A cheering crowd escorted Genêt to Oeller's Hotel. A few days later Washington received the minister, De Ternant's successor, with a coldly formal speech, and the envoy came away in wrath; for had he not seen in the parlor of the President, medallions of decapitated Citizen Capet and his family? His insolent demands for money owing to France, but not yet due, and for a new and more liberal compact, are matters of history. There were wild claims for the right of French consuls to condemn prizes without intermediation of our courts, and yet more and more absurd requests and specious arguments, to which Jefferson replied with decision, but with more tenderness than pleased the Federalists.
When the privateerCitizen Genêtanchored off Market Street wharf, two enlisted Americans on board were arrested, and the cabinet, being of one opinion, the President ordered the privateer to leave. Genêt appealed to the Secretary of State for delay and against this inconceivable wrong to a sister republic, and as the cabinet remained firm, and the democrats raged, the town was for days on the verge of riot and bloodshed.
On the 27th of May, while on an errand for Mr. Wynne, about four in the afternoon, De Courvalsaw the crowd going into Oeller's Hotel for a great dinner in honor of Genêt. On the steps stood a man waving the tricolor. It was Carteaux. "Mon Dieu!" murmured De Courval, "shall I get used to it?" His errand took him past the house of the Vice-President, John Adams. Servants and friends were carrying in muskets. A noisy mob hooted and drifted away to Oeller's. There had been threats of destroying the house, and Adams meant to be ready. The young man went on deep in thought. In front of the Senate House he bowed to Edmund Randolph, an occasional visitor at the Quaker salon and now Attorney-General at the age of thirty-eight.
Returning, De Courval met Stephen Girard, who stopped him. Short, sallow, a little bald, and still slight of build, he was watching with a look of amusement the noisy mob in front of the hotel. "Ah, bonjour, monsieur.And you would not go as my supercargo. It is open for the asking." He spoke French of course. "These yonder are children, but they are not as serious as they think themselves. Come this afternoon to my farm on the neck and eat of my strawberries. There will be the French consul-general and the secretary Carteaux. No politics, mind you. My heart is with the revolutionary government at home, but my politics in America are here," and he struck his breeches' pocket. "I am not for war,monsieur."
De Courval excused himself, and went away murmuring: "Again, again! It must end. I must make it end. Ah, mother, mother!"
Schmidt, troubled by the young man's gloom and loss of spirits, did all he could, but characteristically made no effort to reopen a subject on which he had as yet reached no other decision than the counsel of delay.
The mother questioned her son. It was nothing. He was not quite well, and the heat of July was great. The German was yet more disturbed when one evening after the fencing lesson Du Vallon said: "I had here to-day two of the staff of thatsacréCitizen Genêt. There is already talk of his recall for insolence to the President.Le bon Dieube praised!"
"Why, Marquis, do you permit these cattle to come here?"
"One must live, Monsieur Schmidt."
"Perhaps."
"One of them is a pleasure to fence with—a Monsieur Carteaux, a meager Jacobin. I could not touch him."
"I should like to, with the buttons off the foils," said Schmidt.
"I also. That does make a difference."
Schmidt went away thoughtful. The next afternoon, feeling the moist heat, the vicomtesse went to Darthea at Merion. The two men fenced as usual, while mother and daughter sat in shadow on the porch, and a faint, cool air came up from the river.
"Ach, du lieber Himmel!but it is hot!" cried the German, casting down his foil. "You are doing better. Let us go and cool off in the river. Come."
They went down the garden, picking the ripeplums as they went. "What is wrong with you, René? You promised me."
"It is the heat. Miss Margaret looks ill. No one could endure it, and in the counting-house it is dreadful, and with no work to distract me."
"The Pearl goes again to Gray Court to-morrow," said the German.
"Indeed."
"Yes. I shall miss her, but it is as well. And, you, René—it is not the heat. Why do you put me off with such excuses?"
"Well, no. It is of course that villain," and he told of Girard and the invitation.
"René, a day will come when you will meet that man, and then the thing will somehow end. You cannot go on suffering as you are doing."
"I know; but a devil of indecision pursues me."
"An angel, perhaps."
"Oh, yes. Pity me. My mother stands like a wall I may not pass between me and him. It is horrible to think that she—she is protecting my father's murderer. If I told her, by Heaven! she would bid me go and kill him. You do not know her. She would do it; but, then, who knows what might chance? If I die, she is alone, friendless. I fear to risk it.Mon Dieu, sir, I am afraid!"
"And yet some day you will have to put an end to all this doubt. Comfort yourself with this: Fate, which plays with us will take you in hand. Let it go just now."
"I will try to. I will. If I were as these good Quakers—ah, me, I should sit down,"—and hesmiled,—"and thee and thou Providence, and be quiet in the armor of meek unresistance."
"They do kill flies," said the German.
"Ah, I wish then they would attend to the mosquitos," cried De Courval, laughing.
"As to non-resistance, friend, it hath its limitations. Did I tell thee of Daniel Offley? My Pearl told me," and he related the defeat of the blacksmith.
"Insolent," said René.
"No; the man believed that he had a mission. I should like to have his conscience for a week or two, to see how it feels; and, as for non-resistance, canst thou keep a secret?"
"I? Why not? What is it?" He was curious. As they talked, standing beside the river, René watched the flat stones he threw ricochet on the water.
"Once on a time, as they say in Madame Swanwick's book of sixty-five tales, by Nancy Skyrin, a man, one Schmidt, came into the dining-room and sat down quietly to read at an open window for the sake of the breeze from the river. It might have been on Second Day. It chanced to be the same time a Quaker man who hath of late come often sat without on the step of the porch, a proper lad, and young, very neat in gray. Near by sat a maid. Up from the river came the little god who is of all religions and did tempt the young man. The man within lost interest in his book."
Then René gave up the game of skip-stone, and, turning, said, "Mon Dieu, you did not listen?"
"Did he not? He had listened to the talk in thebook, and wherefore not to them? It amused him more. For a little the maid did not seem greatly displeased."
"She did not seem displeased?"
"No. And then—and then that Friend who was perverted into a lover wouldbrusquermatters, as you say, and did make a venture, being tempted by the little devil called Cupid. The man who listened did not see it, but it does seem probable she was kissed, because thereupon was heard a resounding smack, and feeling that here had been a flagrant departure from non-resistance, the man within, having been satisfactorily indiscreet, fell to reading again and the Quaker went away doubly wounded. Dost thou like my story, Friend de Courval?"
"No, I do not." He was flushing, angry.
"I told you I had no conscience."
"Upon my word, I believe you. Why did you not kick him?"
"I leave you the privilege."
