She smiled at his description. "Your father, Rene, once told me of a

letter Marquis La Fayette had of him the day after he last parted with

Washington. It was something like this: 'When our carriages separated, I

said, 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 a

man, Rene. He must have strong affections."

"Men say not, mother."

VII

The years which followed our long struggle for freedom were busy years

for the mind of man. The philosophers in France were teaching men

strange doctrines, and fashion, ever eager for change, reveled in the

new political philosophy. The stir of unrest was in the air, among the

people, in the talk of the salons.

The Bastille had long since fallen, and already in the provinces murder

and pillage had begun. The terrible example set by Jourdan late in '91

was received in Paris with other than reprobation. He was to return to

Avignon and, strange irony of fate, to be condemned as a moderate and to

die by the guillotine amid the rejoicing of the children of his victims;

but this was to be far away in '94.

The massacres of August, '92, when the king left the Swiss to their

fate, all the lightning and thunder of the gathering storm of war

without and frenzied murder within the tottering kingdom, had not as yet

in this midsummer been heard of in America.

After four years as our minister in Paris, Mr. Jefferson had long ago

come back to add the mischief of a notable intellect to the party which

sincerely believed we were in danger of a monarchy, and was all for

France and for Citizen Equality, who, as Hamilton foresaw, might come

to be the most cruel of tyrants.

The long battle of States' rights had begun in America. The Federalists,

led by Hamilton, were for strong central rule; their opponents, the

Republicans, later to be called Democrats, were gone mad in their

Jacobin clubs of many cities, _bonnet rouge_ at feasts, craze about

titles, with Citizen for Mr., and eagerly expecting a new French

minister.

Washington, a Federalist, smiled grimly at the notion of kingship, and

the creature of no party, with his usual desire for peace, had made up,

of both parties, a cabinet sure to disagree.

To hear the clamor of the Jacobin clubs, a stranger coming among us in

'92 might have believed us ruined. Nevertheless, Hamilton had rescued

our finance, assured a revenue not as yet quite sufficient, founded the

bank, and assumed the State debts. The country was in peril only from

disorders due to excess of prosperity, the podagra of the state. There

was gambling in the new script, lotteries innumerable, and the very

madness of speculation in all manner of enterprises--canals, toll-pike

roads, purchases of whole counties.

Cool heads like Schmidt looked on and profited. The Quaker merchants, no

wise perturbed by the rashness of speculation, accumulated irredeemable

ground rents, and thriving, took far too little interest in the general

party issues, but quietly created the great schools which are of our

best to-day, endowed charities, and were to be heard of later as

fearless Christian gentlemen in a time of death and despair, when men

unafraid in battle shrank from the foe which struck and was never seen.

In the early August days, madame had driven now and then with Mistress

Wynne, and at present was gone, not quite willingly, to stay a while at

the Hill. Mrs. Wynne had called, and her husband, more than once, with a

guarded word or two from his wife as to the manner of usefulness of his

young clerk. "Mind you, Hugh, let it be secretary. Do not hurt the poor

lady's pride." So counseled Darthea, kindly wise, and he obeyed, having

come in time to accept his wife's wisdom in many matters social and

other.

To the Hill farm came to call, on the vicomtesse, the Vicomte de

Noailles, the prosperous partner of William Bingham; and, asked by the

Wynnes, Mrs. Bingham, to be at a later day the acclaimed beauty of

London; her kin, the Willings, with the gift of hereditary good looks;

and the Shippens. The vicomtesse received them all with a certain

surprise at their ceremonious good manners and their tranquil sense of

unquestioned position. She would return no visits as yet, and her son

was busy and, too, like herself, in mourning. In fact, she shrank from

general contact with the prosperous, and dreaded for Rene this gay world

of pretty young women. _Ciel!_ What might not happen?

On their part, they were curious and kind. Emigrant ladies were rare;

but, as to foreign titles, they were used to them in the war, and now

they were common since a great influx of destitute French had set in,

and not all who came were to their liking.

"There," said the German one evening, kindling a great pipe, "enough of

politics, De Courval; you are of the insatiably curious. We are to dine

to-morrow at the fashionable hour of four with Mistress Wynne and the

maid, my Pearl. It is an occasion of some worthiness. She has come to

town for this feast, one of her freaks. Did ever you see a great

actress?"

"I?" said De Courval. "No, or yes--once, in France, Mademoiselle Mars.

We of the religion do not go to the theater. What actress do you speak

of?"

"Oh, women--all women; but to-morrow on the stage will be Miss Gainor,

become, by pretty courtesy of possibilities declined, Mistress Gainor by

brevet--"

De Courval, delighted, cried: "But your little Quaker lady--is she to

have a role? She seems to me very simple."

"Simple! Yes, here, or at meeting, I daresay. Thou shouldest see her

with Friend Waln. Her eyes humbly adore his shoe-buckles--no, his

shoe-ties--when he exhorts her to the preservation of plainness of

attire, and how through deep wading, and a living travail of soul, life

shall be uplifted to good dominion. It is a godly man, no doubt, and a

fine, ripe English he talks; and Arthur Howell, too."

"I must hear them."

"You will hear noble use of the great English speech. But best of all

are the Free Quakers, like Samuel Wetherill, an apostate, says Friend

Pennington with malignant sweetness, but for me a sterling, well-bred

gentle, if ever God made one. Ah, then the maid, all godliness and

grace, will take his hat and cane and, the head a bit aside, make eyes

at him. Ah, fie for shame! And how we purr and purr--actresses, oh, all

of them! There is the making of a Quaker _Juliet_ in that girl."

