said, well pleased.
"Ah," said Penn, rising, "you are just in time for the punch." He hated the man and all his positive ways, but, the more for that, was courteous, if rather formal. "A glass for Mr. Langstroth. Your health, sir; your very good health."
"It is not good," said the new-comer.
"But the wine I trust is," said the Governor.
"It might supply goodness," Langstroth replied, "if it were not a bit pricked." It was a tender subject, and his host, feeling grossly wronged, was silent.
"Any fresh news?" said the attorney-general.
"Yes, sir; yes. The Princeton College lottery was drawn this morning, and guess who drew a prize?"
"Not I"—"Nor I," they cried. "Who was it? Not you?"
"I! No such luck."
"Who, then?"
"Well, I bought ten chances in the fall, and one for my great-niece, Margaret Swanwick. Her mother did not like it. Friends are all for putting an end to lotteries."
"And she won?"
"She did. I chose for luck the number of her age and the last two figures of the year—1792. That took it."
"How much? How much?" they shouted, the wine and rum punch having done their work. "How much?"
"Eight thousand, nine hundred, and thirty-four dollars, as I'm a sinner."
"The girl may have gay gowns now," cried one.
"Let us go out, and tell her," said the Governor, as men still called him; and upon this, having had wine and rum more than was well, they went laughing into the drawing-room.
"Oh, news! news!" cried one and another.
Mrs. Penn looked annoyed. "What is it?" she asked.
"Ho, ho! Fine news!" said Langstroth. "Margarethas the great prize in the Princeton lottery—eight thousand and more. It was drawn this morning."
"What luck!" cried the ladies. "And you are not jesting?"
"No. It is true. I bought it for her," roared Langstroth, triumphant. "Think of that, Margaret—eight thousand and—"
"For me—mine!" said the girl, rising as she spoke. "Don't speak to me, Cousin Penn. I have had too much to-day. I am troubled. I must go." No, she did not want to discuss it. She must go home. "May I not go, Friend Schmidt? If this is a joke, uncle, it is not to my taste. I must go."
"Certainly. The sleigh is at the door."
Langstroth was angry. He had had no thanks, not a word. There was some embarrassment, but the women must need felicitate the unwilling winner. She made short answers.
"The puss has her claws out," murmured Mrs. Byrd, as she heard in reply to her congratulations: "I think it is a misfortune—a—a—what will my mother say? I must go." She was a child again. Mrs. Penn, understanding the girl, went out with her, saying kind things, and helping her to put on her over-wrap.
"Damn the fool!" said her uncle, who had followed her into the hall, and to whom she would not speak.
The gentlemen were silent, not knowing how to sympathize with a misfortune so peculiar. Schmidt, tranquil and undisturbed, made the usual formaladieus and followed her out of the room. He tucked in the furs with kindly care, and through the early evening dusk they drove away across the snow, the girl silent, the man respectful of her mood.
It was after dark when Schmidt left Margaret at her home. As he was about to drive away to the stable, he said, "Those are wild girls, but, my dear child, you were so very pretty, I for one almost forgave them."
"Oh, was I?" she cried, shyly pleased and a little comforted. "But the lottery prize; I shall hear about that, and so will my mother, too. I never gave it a thought when uncle spoke of it long ago."
"It is a small matter, Pearl. We will talk about it later. Now go in and quit thinking of it. It is shrewd weather, and nipping."
Margaret knew very well that she had good cause to be uneasy. Friends had been of late much exercised over the evil of lotteries, and half of Langstroth's satisfaction in this form of gambling was due to his love of opposition and his desire to annoy the society of which he still called himself a member. Although, to his anger, he had long ago been disowned, he still went to meeting once or twice a year. He had had no such sacrificial conscience in the war as made Clement Biddle and Wetherill "apostates," as Friends called them. He was by birthright a member of the society, and stood for King George, and would pay no war tax. But when the vendue-mastertook his old plate and chairs, he went privately and bought them back; and so, having thus paid for the joy of apparent opposition, drank to the king in private, and made himself merry over the men who sturdily accepting loss for conscience's sake, sat at meals on their kitchen chairs, silently unresistant, but, if human, a little sorrowful concerning the silver which came over with Penn and was their only material reminder of the Welsh homes their fathers had left that they might worship God in their own simple way.
The one person Langstroth loved was his great-niece, of whose attachment to the German he was jealous with that keen jealousy known to those who are capable of but one single love. He had meant to annoy her mother; and, with no least idea that he would win a prize for her child, was now vexed at Margaret's want of gratitude, and well pleased with the fuss there would be when the news got out and Friends came to hear of it.
When Pearl threw herself into the mother's arms and broke into tears, sobbing out the double story, for a moment Mrs. Swanwick was silent.