"Come. I hate your story,"—and laughing, despite his wrath,—"your conscience needs a bath."
"Perhaps." And they went down to the boat, the German still laughing.
"What amuses you?"
"Nothing. Nothing amuses one as much as nothing. I should have been a diplomatist at the court of Love." And to himself: "Is it well for these children? Here is another tangle, and if—if anything should go amiss here are three sad hearts. D—— the Jacobin cur! I ought to kill him. That would settle things."
For many days De Courval saw nothing of his enemy. Schmidt, who owned many houses and mortgages and good irredeemable ground rents, was busy.
Despite the fear of foreign war and the rage of parties, the city was prosperous and the increase of chariots, coaches, and chaises so great as to cause remark. House rents rose, the rich of the gay set drank, danced, gambled, and ran horses on the road we still call Race Street. Wages were high. All the wide land felt confidence, and speculation went on, for the poor in lotteries, for the rich in impossible canals never to see water.
On August 6 of this fatal year '93, Uncle Josiah came to fetch the Pearl away for a visit, and, glad as usual to be the bearer of bad news, told Schmidt that a malignant fever had killed a child of Dr. Hodge and three more. It had come from theSans Culottes, privateer, or because of damaged coffee fetched from he knew not where.
The day after, Dr. Redman, President of the College of Physicians, was of opinion that this was the old disease of 1762—the yellow plague. Schmidt listened in alarm. Before the end of August three hundred were dead, almost every new case being fatal. On August 20, Schmidt was gone for a day. On his return at evening he said: "I have rented a house on the hill above the Falls of Schuylkill. We move out to-morrow. I know this plague.El vomitothey call it in the West Indies."
Mrs. Swanwick protested.
"No," he said; "I must have my way. You have cared for me in sickness and health these five years.Now it is my turn. This disease will pass along the water-front. You are not safe an hour." She gave way to his wishes as usual, and next day they were pleasantly housed in the country.
Business ceased as if by agreement, and the richer families, if not already in the country, began to flee. The doom of a vast desertion and of multiplying deaths fell on the gay and prosperous city. By September 10 every country farm was crowded with fugitives, and tents received thousands along the Schuylkill and beyond it. Sooner or later some twenty-three thousand escaped, and whole families camped in the open air and in all weather. More would have gone from the city, but the shops were shut, money ceased to circulate, and even the middle class lacked means to flee. Moreover, there was no refuge open, since all the towns near by refused to receive even those who could afford to leave. Hence many stayed who would gladly have gone.
Madame de Courval was at Merion, and Margaret had now rejoined her mother, brought over by her uncle. He had ventured into the city and seen Matthew Clarkson, the mayor, on business. He would talk no business. "Terrible time," said Josiah—"terrible! Not a man will do business." Did he feel for these dying and the dead? Schmidt doubted it, and questioned him quietly. The doctors were not agreed, and Rush bled every one. He, Josiah, was not going back. Half a dozen notes he held had been protested; a terrible calamity, but fine for debtors; a neat excuse.
Mr. Wynne had closed his counting-house, andwas absent on the Ohio, and De Courval was left to brood; for now the French legation had gone to the country, the cabinet fled to Germantown, and the President long before to Mount Vernon for his summer rest.
The day after Josiah's visit, Schmidt left a letter on Mrs. Swanwick's table, and rode away to town without other farewell.
"Look at that, my friend," said the widow to René, and burst into tears. He read and re-read the letter:
Dear Madam: The city has no nurses, and help is needed, and money. I have a note from Girard. He has what Wetherill once described as the courage of the penny, not the cowardice of the dollar. I go to help him, for how long I know not, and to do what I can. My love to my friend René. I shall open your house. I have taken the key. I shall write when I can. I leave in my desk money. Use it. I owe what no money can ever repay.I am, as always, your obedient, humble servant,J. S.
Dear Madam: The city has no nurses, and help is needed, and money. I have a note from Girard. He has what Wetherill once described as the courage of the penny, not the cowardice of the dollar. I go to help him, for how long I know not, and to do what I can. My love to my friend René. I shall open your house. I have taken the key. I shall write when I can. I leave in my desk money. Use it. I owe what no money can ever repay.
I am, as always, your obedient, humble servant,
J. S.
There was consternation in the home and at Merion, where he was a favorite, and at the Hill, which Gainor had filled with guests; but day after day went by without news. No one would carry letters. Few would even open those from the city. The flying men and women told frightful stories. And now it was September. Two weeks had gone by without a word from Schmidt. The "National Gazette" was at an end, and the slanderer Freneau gone. Only one newspaper still appeared, and the flight went on: all fled who could.
At length De Courval could bear it no longer. He had no horse, and set off afoot to see his mother at Merion, saying nothing of his intention to Mrs. Swanwick. He learned that Wynne was still on the Ohio; ignorant of the extent of the calamity at home.
"Mother," he said, "again I must go into danger. Mr. Schmidt has gone to the city to care for the sick. For two weeks we have been without news of him. I can bear it no longer. I must go and see what has become of him."
"Well, and why, my son, should you risk your life for a man of whom you know nothing? When before you said it was a call of duty I bade you go. Now I will not."
"Mother, for a time we lived on that man's generous bounty."
"What!" she cried.
"Yes. It was made possible for me because I had the good fortune to save him from drowning. I did not tell you."
"No, of course not."
He told briefly the story of his rescue of the German.
"If he is well, I must know it. He is more than merely my friend. If he is ill, I must care for him. If he is dead—oh, dear mother, I must go!"
"I forbid it absolutely. If you go, it is against my will."
He saw that she meant it. It was vain to protest. He rose.
"I have no time to lose, mother. Pray for me."
"That I do always, but I shall not forgive you; no—yes, kiss me. I did not mean that; but think of my life, of yours, what it owes me. You will not go, my son."
"Yes, I am going. I should be base, a coward, ungrateful, if I did not go. Good-by, mother. Let them know at Mrs. Swanwick's."
He was gone. She sat still a little while, and then rising, she looked out and saw him go down the garden path, a knapsack on his back.
"His father would never have left me. Ah, but he is my son—all of him. He was right to go, and I was weak, but, my God, life is very hard!" For a moment she looked after his retreating figure, and then, fearless, quiet, and self-contained, took up again the never-finished embroidery.
In the summer of 1793, the city of Penn numbered forty-five thousand souls, and lay in the form of an irregularly bounded triangle, the apex being about seven squares, as we say, west of the Delaware. From this it spread eastward, widening until the base, thinly builded with shops, homes, and warehouses, extended along the Delaware River a distance of about two miles from Callowhill Street to Cedar. It was on the parts nearest to the river that the death-cloud lay.