"One would scarce think it. My mother is _eprise_--oh, quite taken with

Miss Margaret, and now, I think, begins a little to understand this

household, so new and so wonderful to me and to her. But I meant to ask

you something. I have part paid the queer doctor, and the bill, I

suppose, is correct. It is long--"

"And large, no doubt."

"And what with a new gown my mother needs and some clothes I must

have--"

The German interrupted him. "De Courval, may I not help you, to whom I

owe a debt which can never be paid?"

"Oh, no, no. I shall soon have more wages." He grew red as he spoke.

"But why is money such a wonder thing that only some saleable article

shall count against it? I lack hospitality to entertain the thought."

"Would you take it of me?"

"I? Yes. I took my life of you--a poor thing, but mine own."

"I think you had small choice in the matter," laughed Rene.

"_Der Teufel!_ Very little. Let it be a loan, if you will. Come, now.

You make me unhappy. I lend you five hundred _livres_--a hundred dollars

we call it here. You pay, when you can."

De Courval hesitated. Was there not something ignoble in refusing a

kindness thus offered? Schmidt laughed as he added: "Reverse it. Put it

in this fashion: good master of my fate, let me drown. I would owe no

coin of life to any. To end it, I put to-night in this left-hand drawer

money. Use it freely. Leave a receipt each time, if you like."

"I am so little used to kindness," said De Courval, wavering.

"I know," returned Schmidt--"bittersweet to some men, but should not be

to the more noble nature."

"No, no, not to me. I take it and gladly, but"--and once more he

colored, as he said with a certain shyness--"would you mind calling me

Rene? I--I should like it."

"And I, too," said the German, as he put a hand of familiar kindliness

on the younger man's knee. "Now that is settled, and you have done me

another favor. I have an errand at Germantown, and shall join you at

Miss Wynne's at four to-morrow. Are there any ships come in? No? There

will be, I fear, evil news from France, and storms, storms that will

roll across the sea and beat, too, on these shores. It will stir here

some foolish echoes, some feeble mockery of what over there cries

murder." De Courval had had too much reason to believe him. "Ach, I am

sleepy. Shall you go to see your mother on Sunday? There is my mare at

your service."

Yes, he had meant to walk, but he would be glad of the horse.

When, on Saturday, Mrs. Swanwick knew that Schmidt had gone to the

country, she said Margaret would walk with the vicomte, and show him

the way. He felt a fresh surprise, a little embarrassment. Young women

were not thus free in France; but as he was the only one thus amazed, he

set out with the Pearl in some wonderment at what his mother would have

said or thought.

They walked up Front Street, and at last along Fifth. She was now, as

Schmidt had said, the other Margaret of whom De Courval had had brief

knowledge at times. A frank, natural, gay good humor was in all her

ways, a gentle desire to please, which was but the innocent coquetry of

a young girl's heart. She stayed a moment as they crossed Walnut Street,

and replying to a question, said: "Yes, that is the jail men called the

Provostry in the war. My grandfather lay in it--oh, very long. We have

his sword in the attic. I would hang it up down-stairs, but Friends

would not approve, thou must know. And that is Independence Hall, but

thou hast seen it."

"Yes. Are you proud of it?"

"Surely. My people shed our blood for what strong men did in that hall.

My uncle and my grandfather came out of the jail to die, oh, both of

them!"

"And of what party are you, Miss Margaret?"

"Of George Washington's," she cried. "But Friends must have no party, or

their women, at least--not even tea-parties," and she laughed.

"I think I am of your party," said De Courval--"George Washington's."

The conventual shelter of the silk bonnet turned toward him as she

said: "Then we agree; but I am not sure that I like people to agree with

me. It spoils talk, Mr. Schmidt says."

"Then I am all for Jefferson," he cried gaily, thinking in his grave way

that this young girl was of a sudden older than her years.

"I am not sure that I like that either," she replied, and so chatting

with easy freedom they came to Miss Wynne's door, opposite the Quakers'

burial-ground, where their dead lay in unmarked graves. A negro servant

in the brown livery of the Wynnes opened the door, and Aunt Gainor

appeared in the hall in more than usual splendor.

"Good day, Vicomte," and to Margaret: "Take off your bonnet, child. How

can any one, man or woman, kiss thee with that thing on thy head? It

might be useful at need, but I do suppose you could take it off on such

occasions."

"For shame, Aunt Gainor!" said the Pearl, flushing and glad of the

bonnet she was in act to remove. Miss Wynne kissed her, whispering,

"Good Lord! you are on the way to be a beauty!"

De Courval, who of course had called long since to thank his hostess,

had so far dined in no one of the more luxuriously appointed homes of

Philadelphia. Here were portraits; much, too much, china, of which he

was no judge; and tables for work that Miss Wynne never did, or for

cards at which she liked high play.

"Mr. Hamilton was to dine here, but was with me just now to be excused."

"He was with my mother an hour this morning," said Margaret, "about

some small affairs we have in New York. He is to be here again on

Saturday sennight to tell mother all about it."

"I am sorry to miss him," said Gainor; "but if I lose a guest I desired,

I am to have one I do not want. Mr. Josiah Langstroth has bidden himself

to dine with me."

"Uncle Josiah? I have not seen him for a month."

"There is a joss in the corner like him, Vicomte," said Miss Wynne. "If

you look at it, you will need no presentation. I pray you to avoid the

temptation of a look." Of course both young persons regarded, as she

meant they should, the china god on his ebony stand.

"A reincarnation of the bulldog," remarked Gainor, well pleased with her

phrase.

"If," said Margaret to the young man, "thou dost take my aunt or Uncle

Josiah seriously, it will be what they never do one another. They fight,

but never quarrel. My mother thinks this is because then they would stay

apart and have no more the luxury of fighting again, a thing they do

love."

