Dear Sir: My opinion in regard to the matter under discussion of late having been modified somewhat, and the President favoring my action, it gives me pleasure to offer you the chance to return to the office.I have the honor to be,Your obedient friend and servant,Edmund Randolph.
Dear Sir: My opinion in regard to the matter under discussion of late having been modified somewhat, and the President favoring my action, it gives me pleasure to offer you the chance to return to the office.
I have the honor to be,
Your obedient friend and servant,Edmund Randolph.
Schmidt laughed as he read it. "He does not like it. The dose is bitter. He thinks you will sayno. But you will write simply, and accept with pleasure."
"Yes, I see. I shall do as you say." He sent a simple note of acceptance. A visit to the office of state settled the matter, and on the day but one after receipt of the letter, René was well pleased to be once more at his desk and busy.
Meanwhile Schmidt had been occupied with long letters to Germany and his affairs in the city, but in the evening of the 12th of August, they found time for one of their old talks.
"This matter of yours, and in fact of mine, René, does not fully satisfy me. I still hear much about it, and always of that infernal despatch."
"It does not satisfy me, sir."
"Well, it seems to me that it will have to. Long ago that despatch must be in Paris; but Mr. Monroe, our minister, could learn nothing about it. And so you two young folks have arranged your affairs. I can tell you that Miss Gainor will be sorry to have had no hand in this business, and Uncle Josiah, too."
"That is droll enough. I am glad to have pleased somebody. We have thought it better not as yet to speak of it."
"Have you told your mother, René? You may be sure that she will know, or guess at the truth, and resent being left in the dark."
"That is true; but you may very well imagine that I dread what she will say of Margaret. We have never had a serious difference, and now it is to come. I shall talk to her to-morrow."
"No, now. Get it over, sir. Get it over. I must go home again soon, and I want to see you married. Go now at once and get it over."
"I suppose that will be as well."
He went slowly up the winding staircase which was so remarkable a feature of the finer Georgian houses. Suddenly he was aware in the darkness of Margaret on the landing above him.
"Don't stop me," she said.
"What is wrong!" he asked.
"Everything. I told thee thy mother would know. She sent for me. I went. She was cruel—cruel—hard."
"What, dear, did she say?"
"I shall not tell thee. She insulted me and my mother. Ah, but she said—no, I shall not tell thee, nor mother. She sent for me, and I went. I had to tell her. Oh, I said that—that—I told her—I do not know what I told her." She was on the edge of her first almost uncontrollable loss of self-government. It alarmed her pride, and at once becoming calm, she added, "I told her that it was useless to talk to me, to say that it must end, that thou wouldst obey her. I—I just laughed; yes, I did. And I told her she did not yet know her own son—and—that some day she would regret what she had said to me, and, René, of my mother. I do not care—"
"But I care, Margaret. I was this moment on my way to tell her."
"Let me pass. I hope thou art worth what I have endured for thy sake. Let me pass." He went by her, troubled and aware that he too needed to keephimself in hand. When he entered his mother's room he found her seated by the feeble candle-light, a rose of the never-finished embroidery growing under her thin, skilful fingers.
For her a disagreeable matter had been decisively dealt with and put aside; no trace of emotion betrayed her self-satisfaction at having finally settled an unpleasant but necessary business.
In the sweet, low voice which seemed so out of relation to her severity of aspect, she said: "Sit down. I have been left to learn from the young woman of this entanglement. I should have heard it from you, or never have had to hear it at all."
"Mother, I have been in very great trouble of late. That my disaster did trouble you so little has been painful to me. But this is far worse. I waited to feel at ease about the other affair before I spoke to you of my intention to marry Miss Swanwick. I was on my way just now when I met her on the stair. I desire to say, mother—"
She broke in: "It is useless to discuss this absurd business. It is over. I have said so to the young woman. That ends it. Now kiss me. I wish to go to bed."
"No," he said; "this does not end it."
"Indeed, we shall see—a quite ordinary Quaker girl and a designing mother. It is all clear enough. Neither of you with any means, not a louis of dot—a nice wife to take home. Oh, I have expressed myself fully, and it was needed. She presumed to contradict me.Ciel!I had to be plain."
"So it seems; but as I count for something, I begleave to say,maman, that I mean to marry Margaret Swanwick."
"You, the Vicomte de Courval!"
He laughed bitterly. "What are titles here, or in France, to-day? There are a dozen starving nobles in this city, exiles and homeless. As to money, I have charge of Mr. Schmidt's affairs, and shall have. I am not without business capacity."