De Courval had walked from the Falls of Schuylkill late in the morning, and, after having been ferried across the Schuylkill, passed by forest and farm roads over a familiar, rolling country, and arrived at Merion, in the Welsh barony, where he parted from his mother. To this distance he was now to add the seven miles which would bring him to the city.
He soon reached the Lancaster road, and after securing a bowl of bread and milk, for which he paid the exorbitant price of two shillings at a farm-house, he lay down in the woods and, lighting his meerschaum pipe, rested during the early afternoon, glad of shelter from the moist heat of the September day.
He had much to think about. His mother he dismissed, smiling. If, after what he had said, he hadnot obeyed the call of duty and gratitude, he knew full well that she would have been surprised, despite her protests and the terror with which his errand filled her. He, too, felt it, for it is the form which peril takes rather than equality of risk which makes disease appal many a man for whom war has the charm which awakens the lust of contest, and not such alarm as the presence of the unseen foe which gives no quarter. He dismissed his fears with a silent appeal for strength and support.
He thought then of his enemy. Where was he? This pestilence, the inexplicable act of an all-powerful God, had for a time been set as a barrier between him and his foe. If either he or Carteaux died of it, there was an end of all the indecisions that affection had put in his way. He had a moral shock at the idea that he was unwilling to believe it well that the will of God should lose him the fierce joy of a personal vengeance. How remote seemed such a feeling from the religious calm of the Quaker home! And then a rosy face, a slight, gray-clad figure, came before him with the clearness of visual perception which was one of his mental peculiarities. The sense of difference of rank which his mother had never lost, and would never lose, he had long since put aside. Margaret's refinement, her young beauty, her gay sweetness, her variety of charm, he recalled as he lay; nor against these was there for him any available guard of common sense, that foe of imprudent love, to sum up the other side with the arithmetic of worldly wisdom. He rose, disturbed a little at the consciousness of a power beginning toget beyond his control, and went on his way down the long, dusty road, refreshed by the fair angel company of Love and Longing.
Very soon he was recalled from his dreams. As he came within a mile of the city, he saw tents as for an army, camp-fires, people cooking, men, women, and children lying about by the roadside and in the orchards or the woods. Two hungry-looking mechanics begged help of him. He gave them each a shilling and went on. The nearer shore of the quiet Schuylkill was lined with tents. Over the middle-ferry floating bridge came endlessly all manner of vehicles packed with scared people, the continuous drift from town of all who could afford to fly, a pitiful sight in the closing day. Beyond the river were more tents and half-starved families.
At dusk, as he went eastward on Market Street, there were fewer people, and beyond Sixth Street almost none. The taverns were closed. Commerce was at an end. Turning south, he crossed the bridge over Dock Creek at Second Street and was soon in a part of the city where death and horror had left only those whom disease, want of means, or some stringent need, forbade to leave their homes. Twenty-four thousand then or later fled the town. A gallant few who could have gone, stayed from a sense of duty.
Exposure at night was said to be fatal, so that all who could were shut up indoors, or came out in fear only to feed with pitch and fence palings the fires kindled in the streets which were supposed to give protection, but were forbidden later. A canopyof rank tar-smoke hung over the town and a dull, ruddy glow from these many fires. Grass grew in the roadway of the once busy street, and strange silence reigned where men were used to move amid the noises of trade. As he walked on deep in thought, a woman ran out of a house, crying: "They are dead! All are dead!" She stopped him. "Is my baby dead, too?"
"I—I do not know," he said, looking at the wasted, yellow face of the child in her arms. She left it on the pavement, and ran away screaming. He had never in his life touched the dead; but now, though with repugnance, he picked up the little body and laid it on a door-step. Was it really dead? he asked himself. He stood a minute looking at the corpse; then he touched it. It was unnaturally hot, as are the dead of this fever. Not seeing well in the dusk, and feeling a strange responsibility, he laid a hand on the child's heart. It was still. He moved away swiftly through the gathering gloom of deserted streets. On Front Street, near Lombard, a man, seeing him approach, ran from him across the way. A little farther, the sense of solitude and loneliness grew complete as the night closed dark about him. He had been long on his way.
A half-naked man ran out of an alley and, standing before him, cried: "The plague is come upon us because they have numbered the people. Death! death! you will die for this sin." The young man, thus halted, stood appalled and then turned to look after the wild prophet of disaster, who ran up Lombard Street, his sinister cries lost as he disappearedin the gloom. René recalled that somewhere in the Bible he had read of how a plague had come on the Israelites for having numbered the people. Long afterward he learned that a census of Philadelphia had been taken in 1792. He stood still a moment in the gloom, amid the silence of the deserted city and then of a sudden moved rapidly onward.
He had reached the far edge of the town, his mind upon Schmidt, when he saw to his surprise by the glow of a dying fire a familiar form. "Mr. Girard!" he cried, in pleased surprise; for in the country little was as yet known of the disregard of death with which this man and many more were quietly nursing the sick and keeping order in a town where, except the comparatively immune negroes, few aided, and where the empty homes were being plundered. The quick thought passed through René's mind that he had heard this man called an atheist by Daniel Offley.
He said to Girard: "Ah, Monsieur, have you seen Monsieur Schmidt?"
"Not for three days. He has been busy as the best. There is one man who knows not fear. Where is he, Vicomte?"
"We do not know. We have heard nothing since he left us two weeks ago. But he meant to live in Mrs. Swanwick's house."
"Let us go and see," said Girard; and with the man who already counted his wealth in millions René hurried on. At the house they entered easily, for the door was open, and went up-stairs.
In Schmidt's room, guided by his delirious cries,they found him. Girard struck a light from his steel and flint, and presently they had candles lighted, and saw the yellow face, and the horrors of thevomito, in the disordered room.
"Mon Dieu!but this is sad!" said Girard. "Ah, the brave gentleman! You will stay? I shall send you milk and food at once. Give him water freely, and the milk. Bathe him. Are you afraid?"
"I—yes; but I came for this, and I am here to stay."
"I shall send you a doctor; but they are of little use."
"Is there any precaution to take?"
"Yes. Live simply. Smoke your pipe—I believe in that. You can get cooler water by hanging out in the air demijohns and bottles wrapped in wet linen—a West-Indian way, and the well water is cold. I shall come back to-morrow." And so advising, he left him.
De Courval set the room in order, and lighted his pipe, after obeying Girard's suggestions. At intervals he sponged the hot body of the man who was retching in agony of pain, babbling and crying out about courts and princes and a woman—ever of a woman dead and of some prison life. De Courval heard his delirious revelations with wonder and a pained sense of learning the secrets of a friend.