"Are you sure that is thy mother's wisdom, Margaret?" said Gainor. "It

is not like her."

"If I said it was mine, thou wouldst box my ears."

"Did ever one hear the like?"

The young girl occasionally ventured, when with aunt or uncle, upon

these contributions of observation which now and then startle those who,

seeing little change from day to day, are surprised by the sudden

fruitage of developmental growth.

"I shall profit by Miss Swanwick's warning," said De Courval.

Miss Wynne, who kept both houses open, and now would not as usual, on

account of the vicomtesse, fill her country house with guests, had come

to town to dine Mr. Hamilton and to amuse herself with the young man. It

cannot be said, despite her bluff kindness, that De Courval altogether

or unreservedly liked her sudden changes of mood or the quick

transitions which more or less embarrassed and at times puzzled him.

Upon his inquiring for his mother, Miss Wynne replied:

"She is better, much better. You are to come to-morrow. You should come

more often. It is absurd, most absurd, that you are so tied to the legs

of a desk. I shall speak to my nephew."

"I beg of you, madame, to do no such thing. I am a clerk and the

youngest." And then a little ashamed of his shame, he added: "I sweep

out the office and lock up at evening. You would cause Mr. Wynne to

think I had asked you." He spoke with decision.

"It is ridiculous. I shall explain, make it easy."

Then he said, "You will pardon me, who owe you so much, but I shall have

to be beforehand and say I do not wish it."

"I retreat," said Miss Wynne. "I haul down my colors." He was quite sure

that she never would.

"You are again kind, madame," he returned.

"I hear Mr. Schmidt and the joss," she said as she rose, while Margaret,

unobserved, cast a thoughtful glance at the clerk. It was a new type to

her. The gravity, the decisiveness, and the moral courage, although she

may not have so labeled the qualities, appealed to her who had proudly

borne the annoyances of restricted means among friends and kindred who

lived in luxury. She had heard Schmidt say to her mother that this De

Courval was a man on the way to the making of a larger manhood. Even

young as she was, about to be seventeen in September, she had among the

young Friends those she liked and some who were disposed to like her too

well; but this was another kind of man.

When Schmidt entered, followed by Friend Langstroth, De Courval was

struck by the truth of Gainor's reference to the joss. Short, very fat,

a triple chin and pendant cheeks under small eyes, and a bald head--all

were there.

"You are both late. My back of mutton will be overdone. The Vicomte de

Courval--Mr. Langstroth."

"Glad to see thee; meant to come and see thee. I was to give thee this

letter, Friend Schmidt. Mr. Wynne sent it. A messenger came up from

Chester while I was with him at the counting-house. The _Saucy Sisters_

was lying below for the flood."

Schmidt glanced at it, hesitated a moment, and put it in his pocket as

they went in to dinner.

"Any news?" asked Langstroth. "Any news from France?"

"I do not know," said Schmidt. He had no mind to spoil the meal with

what he knew must very likely be evil tidings. "It is from England," he

added. Miss Gainor, understanding him, said: "We were to have had Mr.

Hamilton. I think I told you."

"I saw him at the office of the Secretary of the Treasury," said

Schmidt; "a less capable successor he has in his place. We talked much

about the rage for lotteries, and he would stop them by a law."

"He should let things alone," said Langstroth. "A nice muddle he has

made of it with his bank and his excise."

"And what do you know about it?" said Gainor, tartly.

"Fiddlesticks! I know that a man who cannot manage his own affairs had

better leave larger things alone."

"He has," said Schmidt quietly, "as I see it, that rare double gift, a

genius for government and finance."

"Humph!" growled Langstroth.

Schmidt was silent, and took the Wynne Madeira with honest appreciation,

while the young man ate his dinner, amazed at the display of bad

manners.

Then the girl beside him said in a half-whisper: "Fiddlesticks! Why do

people say that? The violin is hard to play, I hear. Why do men say

fiddlesticks?"

De Courval did not know, and Aunt Gainor asked, "What is that,

Margaret?"

"I was saying that the violin must be hard to play."

"Ah, yes, yes," returned the hostess, puzzled, while Schmidt smiled, and

the talk fell upon mild gossip and the last horse-race--and so on to

more perilous ground.

"About lotteries," said Josiah, "I have bought thee a ticket, Margaret,

number 1792--the lottery for the college of Princeton."

"A nice Quaker you are," said Miss Wynne. "I see they forbid lotteries

in Massachusetts. The overseers of meeting will be after you."

"I should like to see them. A damn pretty business, indeed. Suppose thee

were to win the big prize, child." He spoke the intolerable language

then becoming common among Friends. "Thee could beat Gainor in gowns."

"I should not be let to wear them." Alas! she saw herself in brocades

and lutestring underskirts. The young man ignorantly shared her

distress.

"There is small chance of it, I fear," said Gainor. "A hundred lottery

chances I have bought, and never a cent the richer." And so the talk

went on, Langstroth abusing all parties, Schmidt calmly neutral, the

young people taking small part, and regarding the lottery business as

one of Josiah's annoying jokes--no one in the least believing him.

At last the cloth was off the well-waxed mahogany table, a fresh pair of

decanters set before the hostess, and each guest in turn toasted.

Langstroth had been for a time comfortably unamiable. He had said

abusive things of all parties in turn, and now Schmidt amused himself by

adding more superlative abuse, while Gainor Wynne, enjoying the game,

fed Langstroth with exasperating additions of agreement. The girl,

knowing them all well, silently watched the German's face, his zest in

annoying Josiah unexpressed by even the faintest smile--a perfect

actor. De Courval, with less full understanding of the players, was at

times puzzled, and heard in silence Schmidt siding with Josiah. "It was

most agreeable, my dear," said Mistress Gainor next day to one of her

favorites, Tacy Lennox. "Josiah should of right be a gentleman. He has

invented the worst manners ever you saw, my dear Tacy. He was like a mad

bull, eager for war, and behold--he is fed and petted. Ah, but he was

furious and bedazed. Tacy, I would you had seen it."

