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

by S. Weir Mitchell

  VIII

  Through the quiet of a Sunday morning, De Courval rode slowly up FifthStreet, and into a land of farms and woodland, to spend a quiet dayalone with his mother, Miss Wynne, not altogether to the young man'sregret, having to remain in town over Monday. As he came to the sceneswhere Schmidt, in their walks of Sundays, had explained to himWashington's well-laid plan of the Germantown battle, he began at lastto escape for a time the too sad reflection which haunted his hours ofleisure in the renewed interest of a young soldier who had known onlythe army life, but never actual war. He bent low in the saddle, hat offto a group on the lawn at Cliveden, the once war-battered home of theChews, and was soon after kissing his mother on the porch of the Hillfarm.

  There was disquieting news to tell of France, and he soon learned thatdespite the heat and mosquitos she preferred the tranquillity of thewidow's home to the luxury of Miss Wynne's house. She was as usualcalmly decided, and he did not urge her to stay longer. She would returnto the city on Thursday. They talked of money matters, with reticence onhis part in regard to Schmidt's kindness and good counsels, andconcerning the satisfaction Mr. Wynne had expressed with regard to hissecretary.

  "It may be good training for thee, my son," she said and then, after apause, "I begin to comprehend these people," and, pleased with herprogress, made little ventures in English to let him see how well shewas learning to speak. An habitual respect made him refrain fromcritical corrections, but he looked up in open astonishment when shesaid rather abruptly: "The girl in her gray gowns is on the way tobecome one of the women about whom men go wild. Neither are you veryugly, my son. Have a care; but a word from me should suffice."

  "Oh, mother," he exclaimed, "do not misunderstand me!"

  "My son, I know you are not as some of the light-minded cousins we knewin France; but a word of warning does no harm, even if it be notneeded."

  "I think you may be at ease, _maman_. You amaze me when you call herbeautiful. A pleasant little maid she seems to me, and not always thesame, and at times gay,--oh, when away from her mother,--andintelligent, too. But beautiful--oh, hardly. _Soyez tranquille, maman._"

  "I did not say she was beautiful. I said she was good-looking; or thatat least was what I meant. Certainly she is unlike our too ignorantdemoiselles; but contrast with the familiar may have its peril. It isquite another type from our young women at home, and attractive enoughin its way--in its bourgeois way."

  He smiled. "I am quite too busy to concern myself with young women." Infact he had begun to find interest in a little study of this new type."Yes, quite too busy."

  "That is as well." But she was not at ease. On the whole, she thought itwould be proper now for him to go to Mrs. Bingham's and to thePresident's receptions. Miss Wynne would see that he had the entree. Hewas too occupied, he said once more, and his clothes were quite unfit.Neither was he inclined yet awhile. And so he rode away to town withseveral things to think about, and on Thursday the vicomtesse made clearto the well-pleased Mrs. Swanwick that she was glad of the quiet and theEnglish lessons and the crisp talk of Schmidt, who spoke French, but notfluently, and concerning whom she was mildly jealous and, for her,curious. "Schmidt, my son? No; a name disguised. He is a gentleman tohis finger-ends, but surely a strange one."

  "It is enough, _maman_, that he is my friend. Often I, too, am curious;but--ah, well, I wonder why he likes me; but he does, and I am glad ofit."

  "You wonder. I do not," and she smiled.

  "Ah, the vain _maman!_" he cried. It was very rare that she praised him,and she was by long habit given to no demonstrations of affection.

  Two weeks ran on in the quiet routine of the Quaker home and theincreasing work of the great shipping merchant. De Courval was more andmore used by Wynne in matters other than copying letters in French.Sometimes, too, he was trusted with business affairs demanding judgment,and although Wynne spoke no word of praise, neither was there any wordof censure, and he watched the clerk with interest and growing regard.Twice he sent him to New York, and once on an errand to Baltimore,where he successfully collected some long-standing debts. A new clerkhad come, and De Courval, to his relief, was no longer expected to sweepout the counting-house.