"Business!" she exclaimed.
"Well, no matter, mother. I pray you to be reasonable, and to remember what these people have done for us: in health no end of kindness; in sickness—mother, I owe to them my life."
"They were paid, I presume."
"Mon Dieu, mother! how can you say such things? It is incredible."
"René, do you really mean to disobey me?"
"I hope not to have to do so."
"If you persist, you will have to. I shall never consent, never."
"Then, mother,—and you force me to say it,—whether you agree to it or not, I marry Margaret. You were hard to her and cruel."
"No; I was only just and wise."
"I do not see it; but rest assured that neither man nor woman shall part us. Oh, I have too much of you in me to be controlled in a matter where both love and honor are concerned."
"Then you mean to make thismésallianceagainst my will."
"I mean, and that soon, to marry the woman I think worthy of any man's love and respect."
"She is as bad as you—two obstinate fools! I am sorry for your children."
"Mother!"
"Well, and what now?"
"It is useless to resist. It will do no good. It only hurts me. Did your people want you to marry Jean de Courval, my father?"
"No."
"You did. Was it amésalliance?"
"They said so."
"You set me a good example. I shall do as you did, if, after this, her pride does not come in the way."
"Her pride, indeed! Will it be to-morrow, the marriage?"
"Ah, dear mother, why will you hurt me so?"
"I know you as if it were myself. I take the lesser of two evils." And to his amazement, she said, "Send the girl up to me."
"If she will come."
"Come? Of course she will come." He shook his head and left her, but before he was out of the room, her busy hands were again on the embroidery-frame.
"No, I will not go," said Margaret when he delivered his message.
"For my sake, dear," said René, and at last, reluctant and still angry, Margaret went up-stairs.
"Come in," said madame; "you have kept me waiting." The girl stood still at the open door.
"Do not stand there, child. Come here and sit down."
"No," said Margaret, "I shall stand."
"As you please, Mademoiselle. My son has made up his mind to an act of folly. I yield because I must. He is obstinate, as you will some day discover to your cost. I cannot say I am satisfied, but as you are to be my daughter, I shall say no more. You may kiss me. I shall feel better about it in a few years, perhaps."
Never, I suppose, was Margaret's power of self-command more sorely tried. She bent over, lifted the hand of the vicomtesse from the embroidery, and kissed it, saying, "Thou art René's mother, Madame," and, turning, left the room.
René was impatiently walking in the hall when Margaret came down the stair from this brief interview. She was flushed and still had in her eyes the light of battle. "I have done as you desired. I cannot talk any more. I have had all I can stand. No, I shall not kiss thee. My kisses are spoilt for to-night." Then she laughed as she went up the broad stairway, and, leaning over the rail, cried: "There will be two for to-morrow. They will keep. Good night."
The vicomtesse she left was no better pleased, and knew that she had had the worst of the skirmish.
"I hate it. I hate it," she said, "but that was well done of the maid. Where did she get her fine ways?" She was aware, as René had said in some wrath, that she could not insult these kind people and continue to eat their bread. The dark lady with the wan, ascetic face, as of a saint of many fasts, could abide poverty and accept bad diet, but nevertheless did like very well the things which make lifepleasant, and had been more than comfortable amid the good fare and faultless cleanliness of the Quaker house.
She quite well understood that the matter could not remain in the position in which she had left it. She had given up too easily; but now she must take the consequences. Therefore it was that the next day after breakfast she said to Margaret, "I desire to talk to you a little."
"Certainly, Madame. Will the withdrawing-room answer?"
"Yes, here or there." Margaret closed the door as she followed the vicomtesse, and after the manner of her day stood while the elder woman sat very upright in the high-backed chair prophetically designed for her figure and the occasion.
"Pray be seated," she said. "I have had a white night, Mademoiselle, if you know what that is. I have been sleepless." If this filled Margaret with pity, I much doubt. "I have had to elect whether I quarrel with my son or with myself. I choose the latter, and shall say no more than this—I am too straightforward to avoid meeting face to face the hardships of life."
"Bless me, am I the hardship?" thought Margaret, her attitude of defiant pride somewhat modified by assistant sense of the comic.
"I shall say only this: I have always liked you. Whether I shall ever love you or not, I do not know. I have never had room in my heart for more than one love. God has so made me," which the young woman thought did comfortably and oddly shift responsibility,and thus further aided to restore her good humor.