It was at last quite too much of a trial for Josiah, who turned from

Gainor to Schmidt, and then to De Courval, with wild opinions, to which

every one in turn agreed, until at last, beginning to suspect that he

was being played with, he selected a subject sure to make his hostess

angry. A look of pugnacious greed for a bone of contest showed on his

bulldog face as he turned to Mistress Wynne. "This Madeira is on its

last legs, Gainor."

"All of us are," laughed Schmidt.

"It is hardly good enough for my toast."

"Indeed," said Gainor; "we shall know when we hear it."

Then Josiah knew that for her to agree with him would this time be

impossible. He smiled. "When I am at home, Gainor, as thee knows, I

drink to our lawful king." He rose to his feet. "Here's to George the

Third."

Gainor was equal to the occasion.

"Wait a little, Josiah. Take away Mr. Langstroth's glass, Caesar. Go to

the kitchen and fetch one of the glasses I use no more because the

Hessian hogs used them for troughs when they were quartered on me in

the war. Caesar, a Hessian wine-glass for Mr. Langstroth."

De Courval listened in astonishment, while Schmidt, laughing, cried, "I

will drink to George with pleasure."

"I know," cried Margaret: "to George Washington."

Schmidt laughed. "You are too sharp, Pearl. In a minute, but for your

saucy tongue, I should have trapped our Tory friend. To George the

greater," said Schmidt.

The Quaker turned down his glass. "Not I, indeed."

"I hope the poor man will never hear of it, Josiah," said Miss Wynne as

she rose laughing, and presently Schmidt and the young people went away,

followed shortly after by Langstroth.

For a while Margaret walked on in silence, De Courval and the German

talking. At last she said: "Thou shouldst know that my uncle is not as

bad as he seems. He is really a kind and generous man, but he loves to

contradict my aunt, and no one else can so easily make her angry."

"Ah, Pearl, the Madeira was good," said Schmidt--"too good; or, rather,

the several Madeiras. In the multitude of vinous counselers there is

little wisdom, and the man's ways would tempt an angel to mischief."

Mrs. Swanwick, being alone, had gone out to take supper with a friend,

and as Margaret left them in the hall, Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come

in. I have a great package from Gouverneur Morris, from Paris. You may

as well hear what news there is. I saw your anxiety, but I was of no

mind to have that imitation Quaker discuss the agony of a great nation."

It took two months or more to hear from France, and each week added to

the gathering anxiety with which De Courval awaited news. He was

grateful for the daily labor, with its steady exactions, which forbade

excessive thought of the home land, for no sagacity of his friend or any

forecast that man could make three thousand miles away was competent to

predict the acts of the sinister historic drama on which the curtain was

rising far away in France.

As the German opened the envelop and set aside letter after letter, he

talked on in his disconnected way. "I could like some bad men more than

Josiah Langstroth. He has what he calls opinions, and will say,

'Welladay,'--no, that is my bastard English,--he will say 'Well, at all

events, that is my opinion.' What means 'all events,' Herr Rene? A kick

would change them. 'T is an event--a kick. And Mistress Wynne is

sometimes not easy to endure. She steps heavily on tender toes, even

when on errands of goodness." The younger man scarce heard these

comments as letter after letter was put aside, until at last he put down

his pipe, and Schmidt said: "I was sorry to keep you, but now this last

letter has it all--all. There is no detail, my friend, but

enough--enough. He writes me all France is in a ferment. This is from

Mr. Morris, whom our mobocrats loathe for an aristocrat. He writes: 'The

King has vetoed two bills, one about the priests and one of less

moment. La Fayette is in disgrace, and wants the surgeon's courage to

let blood. Worst of all, and I write in haste,' he says, 'a mob on June

20th broke into the Tuileries and there, in the OEil de Boeuf, a

butcher mocked the King to his face as Monsieur Veto. The King laughed,

it is said, and set their damned bonnet on his head, and drew his sword,

and cried "_Vive la nation!_" The war goes ill or well as you please;

ill for all, I fear. Dillon was murdered by his own regiment after a

retreat.'"

"I knew him in the army," said De Courval. "I was young then. But the

king--has he no courage? Are they all mad?"

"No. He has not the courage of action. He has the courage to endure, if

that is to be so nominated. The other is needed just now. That is

all--all."

"And too much."

"Yes. Come, let us go out and fence a bit in the garden, and sweat out

too much Madeira. Come, there is still light enough."

VIII

Through the quiet of a Sunday morning, De Courval rode slowly up Fifth

Street, and into a land of farms and woodland, to spend a quiet day

alone with his mother, Miss Wynne, not altogether to the young man's

regret, having to remain in town over Monday. As he came to the scenes

where Schmidt, in their walks of Sundays, had explained to him

Washington's well-laid plan of the Germantown battle, he began at last

to escape for a time the too sad reflection which haunted his hours of

leisure in the renewed interest of a young soldier who had known only

the army life, but never actual war. He bent low in the saddle, hat off

to a group on the lawn at Cliveden, the once war-battered home of the

Chews, and was soon after kissing his mother on the porch of the Hill

farm.

There was disquieting news to tell of France, and he soon learned that

despite the heat and mosquitos she preferred the tranquillity of the

widow's home to the luxury of Miss Wynne's house. She was as usual

calmly decided, and he did not urge her to stay longer. She would return

to the city on Thursday. They talked of money matters, with reticence on

his part in regard to Schmidt's kindness and good counsels, and

concerning the satisfaction Mr. Wynne had expressed with regard to his

secretary.

