The Red City: A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington

by S. Weir Mitchell

  VI

  Despite the disgust he felt at the routine of daily domestic service,the life of the great merchant's business began more and more tointerest De Courval. The clerks were mere machines, and of Mr. Wynne hesaw little. He went in and laid letters on his desk, answered a questionor two in regard to his mother, and went out with perhaps a message to ashipmaster fresh from the Indies and eager to pour out in a tongue wellspiced with sea oaths his hatred of England and her ocean bullies.

  The mother's recovery was slow, as Chovet had predicted, but at the endof June, on a Saturday, he told Mistress Wynne she might call on hispatient, and said that in the afternoon the vicomtesse might sit out onthe balcony upon which her room opened.

  Madame was beginning to desire a little change of society and wassomewhat curious as to this old spinster of whom Rene had given a kind,if rather startling, account. Her own life in England had been lonelyand amid those who afforded her no congenial society, nor as yet was shein entirely easy and satisfactory relations with the people among whomshe was now thrown. They were to her both new and singular.

  The Quaker lady puzzled her inadequate experience--a _dame de pension_,a boarding-house keeper with perfect tact; with a certain simplesweetness, as if any common bit of service about the room and the sickwoman's person were a pleasure. The quiet, gentle manners of the Quakerhousehold, with now and then a flavor of some larger world, were all toMadame's taste. When, by and by, her hostess talked more and more freelyin her imperfect French, it was unobtrusive and natural, and she foundher own somewhat austere training beginning to yield and her unreadyheart to open to kindness so constant, and so beautiful with the evidentjoy of self-sacrifice.

  During the great war the alliance with France had made the language ofthat country the fashion. French officers came and went, and among theWhig families of position French was even earlier, as in MaryPlumstead's case, a not very rare accomplishment. But of late she hadhad little opportunity to use her knowledge, and with no such courage asthat of Gainor Wynne, had preferred the awkwardness of silence until herguest's illness obliged her to put aside her shy distrust in theinterest of kindness. She soon found the tongue grow easier, and thevicomtesse began to try at short English sentences, and was pleased toamuse herself by correcting Margaret, who had early learned French fromher mother, and with ready intelligence seized gladly on this freshchance to improve her knowledge.

  One day as Mrs. Swanwick sat beside her guest's couch, she said: "Thyson told me soon after thy coming that thou art not, like most of theFrench, of the Church of Rome." He, it seemed, desired to see a Friends'meeting, and his mother had expressed her own wish to do the same whenwell enough.

  "No," said madame; "we are of the religion--Huguenots. There is nochurch of my people here, so my son tells me, and no French women amongthe emigrants."

  "Yes, one or two. That is thy Bible, is it not?" pointing to the booklying open beside her. "I am reading French when times serve. But I havenever seen a French Bible. May I look at it? I understand thy speechbetter every day, and Margaret still better; but I fear my French may bequeer enough to thee."

  "It is certainly better than my English," said the vicomtesse, adding,after a brief pause: "It is the French of a kind heart." The vicomtesseas she spoke was aware of a breach in her usual reserve of rather formalthankfulness.

  "I thank thee for thy pretty way of saying a pleasant thing," returnedMrs. Swanwick. "I learned it--thy language--when a girl, and wasfoolishly shy of its use before I knew thee so well. Now I shall blunderon at ease, and Margaret hath the audacity of youth."

  "A charming child," said madame, "so gay and so gentle and intelligent."

  "Yes, a good girl. Too many care for her--ah, the men! One would wishto keep our girls children, and she is fast ceasing to be a child."

  She turned to the Bible in her hand, open at a dry leaf of ivy. "It haspsalms, I see, here at the end."

  "Yes, Clement Marot's. He was burned at the stake for his faith."

  "Ah, cruel men! How strange! Here, I see, is a psalm for one about todie on the scaffold."

  "Yes--yes," said the vicomtesse.

  "What strange stories it seems to tell! It was, I see, printed longago."

  "Yes, two years before the massacre of St. Bartholomew."

  "And here is one for men about to go into battle for God and theirfaith." The hostess looked up. Her guest's face was stern, stirred aswith some deep emotion, her eyes full of tears.

  She had been thinking, as she lay still and listened to Mary Swanwick'scomments, of death for a man's personal belief, for his faith, of deathwith honor. She was experiencing, of a sudden, that failure ofself-control which is the sure result of bodily weakness; for, with theremembrance of her husband's murder, she recalled, amid natural feelingsof sorrow, the shame with which she had heard of his failure at once todeclare his rank when facing death. For a moment she lay still. "I shallbe better in a moment," she said.

  "Ah, what have I done?" cried Mrs. Swanwick, distressed, as she took thethin, white hand in hers. "Forgive me."

  "You have done nothing--nothing. Some day I shall tell you; not now."She controlled herself with effectual effort, shocked at her ownweakness, and surprised that it had betrayed her into emotion producedby the too vivid realization of a terrible past. She never did tell moreof it, but the story came to the Quaker dame on a far-off day and from aless reserved personage.