"We shall be friends, Margaret." She rose as she spoke, and setting her hands on Margaret's shoulders as she too stood, said: "You are beautiful, child, and you have very good manners. There are things to be desired, the want of which I much regret; otherwise—" She felt as if she had gone far enough. "Were these otherwise, I should have been satisfied." Then she kissed her coldly on the forehead.
Margaret said, "I shall try, Madame, to be a good daughter," and, falling back, courtesied, and left the tall woman to her meditations.
Madame de Courval and Mary Swanwick knew that soon or late what their children had settled they too must discuss. Neither woman desired it, the vicomtesse aware that she might say more than she meant to say, the Quaker matron in equal dread lest things might be said which would make the future difficult. Mary Swanwick usually went with high courage to meet the calamities of life, and just at present it is to be feared that she thus classified the stern puritan dame. But now she would wait no longer, and having so decided on Saturday, she chose Sunday morning, when—and she smiled—the vicomtesse having been to Gloria Dei and she herself to Friends' meeting, both should be in a frame of mind for what she felt might prove a trial of good temper.
Accordingly, having heard the gentle Friend Howell discourse, and bent in silent prayer forpatience and charity, she came home and waited until from the window of Schmidt's room she saw the tall, black figure approach.
She went out to the hall and let in Madame de Courval, saying: "I have waited for thee. Wilt thou come into the withdrawing-room? I have that to say which may no longer be delayed."
"I myself had meant to talk with you of this unfortunate matter. It is as well to have it over." So saying she followed her hostess. Both women sat upright in the high-backed chairs, the neat, gray-clad Quaker lady, tranquil and rosy; the black figure of the Huguenot dame, sallow, with grave, unmoved features, a strange contrast.
"I shall be pleased to hear you, Madame Swanwick."
"It is simple. I have long seen that there was a growth of attachment between our children. I did not—I do not approve it."
"Indeed," said Madame de Courval, haughtily. What was this woman to sit in judgment on the Vicomte de Courval?
"I have done my best to keep them apart. I spoke to Margaret, and sent her away again and again as thou knowest. It has been in vain, and now having learned that thou hast accepted a condition of things we do neither of us like, I have thought it well to have speech of thee."
"I do not like it, and I never shall. I have, however, yielded a reluctant consent. I cannot quarrel with my only child; but I shall never like it—never."
"Never is a long day."
"I am not of those who change. There is no fitness in it, none. My son is of a class far above her. They are both poor." A sharp reply to the reference to social distinctions was on Mary Swanwick's tongue. She resisted the temptation, and said quietly:
"Margaret will not always be without means; my uncle will give her, on his death, all he has; and as to class, Madame, the good Master to whom we prayed this morning, must—"
"It is not a matter for discussion," broke in the elder woman.
"No; I agree with thee. It is not, but—were it not as well that two Christian gentlewomen should accept the inevitable without reserve and not make their children unhappy?"
"Gentlewomen!"
Mary Swanwick reddened. "I said so. We, too, are not without the pride of race you value. A poor business, but,"—and she looked straight at the vicomtesse, unable to resist the temptation to retort—"we are not given to making much of it in speech."
Madame de Courval had at times entertained Margaret with some of the grim annals of her father's people. Now, feeling the thrust, and not liking it, or that she had lost her temper, she shifted her ground, and being at heart what her hostess described as a gentlewoman, said stiffly: "I beg pardon; I spoke without thought." At this moment Margaret entered, and seeing the signals of discomposure on both faces, said: "Oh, you two dearpeople whom I love and want to love more and more, you are talking of me and of René. Shall I give him up, Madame, and send him about his business."
"Do, dear," laughed her mother, relieved.
There was no mirth to be had out of it for Yvonne de Courval.
"It is not a matter for jesting," she said. "He is quite too like me to be other than obstinate, and this, like what else of the trials God has seen fit to send, is to be endured. He is too like me to change."
"Then," said Margaret, gaily, "thou must be like him."
"I suppose so," said the vicomtesse, with a note of melancholy in her tones.
"Then if thou art like him, thou wilt have to love me," cried Margaret. The mother smiled at this pretty logic, but the Huguenot dame sat up on her chair, resentful of the affectionate familiarity of the girl's gaiety.
"Your mother and I have talked, and what use is it? I shall try to care for you, and love may come. But I could have wished—"
"Oh, no!" cried Margaret. "Please to say no more. Thou will only hurt me."
"I remain of the same opinion; I am not of a nature which allows me to change without reason."