"It may be good training for thee, my son," she said and then, after a

pause, "I begin to comprehend these people," and, pleased with her

progress, made little ventures in English to let him see how well she

was learning to speak. An habitual respect made him refrain from

critical corrections, but he looked up in open astonishment when she

said rather abruptly: "The girl in her gray gowns is on the way to

become one of the women about whom men go wild. Neither are you very

ugly, 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 knew

in France; but a word of warning does no harm, even if it be not

needed."

"I think you may be at ease, _maman_. You amaze me when you call her

beautiful. A pleasant little maid she seems to me, and not always the

same, and at times gay,--oh, when away from her mother,--and

intelligent, too. But beautiful--oh, hardly. _Soyez tranquille, maman._"

"I did not say she was beautiful. I said she was good-looking; or that

at least was what I meant. Certainly she is unlike our too ignorant

demoiselles; but contrast with the familiar may have its peril. It is

quite another type from our young women at home, and attractive enough

in its way--in its bourgeois way."

He smiled. "I am quite too busy to concern myself with young women." In

fact 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 it

would be proper now for him to go to Mrs. Bingham's and to the

President's receptions. Miss Wynne would see that he had the entree. He

was 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 with

several things to think about, and on Thursday the vicomtesse made clear

to the well-pleased Mrs. Swanwick that she was glad of the quiet and the

English lessons and the crisp talk of Schmidt, who spoke French, but not

fluently, and concerning whom she was mildly jealous and, for her,

curious. "Schmidt, my son? No; a name disguised. He is a gentleman to

his 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 of

it."

"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 the

increasing work of the great shipping merchant. De Courval was more and

more 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 word

of 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 clerk

had come, and De Courval, to his relief, was no longer expected to sweep

out the counting-house.

By degrees Wynne fully realized that he had found a helper of unusual

capacity, and more and more, as the great and varied business attracted

De Courval, he was taken into Wynne's confidence, and saw the ships come

and 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 the

cellars. Gentlemen came to taste it, men with historic names--General

Wayne, Colonel Lear for the President, and Mr. Justice Yeates. De

Courval was bade to knock out bungs and dip in tasting vials. Also Miss

Wynne came to refill her cellar, but took small notice of him. He was

out of favor for a season, and her nephew had laughed at her

remonstrances.

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

"Nonsense, Aunt Gainor! Let him alone. You can not spoil him, as you did

me. There is stuff in the fellow worth a dozen of my clerks. At six they

are gone. If there is work to do, he stays till nine. What that man

wants, 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 my

hands of him."

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

She went away angry, and saw the young noble talking with a ruddy

gentleman whose taste in wine has made his name familiar at the

dining-tables of the last hundred years. Major Butler was asking the

vicomte to dine, and promising a perilous education in the vintages of

Madeira.

When the major had gone, Mr. Wynne sent for his clerk. To be opposed was

apt to stiffen his Welsh obstinacy. "Your wages are to be now, sir, two

hundred and fifty livres,--fifty dollars a month,--and you are doing

well, very well; but the clerks are not to know, except Mr. Potts." He

owed this unusual advance to Miss Wynne, but probably the master was as

little aware of what had caused it as was the irate spinster. De Courval

thanked him quietly, knowing perfectly well that he had fairly earned

what was so pleasantly given.

It was now the Saturday sennight mentioned by Margaret as the day when

Mr. Hamilton was to come to settle certain small business matters with

Mrs. Swanwick. Some wit, or jealous dame, as Schmidt had said, called

Mrs. Swanwick's the Quaker salon; and, in fact, men of all types of

opinion came hither. Friends there were, the less strict, and at times

some, like Waln, to protest in their frank way against the too frequent

company 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 the

thoughtful neutrality of Schmidt, captured men, young and old, who were

apt to come especially on a Saturday afternoon, when there was leisure

even for busy statesmen. Hither came Aaron Burr--the woman-hawk, Aunt

Gainor called him, with his dark, fateful face; Pickering, in after days

of the War Department; Wolcott, to be the scarce adequate successor of

Hamilton; Logan, and gay cousins--not often more than one or two at a

time--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 summer

afternoon. The vicomtesse avoided this interesting society, and at last

Rene 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, head

down, 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 the

hospitably open front door--a peaceful scene, with still the ring and

clash 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?"

[Illustration: "'Well played!' cried Schmidt--'the jest and the

rapier'"]

"I am a man of peace, how shouldst I know? but the game looks easy." He

threw up his head and stretched out his hand. "Let me look at the

thing."

"Then take off your coat and put on a mask. But I shall not hurt you;

there is no need for the mask."

He was quietly amused, and if only Nicholas Waln would come; for now the

Quaker gentleman had put aside hat and coat, and in plainest gray

homespun faced him, a stalwart, soldierly figure.

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

In a moment the German knew that he was crossing blades with a master of

the small sword. Margaret and De Courval looked on merrily exchanging

gay glances.

"Dead," cried De Forest, as he struck fair over the German's heart, "and

a damn good hit!"

"Well played!" cried Schmidt--"the jest and the rapier. Another

bout--no!" To his surprise he saw the Quaker gentleman's face change as

he hastily put on his coat.

"Thank thee," he said to De Courval as the young man handed him his hat,

and without other words than "I bid thee good day. I shall not bide this

afternoon," went into the hall and out of the farther door, passing with

bowed head and without a word a gentleman who entered.

Schmidt showed little of the astonishment easily read on De Courval's

face, who, however, said nothing, having been taught to be chary of

comments on his elders; and now taking up his foil again, fell on

guard.