  By degrees Wynne fully realized that he had found a helper of unusualcapacity, and more and more, as the great and varied business attractedDe Courval, he was taken into Wynne's confidence, and saw the ships comeand go, and longed to share the peril and see the wonders of the ocean.There were great tuns of wine from Madeira on the pier or in thecellars. Gentlemen came to taste it, men with historic names--GeneralWayne, Colonel Lear for the President, and Mr. Justice Yeates. DeCourval was bade to knock out bungs and dip in tasting vials. Also MissWynne came to refill her cellar, but took small notice of him. He wasout of favor for a season, and her nephew had laughed at herremonstrances.

  "A thoroughbred put to the work of a farm-horse!"

  "Nonsense, Aunt Gainor! Let him alone. You can not spoil him, as you didme. There is stuff in the fellow worth a dozen of my clerks. At six theyare gone. If there is work to do, he stays till nine. What that manwants, he will get. What he sets himself to do, he does. Let him alone."

  "A miserably paid clerk," she cried. "He deserves no better. I wash myhands of him."

  "There is soap in the closet," he laughed.

  She went away angry, and saw the young noble talking with a ruddygentleman whose taste in wine has made his name familiar at thedining-tables of the last hundred years. Major Butler was asking thevicomte to dine, and promising a perilous education in the vintages ofMadeira.

  When the major had gone, Mr. Wynne sent for his clerk. To be opposed wasapt to stiffen his Welsh obstinacy. "Your wages are to be now, sir, twohundred and fifty livres,--fifty dollars a month,--and you are doingwell, very well; but the clerks are not to know, except Mr. Potts." Heowed this unusual advance to Miss Wynne, but probably the master was aslittle aware of what had caused it as was the irate spinster. De Courvalthanked him quietly, knowing perfectly well that he had fairly earnedwhat was so pleasantly given.

  It was now the Saturday sennight mentioned by Margaret as the day whenMr. Hamilton was to come to settle certain small business matters withMrs. Swanwick. Some wit, or jealous dame, as Schmidt had said, calledMrs. Swanwick's the Quaker salon; and, in fact, men of all types ofopinion came hither. Friends there were, the less strict, and at timessome, like Waln, to protest in their frank way against the too frequentcompany of world's people, and to go away disarmed by gentle firmness.Mrs. Swanwick's love of books and her keen interest in every new thing,and now the opening mind and good looks of Margaret, together with thethoughtful neutrality of Schmidt, captured men, young and old, who wereapt to come especially on a Saturday afternoon, when there was leisureeven for busy statesmen. Hither came Aaron Burr--the woman-hawk, AuntGainor called him, with his dark, fateful face; Pickering, in after daysof the War Department; Wolcott, to be the scarce adequate successor ofHamilton; Logan, and gay cousins--not often more than one or two at atime--with, rarely, the Master of the Rolls and Robert Morris, and Mr.Justice Chew--in fact, what was best in the social life of the city.

  Mr. Hamilton was shut up with Mrs. Swanwick in the withdrawing-room,busy. It was now too late to expect visitors--five o'clock of a summerafternoon. The vicomtesse avoided this interesting society, and at lastRene ceased to urge her to share what he himself found so agreeable.Margaret sat entranced in the "Castle of Otranto," hardly hearing the_click, click_, of the fencing-foils on the grass plot not far away.Birds were in the air; a woodpecker was busy on a dead tree; bees, headdown, were accumulating honey for the hive at the foot of the garden;and a breeze from the river was blowing through the hall and out at thehospitably open front door--a peaceful scene, with still the ring andclash of the foils and De Courval's merry laughter.

  "A hit, a palpable hit!" said a voice behind Margaret as she rose.

  "Thou art dead for a ducat--dead, Friend de Courval."

  "Ah," said Schmidt, "a critic. Does it look easy,
Mr. de Forest?"

  "'Well played!' cried Schmidt--'the jest and therapier'"]

  "I am a man of peace, how shouldst I know? but the game looks easy." Hethrew up his head and stretched out his hand. "Let me look at thething."

  "Then take off your coat and put on a mask. But I shall not hurt you;there is no need for the mask."

  He was quietly amused, and if only Nicholas Waln would come; for now theQuaker gentleman had put aside hat and coat, and in plainest grayhomespun faced him, a stalwart, soldierly figure.

  "How does thee hold it, Friend Schmidt? Ah, so?"