  At this moment Margaret entered. Few things escaped the watchful eyesthat were blue to-day and gray to-morrow, like the waters of the broadriver that flowed by her home. No sign betrayed her surprise at theevident tremor of the chin muscles, the quick movement of thehandkerchief from the eyes, tear-laden, the mother's look of sympathy asshe dropped the hand left passive in her grasp. Not in vain had been thegirl's training in the ways of Friends. Elsewhere she was more given toset free her face to express what she felt, but at home and among thoseof the Society of Friends she yielded with the imitativeness of youth tothe not unwholesome discipline of her elders. She quietly announced AuntGainor as waiting below stairs.

  "Wilt thou see her?" said Mrs. Swanwick.

  "Certainly; I have much to thank her for. And tell my son not to come upas yet," for, being Saturday, it was a half-holiday from noon, andhaving been out for a good walk to stretch his desk-cramped legs, he wassinging in the garden bits of French songs and teasing June or watchingher skilful hunt for grasshoppers. He caroled gaily as he lay in theshade:

  "La fin du jour Sauve les fleurs et rafraichit les belles; Je veux, en galant troubadour, Celebrer, au nom de l'amour, Chanter, au nom des fleurs nouvelles La fin du jour."

  The message was given later, and as Mistress Gainor came in to hismother's room she was a striking figure, with the beaver hat tied underher chin and the long, dark-green pelisse cast open so as to reveal therich silk of her gown. It was not unfit for her age and was in entiregood taste, for as usual she was dressed for her role. Even hergoddaughter was slightly surprised, well as she knew her. This was notthe Gainor that Chovet knew, the woman who delighted to excite the tooeasily irritated Dr. Rush, or to shock Mrs. Adams, the Vice-President'swife, with well embroidered gossip about the Willing women and the highplay at Landsdowne, where Mrs. Penn presided, and Shippens, Chews, andothers came. This was another woman.

  Margaret, curious, lingered behind Miss Wynne, and stood a moment, ahand on the door. Miss Wynne came forward, and saying in French whichhad amazed two generations, "_Bon jour, madame_," swept the entirelygraceful courtesy of a day when even the legs had fine manners, adding,as the vicomtesse would have risen, "No, I beg of you."

  "The settle is on the balcony," said the hostess, "and Cicero will comeup by and by and carry thee out. Not a step--not a step by thyself,"she added, gently despotic.

  As Miss Wynne passed by, the girl saw her courtesy, and, closing thedoor, said to herself, "I think I could do it," and fell to courtesyingon the broad landing. "I should like to do that for Fr
iend NicholasWaln," and gaily laughing, she went out and down the garden to deliverher message to the young vicomte.

  Neither man, woman nor the French tongue dismayed Mistress Wynne."_C'etait un long calembourg_, my son," the vicomtesse said later--"along conundrum, a long charade of words to represent _le bon Dieu_ knowswhat. Ah, a tonic, truly. I was amused as I am not often." In fact, shewas rarely receptively humorous and never productively so. Now she spokeslowly, in order to be understood, comprehending the big woman andknowing her at once for a lady of her own world with no provincialdrawbacks, a woman at her ease, and serenely unconscious of, orindifferent to, the quality of the astounding tongue in which she spoke.

  She talked of London and of the French emigrant nobles in Philadelphia,of the Marquis de la Garde, who taught dancing; of the Comte du Vallon,who gave lessons in fencing; of De Malerive, who made ice-cream. Madame,interested, questioned her until they got upon unhappy France, when sheshifted the talk and spoke of the kindness of Mr. Wynne.

  "It will soon be too hot here," said Gainor, "and then I shall have youat the Hill--Chestnut Hill, and in a week I shall come for you to ridein my landau,"--there were only four in the city,--"and the vicomteshall drive with you next Saturday. You may not know that my niece Mrs.Wynne was of French Quakers from the Midi, and this is why her son lovesyour people and has more praise for your son than he himself is like tohear from my nephew. For my part, when I hate, I let it out, and when Ilove or like, I am frank," which was true.

  Just then came the old black servant man Cicero, once a slave of JamesLogan the first, and so named by the master, folks said, because ofpride in his fine translation of the "De Senectute" of Cicero, whichFranklin printed.

  "Cicero will carry thee out," said Mrs. Swanwick.

  "Will he, indeed?" said Gainor, seeing a shadow of annoyance come overthe grave face of the sick woman as she said, "I can walk," and roseunsteadily. The pelisse was off, and before the amazed vicomtesse couldspeak, she was in Gainor's strong arms and laid gently down on a loungein the outer air.

  "_Mon Dieu!_" was all she could say, "but you are as a man for strength.Thank you."

  The roses were below her. The cool air came over them from the river,and the violet of the eastward sky reflected the glow of the settingsun. A ship with the tricolor moved up with the flood, a _bonnet rouge_at the masthead, as was common.

  "What flag is that?" asked the vicomtesse. "And that red thing? I do notsee well."

  "I do not know," said Gainor, calmly fibbing; and seeing her goddaughterabout to speak, she put a finger on her lips and thrust a hand ignorantof its strength in the ribs of the hostess as madame, looking down amongthe trees on the farther slope, said: "Who is that? How merry they are!"