"A man haunted by his past," said Schmidt, as was in fact explained at

breakfast next day, when Mrs. Swanwick, being questioned, said: "Yes. He

was a colonel in the war, and of reckless courage. Later he returned to

Friends, and now and then has lapses in his language and his ways, and

is filled with remorse."

"The call of the sword was too much for him," said Schmidt. "I can

comprehend that. But he had a minute of the joy of battle."

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

"The maid is beginning to think," said Schmidt to himself. But this was

all on the next day.

As the tall man came out on the porch, Margaret said: "My mother is

occupied. Friend Schmidt, thou knowest Friend Jefferson; and this is our

new lodger," and she said boldly, "the Vicomte de Courval."

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

trust?"

"Yes; but at this hour she rests. We owe you, sir, our thanks for the

good chance of finding what has been to us most truly a home."

Margaret looked up pleased, she did not fully know why. And so he did

really like them and their quiet home?

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

Secretary."

"Good news, Citizen; altogether good. What if men die that a people may

live? Men die in war. What is the difference? Titles will go, a king be

swept on to the dust-heap of history." A hot answer was on the lips of

the young noble. He turned, vexed at the loss of his chance as Alexander

Hamilton and Mrs. Swanwick joined them. Jefferson ceased to speak to

Schmidt, and the two statesmen met with the formal courtesy of bitter

hatred. Jefferson could see no good in the brilliant finance of the man

who now talked with courteous ease to one or another. The new-comer was

slight of figure, bright-eyed, with the deep line so rarely seen where

the nose meets the forehead, and above all graceful, as few men are. The

face was less mobile than that of Jefferson, who resembled to a strange

degree the great actor of his name, a resemblance only to be explained

by some common English ancestry in an untraceable past. He had been to a

bad school in France as minister, and perhaps had by this time forgotten

the day when he desired his agent in London to find for him a coat of

arms.

Presently, after a talk with Mrs. Swanwick, Jefferson, ill-pleased to

meet Hamilton, was of a mind to go. Quite aware that he meant to leave a

little sting, he said: "I must be gone. Good-by"; and to Hamilton: "You

have heard, no doubt, the good news from France--Citizen?"

"I have heard of needless murder and of a weak, ill-served, kindly king

insulted by a mob of ruffians."

Jefferson's thin face grew yet more somber; but what reply the secretary

might have made was put aside by the cheerful coming of a man in plain,

but not Quaker clothes, a republican Jacobin of the maddest, as was seen

by his interchange of "Citizen" with Jefferson, and the warm welcome he

received. Thus reinforced, Jefferson lingered where Mrs. Swanwick and

Margaret were busy with the hot chocolate, which Hamilton, from youthful

habit, liked. At a word from their hostess, De Courval took a basket,

and presently brought from the garden slope peaches such as any back

yard among us grew in my childhood--yellow clingstones and open hearts.

The widow ministered to the other statesman, who liked peaches and was

not to be neglected even for her favorite Hamilton, now busily

discussing with Schmidt the news sent by Gouverneur Morris.

The new-comer had paid no least attention to his hostess, but sat down

at the table and fingered the jumbles, apees, and cake known as

"lovers'-knots" of Nanny's make, until he discovered one to his fancy.

Mrs. Swanwick gave no obvious sign of annoyance, but smilingly stirred

the chocolate, while Margaret quietly removed the dish of cakes and gave

the guest a slice of sweetened bread known as "Dutch loaf."

"There are fewer currants in the cake than there were last week,"

remarked the astronomer, for, as Schmidt said in an aside to De Courval

and Hamilton, as they watched the great eat like lesser folk: "This is

the famous astronomer, David Rittenhouse. He divides his thoughts

between the heavens and his diet; and what else there is of him is

Jacobin."

"I wish," said Hamilton, "that heaven equally engaged the rest of his

party. May not I have my chocolate, Mrs. Swanwick?"

"Certainly; and might I be noticed a little?" said Mrs. Swanwick to

Rittenhouse. The absent-minded philosopher looked up and said:

"I forgot. Pardon me, Citess."

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

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

"Neat, that, Margaret," said Hamilton; "and might I, too, have a peach?

Mr. Jefferson has emptied the basket."

Margaret rose, and with De Courval went down the garden, a fair

presentment of the sexes, seen and approved by Hamilton, while Jefferson

said gaily:

"The transit of Venus, Rittenhouse," for it was that observation which

had given this star-gazer fame and recognition abroad.

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

Jefferson bowed. He was at his best, for neither manners nor wit were

wanting in his social hour. The astronomer, without comment, went on

eating sweet bread. They drank chocolate and chatted idly of the new

luxury--ice-cream, which Monsieur de Malerive made for a living, and

sold on the mall we now call Independence Square. They talked, too, of

the sad influx of people from San Domingo; the widow, attentive,

intellectually sympathetic, a pleasant portrait of what the silver-clad

Pearl would be in days to come; she, the girl, leaning against a pillar

of the porch, a gray figure silently watchful, curious, behind her for

background the velvets of the rival statesmen, the long broidered

waistcoats, the ribbon-tied queues, and the two strongly contrasted

faces. Perhaps only Schmidt recognized the grace and power of the group

on the porch.

The warm August evening was near its close, and a dark storm, which hung

threateningly over the Jersey shore, broke up the party. Warned by

rolling thunder, the three men went away in peaceful talk.

"The hate they have buried in their bellies," said Schmidt; "but, 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. Equal

before the law, perhaps--not his slaves; before God, no--nor man. Does

he think Hamilton his equal? He does not love the gentleman entirely.