In an hour came Dr. Rush, with his quiet manner and thin, intellectual face. Like most of those of his profession, the death of some of whom in this battle with disease a tablet in the College of Physicians records to-day, he failed of no duty to rich or poor.But for those who disputed his views of practice he had only the most virulent abuse. A firm friend, an unpardoning hater, and in some ways far ahead of his time, was the man who now sat down as he said: "I must bleed him at once. Calomel and blood-letting are the only safety, sir. I bled Dr. Griffith seventy-five ounces to-day. He will get well." The doctor bled everybody, and over and over.
His voice seemed to rouse Schmidt. He cried out: "Take away that horse leech. He will kill me." He fought them both and tore the bandage from his arm. The doctor at last gave up, unused to resistance. "Give him the calomel powders."
"Out with your drugs!" cried the sick man, striking at him in fury, and then falling back in delirium again, yellow and flushed. The doctor left in disgust, with his neat wrist ruffles torn. On the stair he said: "He will die, but I shall call to-morrow. He will be dead, I fear."
"Is he gone?" gasped Schmidt, when, returning, René sat down by his bedside.
"Yes, sir; but he will come again."
"I do not want him. I want air—air." As he spoke, he rose on his elbow and looked about him. "I knew you would come. I should never have sent for you.Mein Gott!" he cried hoarsely, looking at the room and the bedclothes. "Horrible!" His natural refinement was shocked at what he saw. "Ach!to die like a wallowing pig is a torture of disgust! An insult, this disease and torment." Then wandering again: "I pray you, sir, to hold me excused."
The distracted young man never forgot that night. The German at dawn, crying, "Air, air!" got up, and despite all De Courval could do staggered out to the upper porch and lay uncovered on a mattress upon which De Courval dragged him. The milk and food came, and at six o'clock Stephen Girard.
"I have been up all night," he said; "but here is a black to help you."
To De Courval's delight, it was old Cicero, who, lured by high wages given to the negro, whom even the pest passed by, had left the widow's service.
"Now," said Girard, "here is help. Pay him well. Our friend will die, I fear; and, sir, you are a brave man, but do not sit here all day."
De Courval, in despair at his verdict, thanked him. But the friend was not to die. Cicero proved faithful, and cooked and nursed and René, as the hours of misery went on, began to hope. The fever lessened in a day or two, but Schmidt still lay on the porch, speechless, yellow and wasted, swearing furiously at any effort to get him back to bed. As the days ran on he grew quiet and rejoiced to feel the cool breeze from the river and had a smile for René and a brief word of cheer for Girard, who came hither daily, heroically uncomplaining, spending his strength lavishly and his money with less indifference. Schmidt, back again in the world of human interests, listened to his talk with René, himself for the most part silent.
Twice a day, when thus in a measure relieved, as the flood served, De Courval rowed out on the river, and came back refreshed by his swim. He sent comfortingnotes by Cicero to his mother and to Mrs. Swanwick, and a message of remembrance to Margaret, and was careful to add that he had "fumed" the letters with sulphur, that things were better with Schmidt, and he himself was well. Cicero came back with glad replies and fruit and milk and lettuce and fresh eggs and what not, while day after day three women prayed at morning and night for those whom in their different ways they loved.
One afternoon Dr. Rush came again and said it was amazing, but it would have been still better if he had been let to bleed him, telling how he had bled Dr. Mease six times in five days, and now he was safe. But here he considered that he would be no further needed. Schmidt had listened civilly to the doctor with the mild, tired, blue eyes and delicate features; feeling, with the inflowing tide of vigor, a return of his normal satisfaction in the study of man, he began, to De Courval's joy, to amuse himself.
"Do you bleed the Quakers, too?" he asked.
"Why not?" said the doctor, puzzled.
"Have they as much blood as other people? You look to be worn out. Pray do not go. Sit down. Cicero shall give you some chocolate."
The doctor liked few things better than a chance to talk. He sat down again as desired, saying: "Yes, I am tired; but though I had only three hours' sleep last night, I am still, through the divine Goodness, in perfect health. Yesterday was a triumph for mercury, jalap, and bleeding. They saved at least a hundred lives."
"Are the doctors all of your way of thinking?"
"No, sir. I have to combat prejudice and falsehood. Sir, they are murderers."
"Sad, very sad!" remarked Schmidt.
"I have one satisfaction. I grieve for the blindness of men, but I nourish a belief that my labor is acceptable to Heaven. Malice and slander are my portion on earth; but my opponents will have their reward hereafter."
"Most comforting!" murmured Schmidt. "But what a satisfaction to be sure you are right!"
"Yes, to know, sir, that I am right and these my enemies wrong, does console me; and, too, to feel that I am humbly following in the footsteps of my Master. But I must go. The chocolate is good. My thanks. If you relapse, let me know, and the lancet will save you. Good-by."
When René returned, having attended the doctor to the door, Schmidt was smiling.
"Ah, my son," he said, "only in the Old Testament will you find a man like that—malice and piety, with a belief in himself no man, no reason, can disturb."
"Yes, I heard him with wonder."
"He has done me good, but now I am tired. He has gone—he said so—to visit Miss Gainor, at the Hill. I should like to hear her talk to him."
An attack of gout had not improved that lady's temper, and she cruelly mocked at the great doctor's complaints of his colleagues. When she heard of De Courval, and how at last he would not agree to have Schmidt held for the doctor to bleed him shesaid he was a fine fellow; and to the doctor's statement that he was a fool, she retorted: "You have changed your religion twice, I do hear. When you are born again, try to be born a fool."
The doctor, enraged, would have gone at once, but the gout was in solid possession, and the threat to send for Dr. Chovet held him. He laughed, outwardly at least, and did not go. The next day he, too, was in the grip of the fever, and was bled to his satisfaction, recovering later to resume his gallant work.
And now that, after another week, Schmidt, a ghastly frame of a man, began to eat, but still would not talk, De Courval, who had never left him except for his swim or to walk in the garden, leaving Cicero in charge, went out into the streets to find a shop and that rare article, tobacco.
It was now well on into this fatal September. The deaths were three hundred a week. The sick no man counted, but probably half of those attacked died. At night in his vigils, De Courval heard negroes, with push-carts or dragging chaises, cry: "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!" The bodies were let down from upper windows by ropes or left outside of the doorways until the death-cart came and took them away.
It was about noon when René left the house. As he neared the center of the city, there were more people in the streets than he expected to see; but all wore a look of anxiety and avoided one another, walking in the middle of the roadway. No one shook hands with friend or kinsman. Many smoked;most of them wore collars of tarred rope, or chewed garlic, or held to their faces vials of "vinegar of the four thieves" once popular in the plague. He twice saw men, stricken as they walked, creep away like animals, beseeching help from those who fled in dismay. Every hour had its sickening tragedy.