"And as for me," said Mrs. Swanwick, smiling as she rose, "I yield when I must."
"I, too," said the dark lady; "but to yield outwardly is not to give up my opinions, nor is it easy or agreeable to do so. We will speak of it anothertime, Madame Swanwick." But they never did, and so this interview ended with no very good result, except to make both women feel that further talk would be of no use, and that the matter was settled.
As the two mothers rose, Miss Gainor entered, large, smiling, fresh from Christ Church. Quick to observe, she saw that something unusual had occurred, and hesitated between curiosity and the reserve which good manners exacted.
"Good morning," she said. "I heard that Mr. Schmidt had come back, and so I came at once from church to get all the news from Europe for the Penns, where I go to dine."
"Europe is unimportant," cried Margaret, disregarding a warning look from her mother. "I am engaged to be married to Monsieur de Courval—and—everybody—is pleased. Dear Aunt Gainor, I like it myself."
"I at least am to be excepted," said the vicomtesse, "as Mademoiselle knows. I beg at present to be saved further discussion. May I be excused—"
"It seems, Madame," returned Miss Wynne, smiling, "to have got past the need for discussion. I congratulate you with all my heart."
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the vicomtesse, forgetful of her Huguenot training, and swept by Miss Gainor's most formal courtesy and was gone.
"Dear child," cried Mistress Wynne, as she caught Margaret in her arms, "I am glad as never before. The vicomte has gone back to the serviceand—you are to marry—oh, the man of my choice. The poor vicomtesse, alas! Where is the vicomte?"
"He is out just now. We did mean to tell thee this evening."
"Ah! I am glad it came earlier, this good news. May I tell them at the governor's?"
"I may as well say yes," cried Margaret. "Thou wouldst be sure to tell."
"I should," said Gainor.
Both mothers had accepted a situation which neither entirely liked; but the atmosphere was cleared, and the people most concerned were well satisfied and happy. Miss Gainor joyously distributed the news. Gay cousins called, and again the late summer afternoons saw in the garden many friends who had sturdily stood by De Courval in his day of discredit.
If Randolph was cool to him, others were not, and the office work and the treaty were interesting, while in France affairs were better, and the reign of blood had passed and gone.
The warm days of August went by, and De Courval's boat drifted on the river at evening, where he lay and talked to Margaret, or listened, a well-contented man. There were parties in the country, dinners with the Peters at Belmont, or at historic Cliveden. Schmidt, more grave than usual, avoided these festivities, and gave himself to lonely rides, or to long evenings on the river when De Courval was absent or otherwise occupied, as was commonly the case.
When late one afternoon he said to René, "I want you to lend me Margaret for an hour," she cried, laughing, "Indeed, I lend myself; and I make my lord vicomte obey, as is fitting before marriage. I have not yet promised to obey after it, and I am at thy service, Friend Schmidt."
René laughed and said, "I am not left much choice," whereupon Schmidt and Margaret went down to the shore, and soon their boat lay quiet far out on the river.
"They are talking," said the young lover. "I wonder what about."
In fact they had not exchanged even the small current coin of conventional talk; both were silent until Schmidt laid down his oars, and the boat silently drifted upward with the tide. It was the woman who spoke first.
"Ah, what a true friend thou hast been!"
"Yes, I have that way a talent. Why did you bring me out here to flatter me?"
"I did think it was thou proposed it; but I do wish to talk with thee. My mother is not well pleased because the other mother is ill pleased. I do want every one I love to feel that all is well with René and me, and that the love I give is good for him."
"It is well for you and for him, my child, and as for that grim fortress of a woman, she will live to be jealous of your mother and of René. An east wind of a woman. She will come at last to love you, Pearl."
"Ah, dost thou really think so?"
"Yes."
"And thou art pleased. We thought thou wert grave of late and less—less gay."
"I am more than pleased, Margaret. I am not sad, but only grieved over the coming loss out of my life of simple days and those I love, because soon,very soon, I go away to a life of courts and idle ceremonies, and perhaps of strife and war."
For a moment or two neither spoke. The fading light seemed somehow to the girl to fit her sense of the gravity of this announcement of a vast loss out of life. Her eyes filled as she looked up.
"Oh, why dost thou go? Is not love and reverence and hearts that thank thee—oh, are not these enough? Why dost thou go?"
"You, dear, who know me will understand when I answer with one word—duty."
"I am answered," she said, but the tears ran down her cheeks.
"René will some day tell you more, indeed, all; and you will know why I must leave you." Then, saying no more, he took up the oars and pulled into the shore. René drew up the boat.