But these two are, as fate, inevitable withal, rulers of men. I have

seen the labeled creatures of other lands--kings, ministers. These men

you saw here are the growth of a virgin soil--_Ach!_ 'There were giants

in those days,' men will say." Mrs. Swanwick listened quietly,

considering what was said, not always as quick as Margaret to understand

the German. He spoke further of the never-pleased Virginian, and then

the widow, who had kindness for all and respect for what she called

experienced opinion, avoiding to be herself the critic and hiding behind

a quotation, said, "'There be many that say, Who will shew us any

good?'"

"Fine Bible wisdom," said Schmidt.

By and by when she had gone away with Margaret about household matters,

Schmidt said to De Courval: "That is one of the beautiful flowers of the

formal garden of Fox and Penn. The creed suits the temperament--a

garden rose; but my Pearl--_Ach!_ a wild rose, creed and creature not

matched; nor ever will be."

"I have had a delightful afternoon," said Rene, unable or indisposed to

follow the German's lead. "Supper will be late. You promised me the new

book."

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

Thereafter the busy days ran on into weeks, and in October of this

tragic 1792 came the appalling news of the murdered Swiss,

self-sacrificed for no country and no large principle beyond the pledge

of an oath to a foreign king. More horrible was the massacre of the

priests in the garden of the Carmelites.

To Rene's relief, these unlooked-for riots of murder seemed to affect

his mother less than he had feared might be the case. "My husband's

death was, my son, a prophecy of what was to come." To her it was all

personal. For him it was far more, and the German alone understood the

double anguish of a man in whom contended a puzzled horror at deaths

without apparent reason, of murders of women like the Princesse de

Lamballe,--an orgy of obscene insult,--and a wild anger at the march of

the Duke of Brunswick upon Paris. It was his country, after all, and he

left his mother feeling disappointed that she did not share his hostile

feeling in regard to the _emigres_ in the German army.

The wonderful autumn colors of October and November came and passed, a

new wonder to the young man; his mother, to all seeming contented,

spending her evenings with him over English lessons, or French books out

of Logan's excellent library, or busy with never-finished embroidery. On

Sundays they went to Gloria Dei, the modest little church of the Swedes.

There to-day, amid the roar of trade and shipyards, in the churchyard

the birds sing over the grave of their historian, Wilson, and worn

epitaphs relate the love and griefs of a people whose blood is claimed

with pride by the historic families of Pennsylvania.

During these months, Aunt Gainor was long absent in Boston on a visit, a

little to the relief of the vicomtesse. Schmidt, too, was away in New

York, to the regret of Rene, who had come more and more to feel

wholesomely his influence and increasing attachment. The money help had

set him at ease, and he could now laugh when, on counting the coin in

the drawer, he found it undiminished. He had remonstrated in vain. The

German smiled. "A year more, and I shall be out of debt." Had Rene not

heard of the widow's cruse? "I must be honest. 'T is my time. The

grateful bee in my bonnet does but improve the shining hour of

opportunity. What was there to do but laugh?" And Rene at last laughed.

December came with snow and gray skies, and the great business De

Courval had grown to feel his own felt the gathering storm caused by the

decree of freedom to white and black in the French islands. The great

shipmasters, Clark, Willing, Girard, the free-thinking merchant, and

Wynne, were all looking as bleak as the weather, and prudently ceased

to make their usual sea-ventures before the ice formed, while at the

coffee-houses the war between England and France, more and more near,

threatened new perils to the commerce of the sea.

On January 27, 1793, being Saturday, while De Courval, Wolcott, and

Gilbert Stuart, the artist, sat chatting with Hamilton in the

dining-room and drinking the widow's chocolate, the painter was begging

leave to make a picture of Margaret, and asking them to come and see the

portrait of Mrs. Jackson, one of the three charming sisters of Mr.

Bingham.

"No, there must be no portrait. It is against the way of Friends," said

the mother. "I should hear of it from Friend Waln and others, too."

What more there was, Rene did not learn. The painter was urgent. Stuart

did paint her long afterward, in glorious splendor of brocade, beautiful

with powder and nature's rouge. But now came Nanny, the black maid, and

waited while Margaret shyly won a little talk with Hamilton, who loved

the girl. "I have been thinking," she said, "of Friend Jefferson. Why,

sir, do they have any titles at all, even Citizen? I think a number

would be still more simple." She was furnishing an elder with another of

the unlooked-for bits of humor which attest the florescence of a mind

gathering sense of the comic as the years run on and the fairy

godmother, Nature, has her way.

"Good heaven, child! if Mr. Jefferson had his will with your numeration,

I should be zero, and he the angel of arithmetic alone knows what."

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

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

De Courval, wondering what had happened, and why he was wanted in haste,

found Wynne in Schmidt's sitting-room. "Close the door," said the

master, "and sit down. I have much to say to you, and little time. There

is great disturbance in San Domingo. I have debts due me there, and, by

ill chance, a cargo probably to be there soon--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 au

Prince and Cap Francais are in terror, the planters flying to the towns,

the plantations in ruins. The decree of freedom for the black has roused

the devil among the slaves, and the low-class whites are ruling the

towns." He paused to think, and then added: "I send out to-morrow with

the flood my fastest ship, the schooner _Marie_, without cargo, mind

you. Will you go, nominally as supercargo? You are more thoughtful than

your years would imply. You are twenty-seven, I think you said. What you

are worth in danger--and there will be much--I do not know. There may be

questions involving grave decisions, involving courageous action, not

merely what every gentleman has--mere personal fearlessness. I am plain,

I trust."

De Courval was silent.

"If you get there first, I save a large loss. Once ashore, the cargo

will be seized, and not a cent 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, I

must go. The loss may be serious."