  In a moment the German knew that he was crossing blades with a master ofthe small sword. Margaret and De Courval looked on merrily exchanginggay glances.

  "Dead," cried De Forest, as he struck fair over the German's heart, "anda damn good hit!"

  "Well played!" cried Schmidt--"the jest and the rapier. Anotherbout--no!" To his surprise he saw the Quaker gentleman's face change ashe hastily put on his coat.

  "Thank thee," he said to De Courval as the young man handed him his hat,and without other words than "I bid thee good day. I shall not bide thisafternoon," went into the hall and out of the farther door, passing withbowed head and without a word a gentleman who entered.

  Schmidt showed little of the astonishment easily read on De Courval'sface, who, however, said nothing, having been taught to be chary ofcomments on his elders; and now taking up his foil again, fell onguard.

  "A man haunted by his past," said Schmidt, as was in fact explained atbreakfast next day, when Mrs. Swanwick, being questioned, said: "Yes. Hewas a colonel in the war, and of reckless courage. Later he returned toFriends, and now and then has lapses in his language and his ways, andis filled with remorse."

  "The call of the sword was too much for him," said Schmidt. "I cancomprehend that. But he had a minute of the joy of battle."

  "And then," said the Pearl, "he had a war with himself."

  "The maid is beginning to think," said Schmidt to himself. But this wasall on the next day.

  As the tall man came out on the porch, Margaret said: "My mother isoccupied. Friend Schmidt, thou knowest Friend Jefferson; and this is ournew lodger," and she said boldly, "the Vicomte de Courval."

  "Ah," exclaimed Jefferson, "we have met before. And madame is well, Itrust?"

  "Yes; but at this hour she rests. We owe you, sir, our thanks for thegood chance of finding what has been to us most truly a home."

  Margaret looked up pleased, she did not fully know why. And so he didreally like them and their quiet home?

  Presently Schmidt said to Jefferson: "There is sad news from France, Mr.Secretary."

  "Good news, Citizen; altogether good. What if men die that a people maylive? Men die in war. What is the difference? Titles will go, a king beswept on to the dust-heap of history." A hot answer was on the lips ofthe young noble. He turned, vexed at the loss of his chance as AlexanderHamilton and Mrs. Swanwick joined them. Jefferson ceased to speak toSchmidt, and the two statesmen met with the formal courtesy of bitterhatred. Jefferson could see no good in the brilliant finance of the manwho now talked with courteous ease to one or another. The new-comer wasslight of figure, bright-eyed, with the deep line so rarely seen wherethe nose meets the forehead, and above all graceful, as few men are. Theface was less mobile than that of Jefferson, who resembled to a strangedegree the great actor of his name, a resemblance only to be explainedby some common English ancestry in an untraceable past. He had been to abad school in France as minister, and perhaps had by this time forgottenthe day when he desired his agent in London to find for him a coat ofarms.

  Presently, after a talk with Mrs. Swanwick, Jefferson, ill-pleased tomeet Hamilton, was of a mind to go. Quite aware that he meant to leave alittle sting, he said: "I must be gone. Good-by"; and to Hamilton: "Youhave heard, no doubt, the good news from France--Citizen?"

  "I have heard of needless murder and of a weak, ill-served, kindly kinginsulted by a mob of ruffians."

  Jefferson's thin face grew yet more somber; but what reply the secretarymight have made was put aside by the cheerful coming of a man in plain,but not Quaker clothes, a republican Jacobin of the maddest, as was seenby his interchange of "Citizen" with Jefferson, and the warm welcome hereceived. Thus reinforced, Jefferson lingered where Mrs. Swanwick andMargaret were busy with the hot chocolate, which Hamilton, from youthfulhabit, liked. At a word from their hostess, De Courval took a basket,and presently brought from the garden slope peaches such as any backyard among us grew in my childhood--yellow clingstones and open hearts.The widow ministered to the other statesman, who liked peaches and wasnot to be neglected even for her favorite Hamilton, now busilydiscussing with Schmidt the news sent by Gouverneur Morris.