"My dear," she said at last, "why didst thou let them dress thee?"
"I—I could not help it, and—and—I liked it, mother. Thou didst like it once," she added, with a look of piteous appeal. "Don't scold me, mother. Thou must have liked it once."
"I, dear? Yes, I liked it. But—scold thee? Do I ever scold thee? 'T is but a small matter. It will be the talk of a week, and Gainor Wynne will laugh,and soon it will be forgotten. The lottery is more serious."
"But I did not do it."
"No."
"They will blame thee, mother, I know—when it was all my uncle's doing. Let them talk to him."
The widow smiled. "Nothing would please him better; but—they have long since given up Josiah for a lost sheep—"
"Black, mother?" She was a trifle relieved at the thought of an interview between Friend Howell, the gentlest of the gentle, and Josiah.
"Brown, not black," said the mother, smiling. "It will someway get settled, my child. Now go early to bed and leave it to thy elders. I shall talk of it to Friend Schmidt."
"Yes, mother." Her confidence in the German gentleman, now for five years their guest, was boundless.
"And say thy prayers with a quiet heart. Thou hast done no wrong. Good night, my child. Ask if Friend de Courval wants anything. Since her son went away, she has been troubled, as who would not be. Another's real cause for distress should make us feel how small a matter is this of ours." She kissed her again, and the girl went slowly up-stairs, murmuring: "He went away and never so much as said good-by to me. I do not think it was civil."
Meanwhile the mother sat still, with only the click, click of the knitting-needles, which somehow seemed always to assist her to think. She had steadily refused help in money from Uncle Josiah, and now,being as angry as was within the possibilities of a temper radiant with the sunshine of good humor, she rejoiced that she owed Josiah nothing.
"He shall have a piece of my mind," she said aloud, and indeed a large slice would have been a sweetening addition to his crabbed sourness. "Ah, me!" she added, "I must not think of the money; but how easy it would make things!" Not even Schmidt had been permitted to pay more than a reasonable board. No, she would not repine; and now madame, reluctantly accepting her son's increased wages, had insisted that his room be kept vacant and paid for, and was not to be gainsaid about the needed fur-lined roquelaure she bought for her hostess and the extra pay for small luxuries.
"May God forgive me that I have been unthankful for His goodness," said Mary Swanwick, and so saying she rose and putting aside her thoughts with her knitting, sat down to read a little in the book she had taken from the library, to Friend Poulson's dismay. "Thou wilt not like it, Mary Swanwick." In a minute of mischief young Mr. Willing had told her of a book he had lately read—a French book, amusing and witty. He had left her wishing he could see her when she read it, but self-advised to stay away for a time.
She sat down with anticipative satisfaction. "What hard French!" she thought. "I must ask help of madame," as she often called her, Friend Courval being, as she saw plainly, too familiar to her guest. As she read, smiling at the immortal wit and humor of a day long passed, suddenly she shut thebook with a quick movement, and set it aside. "What manner of man was this Rabelais? Friend Poulson should have been more plain with me; and as for Master Willing, I shall write to him, too, a bit of my mind." But she never did, and only said aloud: "If I give away any more pieces of my mind, I shall have none left," and turned, as her diary records, to the "Pilgrim's Progress," of which she remarked, "an old book by one John Bunyan, much read by Friends and generally approved, ridiculed by many, but not by me. It seems to me good, pious wit, and not obscene like the other. I fear I sin sometimes in being too curious about books." Thus having put on paper her reflections, she went to bed, having in mind a vague and naughty desire to have seen Margaret in the foolish garb of worldly folk.
Margaret, ashamed, would go nowhere for a week, and did more than the needed housework, to Nanny's disgust, whose remembrances were of days of luxury and small need for "quality folks" to dust rooms. The work over, when tired of her labor, Margaret sat out in the winter sunshine in the fur-lined roquelaure, madame's extravagant gift, and, enraptured, read "The Mysteries of Udolpho," or closing the book, sailed with theMarie, and wondered what San Domingo was like.
Meanwhile the town, very gay just now with dinners Mr. John Adams thought so excessive, and with sleigh-riding parties to Belmont and Cliveden, rang with wild statements of the dressing scene and the lottery. Very comic it was to the young bucks, and,"Pray, Mrs. Byrd, did the garters fit?" "Fie, for shame!" "And no stays, we hear," wives told their husbands, and once in the London Coffee-house, in front of which, long ago, Congo slaves were sold and where now men discussed things social, commercial, and political, Schmidt had called a man to stern account and exacted an apology. The gay girls told their Quaker cousins, and at last Friends were of a mind to talk to Mary Swanwick, especially of the lottery.