As he stood on Second Street looking at a man chalking the doors of infected houses, a lightly clad young woman ran forth screaming. He stopped her. "What is it? Can I help you?" A great impulse of desire to aid came over him, a feeling of pitiful self-appeal to the manhood of his courage.
"Let me go! My husband has it. I won't stay! I am too young to die."
A deadly fear fell upon the young Huguenot. "I, too, am young, and may die," he murmured; but he went in and up-stairs. He saw an old man, yellow and convulsed; but being powerless to help him, he went out to find some one.
On the bridge over Dock Creek he met Daniel Offley. He did not esteem him greatly, but he said, "I want to know how I can help a man I have just left."
The two men who disliked each other had then and there their lesson. "I will go with thee." They found the old man dead. As they came out, Offley said, "Come with me, if thee is minded to aid thy fellows," and they went on, talking of the agony of the doomed city.
Hearses and push-carts went by in rows, heavy with naked corpses in the tainted air. Very few well-dressed people were seen. Fashion and wealthhad gone, panic-stricken, and good grass crops could have been cut in the desolate streets near the Delaware.
Now and then some scared man, walking in the roadway, for few, as I said, used the sidewalk, would turn, shocked at hearing the Quaker's loud voice; for, as was noticed, persons who met, spoke softly and low, as if feeling the nearness of the unseen dead in the houses. While De Courval waited, Offley went into several alleys on their way, and came out more quiet.
"I have business here," said Offley, as he led the way over the south side of the Potter's Field we now call Washington Square. He paused to pay two black men who were digging wide pits for the fast-coming dead cast down from the death-carts. A Catholic priest and a Lutheran clergyman were busy, wearily saying brief prayers over the dead.
Offley looked on, for a minute silent. "The priest is of Rome," he said, "one Keating—a good man; the other a Lutheran."
"Strange fellowship!" thought De Courval.
They left them to this endless task, and went on, Daniel talking in his oppressively loud voice of the number of the deaths. The imminence of peril affected the spirits of most men, but not Offley. De Courval, failing to answer a question, he said: "What troubles thee, young man? Is thee afeared?"
"A man should be—and at first I was; but now I am thinking of the Papist and Lutheran—working together. That gives one to think, as we say in French."
"I see not why," said Offley. "But we must hasten, or the health committee will be gone."
In a few minutes they were at the State House. Daniel led him through the hall and up-stairs. In the council-room of Penn was seated a group of notable men.
"Here," said Offley in his great voice, "is a young man of a will to help us."
Girard rose. "This, gentlemen, is my countryman, the Vicomte de Courval."
Matthew Clarkson, the mayor, made him welcome.
"Sit down," he said. "We shall presently be free to direct you."
De Courval took the offered seat and looked with interest at the men before him.
There were Carey, the future historian of the plague; Samuel Wetherill, the Free Quaker; Henry de Forrest, whom he had met; Thomas Savory; Thomas Wistar; Thomas Scattergood; Jonathan Seargeant; and others. Most of them, being Friends, sat wearing their white beaver hats. Tranquil and fearless, they were quietly disposing of a task from which some of the overseers of the poor had fled. Six of those present were very soon to join the four thousand who died before November. When the meeting was over Girard said to De Courval: "Peter Helm and I are to take charge of the hospital on Bush Hill. Are you willing to help us? It is perilous; I ought to tell you that."
"Yes, I will go," said René; "I have now time, and I want to be of some use."
"We thank you," said Matthew Clarkson. "Help is sorely needed."
"Come with me," said Girard. "My chaise is here. Help is scarce. Too many who should be of us have fled." As they went out, he added: "I owe this city much, as some day it will know. You are going to a scene of ungoverned riot, of drunken negro nurses; but it is to be changed, and soon, too."
James Hamilton's former country seat on Bush Hill was crowded with the dying and the dead; but there were two devoted doctors, and soon there was better order and discipline.
De Courval went daily across the doomed city to his loathsome task, walking thither after his breakfast. He helped to feed and nurse the sick, aided in keeping the beds decent, and in handling the many who died, until at nightfall, faint and despairing, he wandered back to his home. Only once Schmidt asked a question, and hearing his sad story, was silent, except to say: "I thought as much. God guard you, my son!"
One day, returning, he saw at evening on Front Street a man seated on a door-step. He stopped, and the man looked up. It was the blacksmith Offley.
"I am stricken," he said. "Will thee help me?"
"Surely I will." De Courval assisted him into the house and to bed. He had sent his family away. "I have shod my last horse, I fear. Fetch me Dr. Hutchinson."
"He died to-day."
"Then another—Dr. Hodge; but my wife mustnot know. She would come. Ask Friend Pennington to visit me. I did not approve of thee, young man. I ask thee pardon; I was mistaken. Go, and be quick."
"I shall find some one." He did not tell him that both Pennington and the physician were dead.
De Courval was able to secure the needed help, but the next afternoon when he returned, the blacksmith was in a hearse at the door. De Courval walked away thoughtful. Even those he knew avoided him, and he observed, what many noticed, that every one looked sallow and their eyes yellow. A strange thing it seemed.
And so, with letters well guarded, that none he loved might guess his work, September passed, and the German was at last able to be in the garden, but strangely feeble, still silent, and now asking for books. A great longing was on the young man to see those he loved; but October, which saw two thousand perish, came and went, and it was well on into the cooler November before the pest-house was closed and De Courval set free, happy in a vast and helpful experience, but utterly worn out and finding his last week's walks to the hospital far too great an exertion. What his body had lost for a time, his character had gained in an exercised charity for the sick, for the poor, and for the opinions of men on whom he had previously looked with small respect.
A better and wiser man on the 20th of November drove out with Schmidt to the home of the Wynnes at Merion, where Schmidt left him to the tender care of two women, who took despotic possession.
"At last!" cried the mother, and with tears most rare to her she held the worn and wasted figure in her arms. "Mon Dieu!" she cried, as for the first time she heard of what he had done. For only to her was confession of heroic conduct possible. "And I—I would have kept you from God's service. I am proud of you as never before." All the long afternoon they talked, and Mr. Wynne, just come back, and Darthea would have him to stay for a few days.
At bedtime, as they sat alone, Hugh said to his wife, "I was sure of that young man."
"Is he not a little like you?" asked Darthea.
"Nonsense!" he cried. "Do you think every good man like me? I grieve that I was absent."
"And I do not."