"Will you go out with me now, Margaret?"
"Not this evening, René," she said, and went slowly up to the house.
On one of these later August days, Mr. Hammond, the English minister, at his house in the country was pleased, being about to return home, to ask the company of Mr. Wolcott of the Treasury. There were no other guests, and after dinner the minister, to add zest to his dessert, handed to Wolcott the now famous intercepted Despatch No. 10, sent back by Lord Grenville after its capture, to make still further mischief. Having been told the story of the wanderings of this fateful document, the Secretary read it with amazement, and understood at once that it was meant by Hammond to injureRandolph, whose dislike of the Jay treaty and what it yielded to England was well known in London. Much disturbed by what he gathered, Wolcott took away the long document, agreeing to give a certified copy to Hammond, who, having been recalled, was well pleased to wing this Parthian arrow.
The next day Wolcott showed it to his colleagues, Pickering and the Attorney-General. As it seemed to them serious, they sent an urgent message to the President, which brought back the weary man from his rest at Mount Vernon. On his return, the President, despite Randolph's desire for further delay, called a cabinet meeting, and with a strong remonstrance against the provision clause which yielded the hated rights of search, decided to ratify the treaty with England.
The next day he was shown the long-lost, intercepted Despatch No. 10.
Greatly disturbed, he waited for several days, and then again called together his advisers, naming for Randolph a half-hour later.
On this, the 19th of August, De Courval, being at his desk, was asked to see an express rider who had come with a report of Indian outrages on the frontier. The Secretary of State having gone, as he learned, to a cabinet meeting, De Courval made haste to find him, being well aware of the grave import of the news thus brought. Arriving at the house of the President, he was shown as usual into the drawing-room, and sat down to wait among a gay party of little ones who were practising the minuet with the young Custis children under thetuition of a sad-looking, oldémigrégentleman. The small ladies courtesied to the new-comer, the marquis bowed. The violin began again, and René sat still, amused.
Meanwhile in the room on the farther side of the hall, Washington discussed with Pickering and Oliver Wolcott the fateful, intercepted despatch. A little later Randolph entered the hall, and desiring De Courval to wait with his papers, joined the cabinet meeting.
As he entered, the President rose and said, "Mr. Randolph, a matter has been brought to my knowledge in which you are deeply concerned." He spoke with great formality, and handing him Fauchet's despatch, added, "Here is a letter which I desire you to read and make such explanation in regard to it as you choose."
Randolph, amazed, ran his eye over the long report of Fauchet to his home office, the other secretaries watching him in silence. He flushed with sudden anger as he read on, while no one spoke, and the President walked up and down the room. This is what the Secretary of State saw in Fauchet's despatch:
Mr. Randolph came to see me with an air of great eagerness just before the proclamation was made in regard to the excise insurrection, and made to me overtures of which I have given you an account in my despatches No. 6 and No. 3. Thus with some thousands of dollars the French Republic could have decided on war or peace. Thus the consciences of the pretended patriots of America have already their prices [tarif].
Then followed abuse of Hamilton and warm praise of Jefferson and Madison.
"The despatches No. 6 and No. 3 are not here," said the Secretary. Again he read on. Then at last, looking up, he said, "If I may be permitted to retain this letter a short time, I shall be able to answer everything in it in a satisfactory manner." He made no denial of its charges.
The President said: "Very well. You may wish at present, sir, to step into the back room and further consider the matter." He desired to do so, the President saying that he himself wished meanwhile to talk of it with his other advisers. Mr. Randolph, assenting, retired, and in half an hour returned. What passed in this interval between the chief and his secretaries no one knows, nor what went on in the mind of Washington. Mr. Randolph finally left the meeting, saying, "Your Excellency will hear from me." As he was passing the door of the parlor De Courval came forward to meet him and said, "These papers are of moment, sir. They have just come." The violin ceased, the marquis bowed. The Secretary saluted the small dames and said hastily: "I cannot consider these papers at present. I must go. Give them to the President." Upon this he went away, leaving De Courval surprised at the agitation of his manner.
In a few moments Mr. Wolcott also came out, leaving the office door open. Meanwhile De Courval waited, as he had been desired to do, until the President should be disengaged.