Before graver measures were taken, it was advisable that one should undertake to learn the truth, for it was felt not to be desirable to discipline by formal measures so blameless a member where clearly there had been much exaggeration of statement.
Ten days after the dinner at Landsdowne, John Pemberton was met in the hall of the Swanwick house by Mr. Schmidt, both women being out. The German at once guessed the errand of this most kindly of Quaker gentles, and said, "Mr. Pemberton, you are come, I suppose, to speak for Friends of the gossip about these, my own friends. Pray be seated. They are out."
"But my errand is not to thee, who art not of the Society of Friends."
"I am of the society of these friends. I know why you are come. Talk to me."
"I am advised in spirit that it may be as well to do so. Thou art a just man. I shall speak."
On this he sat down. It was a singular figure the German saw. The broad, white beaver hat, which the Quaker gentleman kept on his head, was turnedup in front and at the back over abundant gray hair. A great eagle nose overhanging a sharp chin, brought near to it by the toothless jaws of age, gave to the side face a queer look of rapacity, contradicted by the refinement and serene kindliness of the full face now turned upon the German.
"Friend Schmidt," he said, "our young friend, we are told, has been unwise and exhibited herself among those of the world in unseemly attire. There are those of us who, like Friend Logan, are setting a bad example in their attire to the young. I may not better state how we feel than in the words of William Penn: 'Choose thy clothes by thine own eye, not by another's; the more simple and plain they are the better; neither unshapely nor fantastical, and for use and decency, not for pride.' I think my memory serves me."
"I shall not argue with you, sir, but being in part an eye-witness, I shall relate what did occur," and he told very simply of the rude jest, and of the girl's embarrassment as he had heard it from the mother.
"I see," said Pemberton. "Too much has been made of it. She will hear no more of it from Friends, and it may be a lesson. Wilt thou greet her with affectionate remembrance from an old man and repeat what I have said?"
"I will do so."
"But there is a matter more serious. We are told that she bought a lottery-ticket, and has won a great prize. This we hear from Josiah Langstroth."
"Did he say this—that she bought a ticket?"
"We are so advised."
"Then he lied. He bought it in her name, without asking her."
"Art thou sure? Thy language is strong."
"Yes, I am sure."
"And what will Mary Swanwick do with this money won in evil ways?"
"I do not know."
"It is well that she should be counseled."
"Do you not think, sir, as a man of sense and a gentleman and more, that it may be well to leave a high-minded woman to dispose of this matter? If she goes wrong, will it not then be time to interfere? There is not a ha'-penny of greed in her. Let her alone."
The Quaker sat still a moment, his lean figure bent over his staff. "Thou art right," he said, looking up. "The matter shall rest, unless worse come of it."
"Why not see Mr. Langstroth about it?" said the German, mischievously inclined. "He is of Friends, I presume."
"He is not," said Pemberton. "He talked in the war of going forth from us with Wetherill, but he hath not the courage of a house-fly. His doings are without conscience, and now he is set in his ways. He hath been temperately dealt with long ago and in vain. An obstinate man; when he sets his foot down thou hast to dig it up to move him. I shall not open the matter with Josiah Langstroth. I have been led to speak harshly. Farewell."
When Mrs. Swanwick heard of this and had talked of it to Margaret, the Pearl said, "We will not take the money, and uncle cannot; and it may go." Herdecisiveness both pleased and astonished the mother. It was a maturing woman who thus anticipated Schmidt's advice and her own, and here for a little while the matter lay at rest.
Not all Friends, however, were either aware of what Pemberton had learned or were fully satisfied, so that one day Daniel Offley, blacksmith, a noisy preacher in meetings and sometimes advised of elders to sit down, resolved to set at rest alike his conscience and his curiosity. Therefore, on a February afternoon, being the 22d, and already honored as the birthday of Washington, he found Margaret alone, as luck would have it. To this unusual house, as I have said, came not only statesmen, philosophers, and the rich. Hither, too, came the poor for help, the lesser Quakers, women and men, for counsel or a little sober gossip. All were welcome, and Offley was not unfamiliar with the ways of the house.
He found Margaret alone, and sitting down, began at once and harshly to question her in a loud voice concerning the story of her worldly vanity, and asked why she could thus have erred.
The girl had had too much of it. Her conscience was clear, and Pemberton, whom she loved and respected, had been satisfied, as Schmidt had told them. She grew red, and rising, said: "I have listened to thee; but now I say to thee, Daniel Offley, that it is none of thy business. Go home and shoe thy horses."
He was not thus to be put down. "This is only to add bad temper to thy other faults. As a Friend and for many of the Society, I would know what thee has done with thee devil wages of the lottery."