  "Adam and Eve--in the garden," replied Gainor.

  "For shame!" murmured Mary Swanwick in English. "It is well she did notunderstand thee." Then she added to the vicomtesse: "It is Margaret,madame, and thy son."

  Again gay laughter came up from the distance; the vicomtesse becamethoughtful.

  "I have left you lettuce and some fruit," said Miss Wynne, "and may I bepardoned for taking the place of Cicero?"

  "Ah, madame, kindness in any form is easy to pardon." Then Gainor wentaway, while Mrs. Swanwick sat down, saying: "Now no more talk. Let mefan thee a little."

  The next day being the first Sunday in July, Schmidt said afterbreakfast: "De Courval, you said last night that you would like to go tochurch. It shall be Christ Church, if you like--Episcopal they call it."

  They set out early, and on Delaware Second Street saw the fine oldchurch Dr. Kearsley planned, like the best of Christopher Wren's work,as De Courval at once knew.

  "I shall go in. I may not stay," said Schmidt. "I do not like churches.They seem all too small for me. Men should pray to God out of doors.Well, it has a certain stately becomingness. It will suit you; but theDruids knew best."

  They found seats near the chancel. Just before the service began, ablack servant in livery entered by a side door. A large man, tall anderect, in full black velvet, followed. The servant opened a pew; thetall man sat down, and knelt in prayer; the servant went back to thedoor, and seated himself on the floor upon a cushion.

  Schmidt whispered, "That is George Washington."

  The young man, it is to be feared, paid small attention to the serviceor to good Bishop White's sermon. The grave, moveless, ruddy face heldhim with the interest of its history. The reverent attention of thegreat leader pleased him, with his Huguenot training. At the close thecongregation remained standing until Washington had gone out.

  "Come," said Schmidt, and crossing the church they waited at the southgate until the President passed. He raised his hand in soldierly salute,and bowing, took off his beaver as he met Mrs. Chew and theChief-Justice.

  The two men walked away, silent for a time. Then the German said: "Youhave seen a great man, a great soldier,--says our Frederick, who oughtto know,--a statesman, too, and baited now by Jefferson's creatureFreneau. It must have pleased the Almighty to have decreed the making ofa man like George Washington."

  That the God of Calvin should have pleasure in things made had neveroccurred to the young Huguenot, who was already getting lessons whichin days to come would freely modify the effect of the stern tenets whichthrough habit and education he accepted with small cost of thought. Hismind, however, was of serious type, and inquiry was in the whole world'satmosphere of his time.

  He said, "Herr Schmidt, can a man conceive of God as having enjoyment?"

  "If you were God, the all-creative, the eternal power, the inconceivablemaster, would you not make for yourself pleasure, when you could make ormar all things? Does it shock you? Or has the thought of your church theclipped wings of an eagle that must ever stumble on the earth and yearnfor the free flight of the heavens? Terrible shears are creeds."

  De Courval was new to such comments. He felt hindered by all the childhome-rule of habit, and the discipline of limiting beliefs held the morestringently for the hostile surroundings of neighbors and kinfolks ofthe Church of Rome.

  The German was of no mind to perplex him. He had some clearly definedideas as to what as a gentleman he could or could not do. As to muchelse he had no ruling conscience, but a certain kindliness which madehim desire to like and be liked of men, and so now, with something akinto affection, he was learning to love the grave young noble to whom heowed a life endowed by nature with great power of varied enjoyment.

  "We will talk of these things again," he said. "Once I was speaking ofthe making of men, and I said, 'If the father of Shakspere had marriedanother woman, or his wife a year later, would "Hamlet" ever have beenwritten?'"

  De Courval laughed. "I do not know 'Hamlet.'"

  The German looked around at him thoughtfully and said: "Is that indeedso? It is a sermon on the conduct of life. When once I spoke of this andhow at birth we are fortuned, the king said to me, I think--" and hebroke off his sentence. "You must not take me too seriously, De Courval.This is mere gossip of the imagination. I have lived too much in Francewith the philosophers, who are like Paul's men of Athens."

  "I like it," said De Courval, pleased, puzzled, flattered, and immenselycurious concerning the man at his side; but decent manners forbiddingpersonal questions, he accepted the German's diversion of the talk andasked, "Who is that across the street?"

  "A good soldier, General Wayne, and with him the Secretary of War, Knox.It is said he is one of the few whom Washington loves. He is a lonelyman, the President, as are the kings of men, on thrones or elsewhere."

  "To be loved of that man would be worth while," said his companion. Hewas to see him again in an hour of distress for himself and of troubleand grief for the harassed statesman.

  When at home he told his mother he had seen Washington.

  "What was he like?"

  "I can not say--tall, straight, ruddy, a big nose."

  She smiled at his description. "Your father, Rene, once told me of aletter Marquis La Fayette had of him the
day after he last parted withWashington. It was something like this: 'When our carriages separated, Isaid, I shall never see him again. My heart said Yes. My head said No;but these things happen. At least I have had my day.' That is not like aman, Rene. He must have strong affections."

  "Men say not, mother."