  The new-comer had paid no least attention to his hostess, but sat downat the table and fingered the jumbles, apees, and cake known as"lovers'-knots" of Nanny's make, until he discovered one to his fancy.Mrs. Swanwick gave no obvious sign of annoyance, but smilingly stirredthe chocolate, while Margaret quietly removed the dish of cakes and gavethe guest a slice of sweetened bread known as "Dutch loaf."

  "There are fewer currants in the cake than there were last week,"remarked the astronomer, for, as Schmidt said in an aside to De Courvaland Hamilton, as they watched the great eat like lesser folk: "This isthe famous astronomer, David Rittenhouse. He divides his thoughtsbetween the heavens and his diet; and what else there is of him isJacobin."

  "I wish," said Hamilton, "that heaven equally engaged the rest of hisparty. May not I have my chocolate, Mrs. Swanwick?"

  "Certainly; and might I be noticed a little?" said Mrs. Swanwick toRittenhouse. The absent-minded philosopher looked up and said:

  "I forgot. Pardon me, Citess."

  Hamilton laughed merrily. "Is that the last invention?"

  "It sounds like the name of some wild little animal," said the Pearl.

  "Neat, that, Margaret," said Hamilton; "and might I, too, have a peach?Mr. Jefferson has emptied the basket."

  Margaret rose, and with De Courval went down the garden, a fairpresentment of the sexes, seen and approved by Hamilton, while Jeffersonsaid gaily:

  "The transit of Venus, Rittenhouse," for it was that observation whichhad given this star-gazer fame and recognition abroad.

  "My compliments, sir," said Schmidt. "I regret not to have said it."

  Jefferson bowed. He was at his best, for neither manners nor wit werewanting in his social hour. The astronomer, without comment, went oneating sweet bread. They drank chocolate and chatted idly of the newluxury--ice-cream, which Monsieur de Malerive made for a living, andsold on the mall we now call Independence Square. They talked, too, ofthe sad influx of people from San Domingo; the widow, attentive,intellectually sympathetic, a pleasant portrait of what the silver-cladPearl would be in days to come; she, the girl, leaning against a pillarof the porch, a gray figure silently watchful, curious, behind her forbackground the velvets of the rival statesmen, the long broideredwaistcoats, the ribbon-tied queues, and the two strongly contrastedfaces. Perhaps only Schmidt recognized the grace and power of the groupon the porch.

  The warm August evening was near its close, and a dark storm, which hungthreateningly over the Jersey shore, broke up the party. Warned byrolling thunder, the three men went away in peaceful talk.

  "The hate they have buried in their bellies," said Schmidt; "but, Rene,they are of the peerage, say what they may. Equality! _Der gute Himmel!_All men equal--and why not all women, too! He left that out. Equalbefore the law, perhaps--not his slaves; before God, no--nor man. Doeshe think Hamilton his equal? He does not love the gentleman entirely.But these two are, as fate, inevitable withal, rulers of men. I haveseen the labeled creatures of other lands--kings, ministers. These menyou saw here are the growth of a virgin soil--_Ach!_ 'There were giantsin those days,' men will say." Mrs. Swanwick listened quietly,considering what was said, not always as quick as Margaret to understandthe German. He spoke further of the never-pleased Virginian, and thenthe
widow, who had kindness for all and respect for what she calledexperienced opinion, avoiding to be herself the critic and hiding behinda quotation, said, "'There be many that say, Who will shew us anygood?'"

  "Fine Bible wisdom," said Schmidt.

  By and by when she had gone away with Margaret about household matters,Schmidt said to De Courval: "That is one of the beautiful flowers of theformal garden of Fox and Penn. The creed suits the temperament--agarden rose; but my Pearl--_Ach!_ a wild rose, creed and creature notmatched; nor ever will be."

  "I have had a delightful afternoon," said Rene, unable or indisposed tofollow the German's lead. "Supper will be late. You promised me the newbook."

  "Yes; Smith's 'Wealth of Nations,' not easy reading, but worth while."

  Thereafter the busy days ran on into weeks, and in October of thistragic 1792 came the appalling news of the murdered Swiss,self-sacrificed for no country and no large principle beyond the pledgeof an oath to a foreign king. More horrible was the massacre of thepriests in the garden of the Carmelites.