The weeks before Mrs. Swanwick's household returned to the city were for De Courval of the happiest. He was gathering again his former strength in the matchless weather of our late autumnal days. To take advantage of the re-awakened commerce and to return to work was, as Wynne urged, unwise for a month or more. The American politics of that stormy time were to the young noble of small moment, and the Terror, proclaimed in France in September on Barras's motion, followed by the queen's death, made all hope of change in his own land for the present out of the question.
With the passing of the plague, Genêt and his staff had come back; but for René to think of what he eagerly desired was only to be reminded of his own physical feebleness.
Meanwhile Genêt's insolent demands went on, and the insulted cabinet was soon about to ask for his recall, when, as Schmidt hoped, Carteaux would also leave the country. The enthusiasm for the French republic was at first in no wise lessened by Genêt's conduct, although his threat to appeal to the country against Washington called out at last a storm of indignation which no one of the minister's violations of law and of the courtesies of life had yet occasioned. At first it was held to be an invention of"black-hearted Anglican aristocrats," but when it came out in print, Genêt was at once alarmed at the mischief he had made. He had seriously injured his Republican allies,—in fact, nearly ruined the party, said Madison,—for at no time in our history was Washington more venerated. The Democratic leaders begged men not to blame the newly founded republic, "so gloriously cemented with the blood of aristocrats," for the language of its insane envoy. The Federalists would have been entirely pleased, save that neither England nor France was dealing wisely with our commerce, now ruined by the exactions of privateers and ships of war. Both parties wailed over this intolerable union of insult and injury; but always the President stood for peace, and, contemplating a treaty with England, was well aware how hopeless would be a contest on sea or land with the countries which, recklessly indifferent to international law, were ever tempting us to active measures of resentment. For De Courval the situation had, as it seemed, no personal interest. There has been some need, however, to remind my readers of events which were not without influence upon the fortunes of those with whom this story is concerned.
Schmidt was earnestly desirous that they should still remain in the country, and this for many reasons. De Courval and he would be the better for the cool autumn weather, and both were quickly gathering strength. Madame de Courval had rejoined them. The city was in mourning. Whole families had been swept away. There were houses which no one owned, unclaimed estates, and menmissing of whose deaths there was no record, while every day or two the little family of refugees heard of those dead among the middle class or of poor acquaintances of whose fates they had hitherto learned nothing. Neither Schmidt nor René would talk of the horrors they had seen, and the subject was by tacit agreement altogether avoided.
Meanwhile they rode, walked, and fished in the Schuylkill. Schmidt went now and then to town on business, and soon, the fear of the plague quite at an end, party strife was resumed, and the game of politics began anew, while the city forgot the heroic few who had served it so well, and whom to-day history also has forgotten and no stone commemorates.
One afternoon Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come, let us have a longer walk!"
Margaret, eager to join them, would not ask it, and saw them go down the garden path toward the river. "Bring me some goldenrod, please," she called.
"Yes, with pleasure," cried De Courval at the gate, as he turned to look back, "if there be any left."
"Then asters," she called.
"A fair picture," said Schmidt, "the mother and daughter, the bud and the rose. You know the bluets folks hereabouts call the Quaker ladies,—oh, I spoke of this before,—pretty, but it sufficeth not. Some sweet vanity did contrive those Quaker garments."
It was in fact a fair picture. The girl stood, agray figure in soft Eastern stuffs brought home by our ships. One arm was about the mother's waist, and with the other she caught back the hair a playful breeze blew forward to caress the changeful roses of her cheek.
"I must get me a net, mother, such as the President wore one First Day at Christ Church."
"Thou must have been piously attending to thy prayers," returned Mrs. Swanwick, smiling.
"Oh, but how could I help seeing?"
"It is to keep the powder off his velvet coat, my dear. When thou art powdered again, we must have a net."
"Oh, mother!" It was still a sore subject.
"I should like to have seen thee, child."
"Oh, the naughty mother! I shall tell of thee. Ah, here is a pin in sight. Let me hide it, mother."
The woman seen from the gate near-by was some forty-five years old, her hair a trifle gray under the high cap, the face just now merry, the gown of fine, gray linen cut to have shown the neck but for the soft, silken shawl crossed on the bosom and secured behind by a tie at the waist. A pin held it in place where it crossed, and other pins on the shoulders. The gown had elbow sleeves, and she wore long, openwork thread glove mitts; for she was expecting Mistress Wynne and Josiah and was pleased in her own way to be at her best.
Schmidt, lingering, said: "It is the pins. They must needs be hid in the folds not to be seen. Ah, vanity has many disguises. It is only to be neat, thou seest, René, and not seem to be solicitous concerningappearances." Few things escaped the German.
They walked away, and as they went saw Mistress Gainor Wynne go by in her landau with Langstroth. "That is queer to be seen—the damsel in her seventies and uncle bulldog Josiah. He had a permanent ground rent on her hill estate as lasting as time, a matter of some ten pounds. They have enjoyed to fight over it for years. But just now there is peace. Oh, she told me I was to hold my tongue. She drove to Gray Court, and what she did to the man I know not; but the rent is redeemed, and they are bent on mischief, the pair of them. As I was not to speak of it, I did not; but if you tell never shall I be forgiven." He threw his long bulk on the grass and laughed great laughter.
"But what is it?" said René.
"Guter Himmel, man! the innocent pair are gone to persuade the Pearl and the sweet mother shell—she that made it—to take that lottery prize. I would I could see them."
"But she will never, never do it," said René.
"No; for she has already done it."
"What, truly?Vraiment!"
"Yes. Is there not a god of laughter to whom I may pray? I have used up my stock of it. When Cicero came in one day, he fetched a letter to Stephen Girard from my Pearl. She had won her mother to consent, and Girard arranged it all, and, lo! the great prize of money is gone long ago to help the poor and the sick. Now the ministers of PrincetonCollege may pray in peace. Laugh, young man!"
But he did not. "And she thought to do that?"
"Yes; but as yet none know. They will soon, I fear."
"But she took it, after all. What will Friends say?"
"She was read out of meeting long ago, disowned, and I do advise them to be careful how they talk to Madame of the girl. There is a not mild maternal tigress caged somewhere inside of the gentlewoman. 'Ware claws, if you are wise, Friend Waln!" De Courval laughed, and they went on their way again, for a long time silent.
At Flat Rock, above the swiftly flowing Schuylkill, they sat down, and Schmidt, saying, "At last the pipe tastes good," began to talk in the strain of joyous excitement which for him the beautiful in nature always evoked, when for a time his language became singular. "Ah, René, it is worth while to cross the ocean to see King Autumn die thus gloriously. How peaceful is the time! They call this pause when regret doth make the great Reaper linger pitiful—they call it the Indian summer."