The violin went on, the small figures, as hewatched them, moved in the slow measures of the dance. Then during a pause one little dame courtesied to him, and the old violinist asked would Monsieur le Vicomte walk a minuet with Miss Langdon. De Courval, rising, bowed to the anticipative partner, and said, "No; the President may want me." And again the low notes of the violin set the small puppets in motion. Of a sudden, heard through the open door across the hall, came a voice resonant with anger. It was Washington who spoke. "Why, Colonel Pickering, did he say nothing of moment? He was my friend Peyton Randolph's nephew and adopted son, my aide, my Secretary. I made him Attorney-General, Secretary of State. I would have listened, sir. Never before have I allowed friendship to influence me in an appointment." The voice fell; he heard no more, but through it all the notes of the violin went on, a strange accompaniment, while the children moved in the ceremonious measures of the minuet, and René crossed the room to escape from what he was not meant to hear. A full half hour went by while De Courval sat amazed at the words he had overheard. At last the Secretary of War, entering the hall, passed out of the house.
Then De Courval asked a servant in the gray and red of the Washington livery to take the papers to the President. Hearing him, Washington, coming to the door, said: "Come in, sir. I will see you." The face De Courval saw had regained its usual serenity. "Pray be seated." He took the papers and deliberately considered them. "Yes, they areof importance. You did well to wait. I thank you." Then smiling kindly he said, "Here has been a matter which concerns you. The despatch you were charged with taking was captured at sea by an English frigate and sent to us by Mr. Hammond, the British minister. It has been nine months on the way. I never, sir, had the least doubt of your honor, and permit me now to express my pleasure. At present this affair of the despatch must remain a secret. It will not be so very long. Permit me also to congratulate you on your new tie to this country. Mistress Wynne has told Mrs. Washington of it. Will you do me the honor to dine with us at four to-morrow? At four."
Coming out of the room with De Courval, he paused in the hall, having said his gracious words. The violin ceased. The little ladies in brocades and slippers came to the drawing-room door, a pretty dozen or so, Miss Langdon, Miss Biddle, Miss Morris, and the Custis children. They courtesied low, waiting expectant. Like most shy men, Washington was most at ease with children, loving what fate had denied him. He was now and then pleased, as they knew, to walk with one of them the slow measure of the minuet, and then to lift up and kiss his small partner in the dance. Now looking down on them from his great height he said: "No," with a sad smile at their respectful appeal—"no, not to-day, children. Not to-day. Good-by, Vicomte." As the servant held the door open, René looked back and saw the tall figure, the wreck of former vigor, go wearily up the broad staircase.
"'Not to-day, children, not to-day'""'Not to-day, children, not to-day'"
"What has so troubled him?" thought De Courval. "What is this that Edmund Randolph has done?" Standing on the outer step and taking off his hat, he murmured, "My God, I thank thee!" He heard faintly through the open window as he walked away the final notes of the violin and the laughter of childhood as the lesson ended.
It was only a little way, some three blocks, from the house of the President to the State Department, where, at 287 High Street, half a dozen clerks now made up the slender staff. De Courval walked slowly to the office, and setting his business in order, got leave from his immediate superior to be absent the rest of the day.
As he went out, Mr. Randolph passed in. De Courval raised his hat, and said, "Good morning, sir." The Secretary turned back. In his hour of humiliation and evident distress his natural courtesy did not desert him.
"Monsieur," he said in ready French, "the despatch which you sent on its way has returned. I desire to ask you to forget the injustice I did you." He was about to add, "My time to suffer has come." He refrained.
"I thank you," said De Courval; "you could hardly have done otherwise than you did." The two men bowed, and parted to meet no more. "What does it all mean?" thought the young man. Thus set free, he would at once have gone home to tell of the end of the troubles this wandering paper had made for him. But Margaret was at Merion for the day, and others might wait. He wished foran hour to be alone, and felt as he walked eastward the exaltation which was natural to a man sensitive as to the slightest reflection on his honor. Thus surely set at ease, with the slow pace of the thoughtful, he moved along what we now call Market Street. Already at this time it had its country carts and wide market sheds, where Schmidt liked to come, pleased with the colors of the fruit and vegetables. René heard again with a smile the street-cries, "Calamus! sweet calamus!" and "Peaches ripe! ripe!" as on his first sad day in the city.
Aimlessly wandering, he turned northward into Mulberry Street, with its Doric portals, and seeing the many Friends coming out of their meeting-house, was reminded that it was Wednesday. "I should like," he thought, "to have said my thanks with them." Moving westward at Delaware Fifth Street, he entered the burial-ground of Christ Church, and for a while in serious mood read what the living had said of the dead.