  To Rene's relief, these unlooked-for riots of murder seemed to affecthis mother less than he had feared might be the case. "My husband'sdeath was, my son, a prophecy of what was to come." To her it was allpersonal. For him it was far more, and the German alone understood thedouble anguish of a man in whom contended a puzzled horror at deathswithout apparent reason, of murders of women like the Princesse deLamballe,--an orgy of obscene insult,--and a wild anger at the march ofthe Duke of Brunswick upon Paris. It was his country, after all, and heleft his mother feeling disappointed that she did not share his hostilefeeling in regard to the _emigres_ in the German army.

  The wonderful autumn colors of October and November came and passed, anew wonder to the young man; his mother, to all seeming contented,spending her evenings with him over English lessons, or French books outof Logan's excellent library, or busy with never-finished embroidery. OnSundays they went to Gloria Dei, the modest little church of the Swedes.There to-day, amid the roar of trade and shipyards, in the churchyardthe birds sing over the grave of their historian, Wilson, and wornepitaphs relate the love and griefs of a people whose blood is claimedwith pride by the historic families of Pennsylvania.

  During these months, Aunt Gainor was long absent in Boston on a visit, alittle to the relief of the vicomtesse. Schmidt, too, was away in NewYork, to the regret of Rene, who had come more and more to feelwholesomely his influence and increasing attachment. The money help hadset him at ease, and he could now laugh when, on counting the coin inthe drawer, he found it undiminished. He had remonstrated in vain. TheGerman smiled. "A year more, and I shall be out of debt." Had Rene notheard of the widow's cruse? "I must be honest. 'T is my time. Thegrateful bee in my bonnet does but improve the shining hour ofopportunity. What was there to do but laugh?" And Rene at last laughed.

  December came with snow and gray skies, and the great business DeCourval had grown to feel his own felt the gathering storm caused by thedecree of freedom to white and black in the French islands. The greatshipmasters, Clark, Willing, Girard, the free-thinking merchant, andWynne, were all looking as bleak as the weather, and prudently ceasedto make their usual sea-ventures before the ice formed, while at thecoffee-houses the war between England and France, more and more near,threatened new perils to the commerce of the sea.

  On January 27, 1793, being Saturday, while De Courval, Wolcott, andGilbert Stuart, the artist, sat chatting with Hamilton in thedining-room and drinking the widow's chocolate, the painter was beggingleave to make a picture of Margaret, and asking them to come and see theportrait of Mrs. Jackson, one of the three charming sisters of Mr.Bingham.

  "No, there must be no portrait. It is against the way of Friends," saidthe mother. "I should hear of it from Friend Waln and others, too."

  What more there was, Rene did not learn. The painter was urgent. Stuartdid paint her long afterward, in glorious splendor of brocade, beautifulwith powder and nature's rouge. But now came Nanny, the black maid, andwaited while Margaret shyly won a little talk with Hamilton, who lovedthe girl. "I have been thinking," she said, "of Friend Jefferson. Why,sir, do they have any titles at all, even Citizen? I think a numberwould be still more simple." She was furnishing an elder with another ofthe unlooked-for bits of humor which attest the florescence of a mindgathering sense of the comic as the years run on and the fairygodmother, Nature, has her way.

  "Good heaven, child! if Mr. Jefferson had his will with your numeration,I should be zero, and he the angel of arithmetic alone knows what."

  "What is it, Nanny!" said the mother.

  "Massa Wynne want to see Massa Courval--right away in the front room."

  De Courval, wondering what had happened, and why he was wanted in haste,found Wynne in Schmidt's sitting-room. "Close the door," said themaster, "and sit down. I have much to say to you, and little time. Thereis great disturbance in San Domingo. I have debts due me there, and, byill chance, a cargo probably to be there soon--the _George Washington_,as you may remember. You made out the bill of lading in French."

  "I recall it, sir."