"And we, the summer of St. Martin."
"And we, in my homeland, have no name for it, or, rather,Spätsommer;but it is not as here. See how the loitering leaves, red and gold, rock in mid-air. A serene expectancy is in the lingering hours. It is as still as a dream of prayer that awaiteth answer. Listen, René, how the breeze is stirring the spruces, and hark, it is—ah, yes—the Angelus of evening."
His contemplative ways were familiar, and just now suited the young man's mood. "A pretty carpet," he said, "and what a gay fleet of colors on the water!"
"Yes, yes. There is no sorrow for me in the autumn here, but after comes the winter." His mood of a sudden changed. "Let us talk of another world, René—the world of men. I want to ask of you a question; nay, many questions." His tone changed as he spoke. "I may embarrass you."
De Courval knew by this time that on one subject this might very well be the case. He said, however, "I do not know of anything, sir, which you may not freely ask me."
He was more at ease when Schmidt said, "We are in the strange position of being two men one of whom twice owes his life to the other."
"Ah, but you forget to consider what unending kindness I too owe—I, a stranger in a strange land; nor what your example, your society, have been to me."
"Thank you, René; I could gather more of good from you than you from me."
"Oh, sir!"
"Yes, yes; but all that I have said is but to lead up to the wide obligation to be frank with me."
"I shall be."
"When I was ill I babbled. I was sometimes half-conscious, and was as one man helplessly watching another on the rack telling about him things he had no mind to hear spoken."
"You wandered much, sir."
"Then did I speak of a woman?"
"Yes; and of courts and battles."
"Did I speak of—did I use my own name, my title? Of course you know that I am not Herr Schmidt."
"Yes; many have said that."
"You heard my name, my title?"
"Yes; I heard them."
For a minute there was silence. Then Schmidt said: "There are reasons why it must be a secret—perhaps for years or always. I am Graf von Ehrenstein; but I am more than that—much more and few even in Germany know me by that name. And I did say so?"
"Yes, sir."
"It must die in your memory, my son, as the priests say of what is heard in confession."
This statement, which made clear a good deal of what De Courval had heard in the German's delirium, was less singular to him than it would have seemed to-day. More than one mysterious titled person of importance came to the city under an assumed name, and went away leaving no one the wiser.
"It is well," continued Schmidt, "that you, who are become so dear to me, should know my story. I shall make it brief."
"Soon after my marriage, a man of such position as sometimes permits men to insult with impunity spoke of my wife so as to cause me to demand an apology. He fell back on his higher rank, and in my anger I struck him on the parade-ground atPotsdam while he was reviewing his regiment. A lesser man than I would have lost his life for what I did. I was sent to the fortress of Spandau, where for two years I had the freedom of the fortress, but was rarely allowed to hear from my wife or to write. Books I did have, as I desired, and there I learned my queer English from my only English books, Shakespeare and the Bible."
"Ah, now I understand," said De Courval; "but it is not Shakespeare you talk. Thanks to you, I know him."
"No, not quite; who could? After two years my father's interest obtained my freedom at the cost of my exile. My wife had died in giving birth to a still-born child. My father, an old man, provided me with small means, which I now do not need, nor longer accept, since he gave grudgingly, because I had done that which for him was almost unpardonable. I went to England and France, and then came hither to breathe a freer air, and, as you know, have prospered, and am, for America, rich. You cannot know the disgust in regard to arbitrary injustice with which I left my own land. I felt that to use a title in this country would be valueless, and subject me to comment and to inquiry I wished to avoid. You have earned the right to know my story, as I know yours. Mr. Alexander Hamilton and my business adviser, Mr. Justice Wilson, alone know my name and title, and, I may add, Mr. Gouverneur Morris. I shall say to the two former that you share this knowledge. They alone know why it is reasonable and, indeed, may have been prudent that, untilmy return home, I remain unknown. It is needless to go farther into the matter with you. This simple life is to my taste, but I may some day have to go back to my own land—I devoutly trust never. We shall not again open a too painful subject."
De Courval said, "I have much to thank you for, but for nothing as for this confidence."
"Yet a word, René. For some men—some young men—to know what now you know of me, would disturb the intimacy of their relation. I would have it continue simple. So let it be, my son. Come, let us go. How still the woods are! There is here a quiet that hath the quality of a gentle confessor who hears and will never tell. Listen to that owl!"
As they drew near to the house the German said: "Ach, I forgot. In December I suppose we must go to the city. You are not as yet fit for steady work; but if I can arrange it with Wynne, why not let me use you? I have more to do here and in New York than I like. Now, do not be foolish about it. There are rents to gather in, journeys to make. Let me give you five hundredlivresa month. You will have time to ride, read, and see the country. I shall talk to Hugh Wynne about the matter." Thus, after some discussion and some protest, it was arranged, the young man feeling himself in such relation to the older friend as made this adjustment altogether agreeable and a glad release from a return to the routine of the counting-house.
Too often the thought of Carteaux haunted him, while he wondered how many in France were thus attended. When in after years he saw go by menwho had been the lesser agents in the massacres, or those who had brought the innocent to the guillotine, he wondered at the impunity with which all save Marat had escaped the personal vengeance of those who mourned, and, mourning, did nothing. Even during the Terror, when death seemed for so many a thing to face smiling, the man who daily sent to the guillotine in Paris or the provinces uncounted thousands, walked the streets unguarded, and no one, vengeful, struck. In fact, the Terror seemed to paralyze even the will of the most reckless. Not so felt the young noble. He hungered for the hour of relief, let it bring what it might.
The simple and wholesome life of the Quaker household had done much to satisfy the vicomtesse, whose life had never of late years been one of great luxury, and as she slowly learned English, she came to recognize the qualities of refinement and self-sacrifice which, with unusual intelligence, made Mrs. Swanwick acceptably interesting. It became her custom at last to be more down-stairs, and to sit with her embroidery and talk while the knitting-needles clicked and the ball of wool hanging by its silver hoop from the Quaker lady's waist grew smaller. Sometimes they read aloud, French or English, or, with her rare smile, the vicomtesse would insist on sharing some small household duty. The serene atmosphere of the household, and what Schmidt called the gray religion of Friends, suited the Huguenot lady. As concerned her son, she was less at ease, and again, with some anxiety, she had spoken to him of his too evident pleasure in the society ofMargaret, feeling strongly that two such young and attractive people might fall easily into relations which could end only in disappointment for one or both. The girl's mother was no less disturbed, and Schmidt, as observant, but in no wise troubled, looked on and, seeing, smiled, somewhat dreading for René the inevitable result of a return to town and an encounter with his enemy.