"Well, René," said Schmidt, behind him, "which are to be preferred, those underneath or those above ground?"
"I do not know. You startled me. To-day, for me, those above ground."
"When a man has had both experiences he may be able to answer—or not. I once told you I liked to come here. This is my last call upon these dead, some of whom I loved. What fetched you hither?"
"Oh, I was lightly wandering with good news," and he told him of the lost Despatch No. 10, and that it was to be for the time a secret.
"At last!" said Schmidt. "I knew it would come. The world may congratulate you. I am not altogether grieved that you have been through this trial. I, too, have my news. Edmund Randolph has resigned within an hour or so. Mr. Wolcott has just heard it from the President. Oh, the wild confusion of things! If you had not sent that despatch on its way, Randolph would not have fallen. A fatal paper. Let us go home, René."
"But how, sir, does it concern Mr. Randolph?"
"Pickering has talked of it to Bingham, whom I have seen just now, and I am under the impression that Fauchet's despatch charged Randolph with asking for money. It was rather vague, as I heard it."
"I do not believe it," said René.
"A queer story," said Schmidt. "A wild Jacobin's despatch ruins his Secretary for life, disgraces for a time anémigrénoble, turns out a cabinet minister—what fancy could have invented a stranger tale? Come, let us leave these untroubled dead."
Not until December of that year, 1795, did Randolph's pamphlet, known as his "Vindication," appear. This miserable business concerns us here solely as it affected the lives of my characters. It has excited much controversy, and even to this day, despite Fauchet's explanations to Randolph and the knowledge we now have of the papers mentioned as No. 3 and No. 6, it remains in a condition to puzzle the most astute historian. Certainly few things in diplomatic annals are more interesting than theadventures of Despatch No. 10. The verdict of "not proven" has been the conclusion reached by some writers, while despite Randolph's failure to deny the charges at once, as he did later, it is possible that Fauchet misunderstood him or lied, although why he should have done so is difficult to comprehend.
The despatch, as we have seen, affected more persons than the unfortunate Secretary. Dr. Chovet left the city in haste when he heard of Schmidt's return, and Aunt Gainor lamented as among the not minor consequences the demise of her two gods and the blue china mandarin. She was in some degree comforted by the difficult business of Margaret's marriage outfit, for Schmidt, overjoyed at the complete justification of De Courval, insisted that there must be no delay, since he himself was obliged to return to Germany in October.
Mrs. Swanwick would as usual accept no money help, and the preparations should be simple, she said, nor was it a day of vulgar extravagance in bridal presents. Margaret, willing enough to delay, and happy in the present, was slowly making her way to what heart there was in the Huguenot dame. Margaret at her joyous best was hard to resist, and now made love to the vicomtesse, and, ingenuously ready to serve, wooed her well and wisely in the interest of peace.
What Madame de Courval most liked about Margaret was a voice as low and as melodious in its changes as her own, so that, as Schmidt said, "It is music, and what it says is of the lesser moment."Thus one day at evening as they sat on the porch, Margaret murmured in the ear of the dark lady: "I am to be married in a few days; wilt not thou make me a little wedding gift?"
"My dear Margaret," cried René, laughing, "the jewels all went in England, and except a son of small value, what can my mother give you?"
"But, him I have already," cried Margaret. "What I want, madame has—oh, and to spare."
"Well, and what is it I am to give?" said madame, coldly.
"A little love," she whispered.
"Ah, do you say such things to René?"
"No, never. It is he who says them to me. Oh, I am waiting. A lapful I want of thee," and she held up her skirts to receive the gift.
"How saucy thou art," said Mrs. Swanwick.
"It is no affair of thine, Friend Swanwick," cried the Pearl. "I wait, Madame."
"I must borrow of my son," said the vicomtesse. "It shall be ready at thy wedding. Thou wilt have to wait."
"Ah," said René, "we can wait. Come, let us gather some peaches, Margaret," and as they went down the garden, he added: "My mother said 'thou' to you. Did you hear?"
"Yes, I heard. She was giving me what I asked, and would not say so."
"Yes, it was not like her," said the vicomte, well pleased.
The September days went by, and to all outward appearance Madame de Courval accepted with nofurther protest what it was out of her power to control. Uncle Josiah insisted on settling upon Margaret a modest income, and found it the harder to do so because, except Mistress Gainor Wynne, no one was disposed to differ with him. That lady told him it was shabby. To which he replied that there would be the more when he died.
"Get a permanent ground-rent on your grave," said Gainor, "or never will you lie at rest."