  "The debts may go for hopeless. The cargo is lost if landed. Port auPrince and Cap Francais are in terror, the planters flying to the towns,the plantations in ruins. The decree of freedom for the black has rousedthe devil among the slaves, and the low-class whites are ruling thetowns." He paused to think, and then added: "I send out to-morrow withthe flood my fastest ship, the schooner _Marie_, without cargo, mindyou. Will you go, nominally as supercargo? You are more thoughtful thanyour years would imply. You are twenty-seven, I think you said. What youare worth in danger--and there will be much--I do not know. There may bequestions involving grave decisions, involving courageous action, notmerely what every gentleman has--mere personal fearlessness. I am plain,I trust."

  De Courval was silent.

  "If you get there first, I save a large loss. Once ashore, the cargowill be seized, and not a cent paid for it. It is to take or leave, Mr.de Courval; I shall not blame you if you say no. But if you do say no, Imust go. The loss may be serious."

  Here was a chance to repay much kindness, and the threat of dangerstirred the young man's blood. "How long should I be absent?"

  "I do not know. The ship may have gone to Martinique, also. There weregoods for both islands."

  "There is but one question, sir--my mother. She has no one else. And mayI talk to Mr. Schmidt?"

  "To no one better, if he were here. He is not, and I cannot wait. Ishall call for your answer at nine to-night. The tide serves at 6 A.M. Iought to say that your perfect English and as perfect French enable youto pass for being of one nation or the other. Best to be an American.And De Courval? No; that is too plainly French."

  "I am Louis Rene. Why not Mr. Lewis, sir, at need?"

  "Good! Excellent! I shall write my instructions with care. They will befull; but much must be left to you and the master."

  "Captain Biddle, I suppose."

  "Yes. A resolute old sea-dog, but who will obey because I order it. Goodnight. At nine--I must know at nine."

  De Courval lost no time. His mother was alone, as usual avoiding theSaturday visitors.

  "Oh," he said to himself as he stood outside of her door, "you must letme go."

  He paused before he knocked. Gratitude, interest, awakened eagerness forperilous adventure, called him to this voyage. He had then, as on lateroccasions one source of indecision--the mother. If she said no, he muststay; but would she? He knocked gently, and in a moment was standing ather side.

  She set aside her embroidery-frame. "What is wrong?" she said. "I do notwant to hear any more evil news--or at least, no details. Who else isdead of those we cared for?"

  "No one, mother. Mr. Wynne wishes me to sail for him at dawn to-morrowfor San Domingo. I may be in time to save him much money."

  "Well," she said coldly, "what else?" Her face, always grave, becamestern. "And so, to save a trader's money, I am to be left alone."

  "Mother, it seems hard for you
to understand these people; and there isanother side to it. I have been treated with kindness for which thereseems to me small reason. Twice my wages have been raised, and thisoffer is a compliment, as well as a chance to oblige a man I like."

  "Wages!" she cried. "Do not imagine me deceived by these good-naturedbourgeois, nor by your desire to spare me. Secretary, indeed! Do theyfancy me a fool? You are a clerk."

  "I am," he said; "but that is not now of importance. He has said that hemust go or I must go."

  "Then let him go. You must not disobey me, Rene."

  "Mother," he said, "these people have, God knows why, found us a home,and covered us with obligations never possible to be repaid. Here atlast comes a chance--and you know our old French saying."

  "Yes, yes, I know. But any clerk could go. It is--oh, my son!--that Ishould miss you day and night."

  "Any clerk could not go, _maman_. It asks this thing--a man not afraid.No timid clerk can go. Do not you see, _maman?_"

  "He will think you afraid if you stay?"

  "Oh, mother, do understand this man better! He is a gentleman--of--of asgood a race as ours, a soldier of distinction in the war. He will notthink me afraid; but others may."

  "Is there danger, my son?"

  "Yes. To be honest, very great danger. The blacks are free. The lowerwhites rule the seaports. It is to be more terrible than the riot ofmurder at home."

  He had remained standing while he talked. For half a minute the darkfigure and unchanging face bent over the embroidery-frame without a wordof reply. Then rising, she set a hand on each of his shoulders and said,"You must go, Rene." Centuries of the training and creed of a race ofwarlike men could not have failed to defeat love-born anxiety, and thedread of loss, in a woman through whom had passed into the making of aman certain ancestral qualities. "You must go," she repeated.

  "Thank you, mother. I was afraid--"

  "Of what?" she cried. "That I should be afraid for a man of my blood torisk life where duty calls him?"