Genêt had at last been recalled, in December, but, as Du Vallon told Schmidt, Carteaux was to hold his place as chargé d'affaires to Fauchet, the new minister, expected to arrive in February, 1794.
On the day following the revelations made by Schmidt, and just after breakfast, Margaret went out into the wood near by to gather autumn leaves. Seeing her disappear among the trees, De Courval presently followed her. Far in the woods he came upon her seated at the foot of a great tulip-tree. The basket at her side was full of club moss and gaily tinted toadstools. The red and yellow leaves of maple and oak, falling on her hair and her gray gown, made, as it seemed to him, a pleasant picture.
De Courval threw himself at her feet on the ground covered with autumn's lavished colors.
"We have nothing like this in France. How wonderful it is!"
"Yes," she said; "it is finer than ever I saw it." Then, not looking up, she added, after a pause, the hands he watched still busy: "Why didst thou not bring me any goldenrod last evening? I asked thee."
"I saw none."
"Ah, but there is still plenty, or at least there are asters. I think thou must have been gatheringpensées, as thy mother calls them; pansies, we say."
"Yes, thoughts, thoughts," he returned with sudden gravity—"pensées."
"They must have been of my cousin Shippen or of Fanny Cadwalader, only she is always laughing." This young woman, who still lives in all her beauty on Stuart's canvas, was to end her life in England.
"Oh, neither, neither," he said gaily, "not I. Guess better."
"Then a quiet Quaker girl like—ah—like, perhaps, Deborah Wharton."
He shook his head.
"No? Thou art hard to please," she said. "Well, I shall give them up—thypensées. They must have been freaked with jet; for how serious thou art!"
"What is that—freaked with jet?"
She laughed merrily. "Oh, what ignorance! That is Milton, Monsieur—'Lycidas.'" She was gently proud of superior learning.
"Ah, I must ask Mr. Schmidt of it. I have much to learn."
"I would," and her hands went on with their industry of selecting the more brilliantly colored leaves. "I have given thee something to think of. Tell me, now, what were the thoughts of jet in thypensées—the dark thoughts."
"I cannot tell thee. Some day thou wilt know, and that may be too soon, too soon"; for he thought: "If I kill that man, what will they think of revenge, of the guilt of blood, these gentle Quaker people?"Aloud he said: "You cannot think these thoughts of mine, and I am glad you cannot."
He was startled as she returned quickly, without looking up from her work: "How dost thou know what I think? It is something that will happen," and, the white hands moving with needless quickness among the gaily tinted leaves, she added: "I do not like change, or new things, or mysteries. Does Madame, thy mother, think to leave us? My mother would miss her."
"And you? Would not you a little?"
"Yes, of course; and so would friend Schmidt. There, my basket will hold no more. How pretty they are! But thou hast not answered me."
"We are not thinking of any such change."
"Well, so far that is good news. But I am still curious. Mr. Schmidt did once say the autumn has no answers. I think thou art like it." She rose as she spoke.
"Ah, but the spring may make reply in its time—in its time. Let me carry thy basket, Miss Margaret." She gave it to him with the woman's liking to be needlessly helped.
"I am very gay with red and gold," she cried, and shook the leaves from her hair and gown. "It is worse than the brocade and the sea-green petticoat my wicked cousins put on me." She could laugh at it now.
"But what would Friends say to the way the fine milliner, Nature, has decked thee, Mademoiselle? They would forgive thee, I think. Mr. Schmidt says the red and gold lie thick on the unnamed gravesat Fourth and Mulberry streets, and no Quaker doth protest with a broom."
"He speaks in a strange way sometimes. I often wonder where he learned it."
"Why dost thou not ask him?"
"I should not dare. He might not like it."
"But thou art, it seems, more free to question some other people."
"Oh, but that is different; and, Monsieur," she said demurely, "thou must not say thou and thee to me. Thy mother says it is not proper."
He laughed. "If I am thou for thee, were it not courteous to speak to thee in thy own tongue?"
She colored, remembering the lesson and her own shrewd guess at the lady's meaning, and how, as she was led to infer, totutoyer, to say thou, inferred a certain degree of intimacy. "It is not fitting here except among Friends."
"And why not? In France we do it."
"Yes, sometimes, I have so heard." But to explain further was far from her intention. "It sounds foolish here, in people who are not of Friends. I said so—"
"But are we not friends?"
"I said Friends with a big F, Monsieur."
"I make my apologies,"—he laughed with a formal bow,—"but one easily catches habits of talk."
"Indeed, I am in earnest, and thou must mend thy habits. Friend Marguerite Swanwick desires to be excused of the Vicomte de Courval," and, smiling, she swept the courtesy of reply to his bow as the autumn leaves fell from the gathered skirts.
"As long as thou art thou, it will be hard to obey," he said, and she making no reply, they wandered homeward through level shafts of sunlight, while fluttering overhead on wings of red and gold, the cupids of the forest enjoyed the sport, and the young man murmured: "Thou and thee," dreaming of a walk with her in his own Normandy among the woodlands his boyhood knew.
"Thou art very silent," she said at last.
"No, I am talking; but not to you—of you, perhaps."
"Indeed," and she ceased to express further desire to be enlightened, and fell to asking questions about irregular French verbs.
Just before they reached the house, Margaret said: "I have often meant to ask thee to tell me what thou didst do in the city. Friend Schmidt said to mother that Stephen Girard could not say too much of thee. Tell me about it, please."
"No," he returned abruptly. "It is a thing to forget, not to talk about."
"How secretive thou art!" she said, pouting, "and thou wilt never, never speak of France." In an instant she knew she had been indiscreet as he returned:
"Nor ever shall. Certainly not now."
"Not—not even to me?"
"No." His mind was away in darker scenes.
Piqued and yet sorry, she returned, "Thou art as abrupt as Daniel Offley."
"Mademoiselle!"
"What have I said?"
"Daniel Offley is dead. I carried him into his own house to die, a brave man when few were brave."
"I have had my lesson," she said. There were tears in her eyes, a little break in her voice.
"And I, Pearl; and God was good to me."
"And to me," she sobbed; "I beg thy pardon—but I want to say—I must say that thou too wert brave, oh, as brave as any—for I know—I have heard."
"Oh, Pearl, you must not say that! I did as others did." She had heard him call her Pearl unreproved, or had she not? He would set a guard on his tongue. "It is chilly. Let us go in," for they had stood at the gate as they talked.
It was their last walk, for soon the stripped trees and the ground were white with an early snowfall and the autumn days had gone, and on the first of December reluctantly they moved to the city.