"It is our last ride," said Schmidt, on October the first, of this, the last year of my story. They rode out through the busy Red City and up the Ridge Road, along which General Green led the left wing of the army to the fight at Germantown, and so to the Wissahickon Creek, where, leaving their horses at an inn, they walked up the stream.
"Ach, lieber Himmel, this is well," said Schmidt as they sat down on a bed of moss above the water. "Tell me," he said, "more about the President. Oh, more; you were too brief." He insisted eagerly. "I like him with the little ones. And, ah, that tragedy of fallen ambition and all the while the violin music and the dance. It is said that sometimes he is pleased to walk a minuet with one of these small maids, and then will kiss the fortunate little partner."
"He did not that day; he told them he could not. He was sad about Randolph."
"When they are old, they will tell of it, René." And, indeed, two of these children lived to be great-grandmothers, and kissing their grandchildren's children, two of whom live to-day in the Red City,bade them remember that the lips which kissed them had often been kissed by Washington.
"It is a good sign of a man to love these little ones," said Schmidt. "What think you, René? Was Randolph guilty?"
"I do not think so, sir. Fauchet was a quite irresponsible person; but what that silent old man, Washington, finally believed, I should like to know. I fear that he thought Randolph had been anything but loyal to his chief."
For a little while the German seemed lost in thought. Then he said: "You will have my horses and books and the pistols and my rapier. My life will, I hope, need them no more. I mean the weapons; but who can be sure of that? Your own life will find a use for them, if I be not mistaken. When I am gone, Mr. Justice Wilson will call on you, and do not let the Pearl refuse what I shall leave for her. I have lived two lives. One of my lives ends here in this free land. Mr. Wilson has, as it were, my will. In Germany I shall have far more than I shall ever need. Keep my secret. There are, there were, good reasons for it."
"It is safe with me."
"Ah, the dear life I have had here, the freedom of the wilderness, the loves, the simple joys!" As he spoke, he gathered and let fall the autumn leaves strewn thickly on the forest floor. "We shall meet no more on earth, René, and I have loved you as few men love." Again he was long silent.
"I go from these wonder woods to the autumn of a life with duties and, alas! naught else. SometimesI shall write to you; and, René, you will speak of me to your children."
The younger man said little in reply. He, too, was deeply moved, and sorrowful as never before. As they sat, Schmidt put his hand on René's shoulder. "May the good God bless and keep you and yours through length of honorable days! Let us go. Never before did the autumn woodlands seem to me sad. Let us go." He cast down as he rose the last handful of the red and gold leaves of the maple.
They walked down the creek, still beautiful to-day, and rode home in silence amid the slow down-drift of the early days of the fall.
In the house Margaret met them joyous. "Oh, René, a letter of congratulation to me! Think of it—to me, sir, from General Washington! And one to thee!" These letters were to decide in far-away after days a famous French law-suit.
The sun shone bright on the little party which passed among the graves into the modest Gloria Dei, the church of the Swedes. Here were the many kinsfolk; and Washington's secretary, Colonel Lear, Alexander Hamilton and Gouverneur Morris, with Binghams and Morrises; Whartons and Biddles, the forefathers of many lines of men since famous in our annals, whether of war or peace. Women there were also. Mistress Gainor in the front pew with Mrs. Swanwick and Lady Washington, as many called her, and the gay Federalist dames, who smiled approval of Margaret in her radiant loveliness.
Schmidt, grave and stately in dark velvet, gaveaway the bride, and the good Swedish rector, the Reverend Nicholas Cullin, read the service of the church.
Then at last they passed into the vestry, and, as Margaret decreed, all must sign the marriage-certificate after the manner of Friends. De Courval wrote his name, and the Pearl, "Margaret Swanwick," whereat arose merriment and an erasure when, blushing, she wrote, "De Courval." Next came Schmidt. He hesitated a moment, and then wrote "Johan Graf von Ehrenstein," to the surprise of the curious many who followed, signing with laughter and chatter of young tongues. Meanwhile the German gentleman, unnoticed, passed out of the vestry, and thus out of my story.
"What with all these signatures, it does look, Vicomte," said young Mr. Morris, "like the famous Declaration of Independence."
"Humph!" growled Josiah Langstroth, "if thee thinks, young man, that it is a declaration of independence, thee is very much mistaken."
"Not I," said René, laughing; and they went out to where Mistress Gainor's landau was waiting, and so home to the mother's house.
Here was a note from Schmidt.