  "No, mother; I was afraid that you might not see it all as I do."

  "If, Rene, this were but a peaceful errand of months away, I should havesaid no. The debts, all--all might have stood. I should have beenashamed, but obstinate, my son. We will not discuss it. You must go. Andis it for long?" The clear, sweet voice broke a little. "Is it for verylong?"

  "I do not know."

  "Ah, well. I do not want to see you in the morning. When you are readyto-night, you will say good-by."

  "Yes, mother. And now I must pack my bag." And he left her.

  That was strange, he thought. What would have made some women say nodecided her to say go. He smiled proudly. "It was like her," hemurmured.

  When at eight that night he came to say good-by, she kissed him and saidonly, "Write to me when you can." At nine Hugh Wynne had the answer heconfidently expected.

  At dusk of day, the old black Cicero tramped after De Courval throughthe snow, as full of thought he went on, his camlet cloak about him, andunder it the sword he had left in the Quaker's attic. He had told Mrs.Swanwick and left a letter for Schmidt, taking, after some hesitation,fifty dollars out of the drawer.

  At daybreak, on the slip, Mr. Wynne waited with the captain. "Here,"said the merchant, "are your instructions. Use your good sense. You haveit. Have no fear of assuming responsibility. Captain Biddle, in case ofdoubt, trust Mr. Lewis to decide any question involving money."

  "Oh, that is his name--Lewis."

  "Yes; Mr. Lewis will show you my instructions." Then taking De Courvalaside, "You said no word of pay."

  "No, sir."

  "Very good. Some men would have bargained. I shall see that your salarywhile absent, eighty dollars a month, is put in Mary Swanwick's handsfor your mother."

  "Thank you. That leaves me at ease."

  "Ah, here is some of my own Maryland tobacco and a pipe the Germans callmeerschaum; and one word more: you have infinitely obliged me and mywife. God bless you! Good-by! _Bon voyage!_ Your boat is ready, andCaptain Biddle is impatient to be gone."

  In a few minutes the _Marie_, wing-and-wing, was flying down theDelaware with the first of the ebb, the skim of ice crackling at her bowand a fair wind after her. They were like enough to carry the ebb-tidewith them to the capes or even to outsail it.

  De Courval stood on the quarter-deck, in the clear, sharp wintry air,while the sun rose over Jersey and deepened the prevalent reds which hadso struck his mother when in May, nine months before, they first saw thecity. Now he recalled his sad memories of France, their unhappy povertyin England until their old notary in Paris contrived to send them thefew thousand livres with which they had come to Pennsylvania with thehopes which so often deceived the emigrant, and then God had found forthem friends. He saw as he thought of them, the German, who held to himsome relation of affectionate nearness which was more than friendshipand seemed like such as comes, though rarely, when the ties of blood aredrawn closer by respect, service, and love. He had ceased to think ofthe mystery which puzzled many and of which Hamilton and Mr. JusticeWilson were believed to know more than any others. Being of thereligion, he had said to Schmidt in a quiet, natural way that theircoming together was providential, and the German had said: "Why not? Itwas provided." Then he saw Gainor Wynne, so sturdy and full of insistentkindness; the strong, decisive nephew; the Quaker homes; all theseamazing people; and, somehow with a distinctness no other figure had,the Pearl in the sunlight of an August evening.

  The name Margaret fits well--ah--yes. To sing to her the old Frenchverse--there in the garden above the river--well, that would bepleasant--and to hear how it would sound he must try it, being in ahappy mood.

  The captain turned to listen, for first he whistled the air and thensang:

  LE BLASON DE LA MARGUERITE

  En Avril ou naquit amour, J'entrai dans son jardin un jour, Ou la beaute d'une fleurette Me plut sur celles que j'y vis. Ce ne fut pas la paquerette, L'oeillet, la rose, ni le lys: Ce fut la belle Marguerite, Qu'au coeur j'aurai toujours ecrite.

  He laughed. That would hardly do--"_au coeur ecrite_"; but then, it isonly a song.

  "Well sung," said the captain, not ignorant of French. "Do you sing thatto the lady who is written in your heart?"

  "Always," laughed De Courval--"always."