Here was a chance to repay much kindness, and the threat of danger

stirred the young man's blood. "How long should I be absent?"

"I do not know. The ship may have gone to Martinique, also. There were

goods for both islands."

"There is but one question, sir--my mother. She has no one else. And may

I talk to Mr. Schmidt?"

"To no one better, if he were here. He is not, and I cannot wait. I

shall call for your answer at nine to-night. The tide serves at 6 A.M. I

ought to say that your perfect English and as perfect French enable you

to pass for being of one nation or the other. Best to be an American.

And De Courval? No; that is too plainly French."

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

"Good! Excellent! I shall write my instructions with care. They will be

full; but much must be left to you and the master."

"Captain Biddle, I suppose."

"Yes. A resolute old sea-dog, but who will obey because I order it. Good

night. At nine--I must know at nine."

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

Saturday visitors.

"Oh," he said to himself as he stood outside of her door, "you must let

me go."

He paused before he knocked. Gratitude, interest, awakened eagerness for

perilous adventure, called him to this voyage. He had then, as on later

occasions one source of indecision--the mother. If she said no, he must

stay; but would she? He knocked gently, and in a moment was standing at

her side.

She set aside her embroidery-frame. "What is wrong?" she said. "I do not

want to hear any more evil news--or at least, no details. Who else is

dead of those we cared for?"

"No one, mother. Mr. Wynne wishes me to sail for him at dawn to-morrow

for San Domingo. I may be in time to save him much money."

"Well," she said coldly, "what else?" Her face, always grave, became

stern. "And so, to save a trader's money, I am to be left alone."

"Mother, it seems hard for you to understand these people; and there is

another side to it. I have been treated with kindness for which there

seems to me small reason. Twice my wages have been raised, and this

offer is a compliment, as well as a chance to oblige a man I like."

"Wages!" she cried. "Do not imagine me deceived by these good-natured

bourgeois, nor by your desire to spare me. Secretary, indeed! Do they

fancy me a fool? You are a clerk."

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

must go or I must go."

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

last comes a chance--and you know our old French saying."

"Yes, yes, I know. But any clerk could go. It is--oh, my son!--that I

should miss you day and night."

"Any clerk could not go, _maman_. It asks this thing--a man not afraid.

No timid clerk can go. Do not you see, _maman?_"

"He will think you afraid if you stay?"

"Oh, mother, do understand this man better! He is a gentleman--of--of as

good a race as ours, a soldier of distinction in the war. He will not

think me afraid; but others may."

"Is there danger, my son?"

"Yes. To be honest, very great danger. The blacks are free. The lower

whites rule the seaports. It is to be more terrible than the riot of

murder at home."

He had remained standing while he talked. For half a minute the dark

figure and unchanging face bent over the embroidery-frame without a word

of reply. Then rising, she set a hand on each of his shoulders and said,

"You must go, Rene." Centuries of the training and creed of a race of

warlike men could not have failed to defeat love-born anxiety, and the

dread of loss, in a woman through whom had passed into the making of a

man certain ancestral qualities. "You must go," she repeated.

"Thank you, mother. I was afraid--"

"Of what?" she cried. "That I should be afraid for a man of my blood to

risk life where duty calls him?"

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

"If, Rene, this were but a peaceful errand of months away, I should have

said no. The debts, all--all might have stood. I should have been

ashamed, but obstinate, my son. We will not discuss it. You must go. And

is it for long?" The clear, sweet voice broke a little. "Is it for very

long?"

"I do not know."

"Ah, well. I do not want to see you in the morning. When you are ready

to-night, you will say good-by."

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

That was strange, he thought. What would have made some women say no

decided her to say go. He smiled proudly. "It was like her," he

murmured.

When at eight that night he came to say good-by, she kissed him and said

only, "Write to me when you can." At nine Hugh Wynne had the answer he

confidently expected.

At dusk of day, the old black Cicero tramped after De Courval through

the snow, as full of thought he went on, his camlet cloak about him, and

under it the sword he had left in the Quaker's attic. He had told Mrs.

Swanwick and left a letter for Schmidt, taking, after some hesitation,

fifty dollars out of the drawer.

At daybreak, on the slip, Mr. Wynne waited with the captain. "Here,"

said the merchant, "are your instructions. Use your good sense. You have

it. Have no fear of assuming responsibility. Captain Biddle, in case of

doubt, trust Mr. Lewis to decide any question involving money."

"Oh, that is his name--Lewis."

"Yes; Mr. Lewis will show you my instructions." Then taking De Courval

aside, "You said no word of pay."

"No, sir."

"Very good. Some men would have bargained. I shall see that your salary

while absent, eighty dollars a month, is put in Mary Swanwick's hands

for your mother."

"Thank you. That leaves me at ease."

"Ah, here is some of my own Maryland tobacco and a pipe the Germans call

meerschaum; and one word more: you have infinitely obliged me and my

wife. God bless you! Good-by! _Bon voyage!_ Your boat is ready, and

Captain Biddle is impatient to be gone."

In a few minutes the _Marie_, wing-and-wing, was flying down the

Delaware with the first of the ebb, the skim of ice crackling at her bow

and a fair wind after her. They were like enough to carry the ebb-tide

with them to the capes or even to outsail it.

De Courval stood on the quarter-deck, in the clear, sharp wintry air,

while the sun rose over Jersey and deepened the prevalent reds which had

so struck his mother when in May, nine months before, they first saw the

city. Now he recalled his sad memories of France, their unhappy poverty

in England until their old notary in Paris contrived to send them the

few thousand livres with which they had come to Pennsylvania with the

hopes which so often deceived the emigrant, and then God had found for

them friends. He saw as he thought of them, the German, who held to him

some relation of affectionate nearness which was more than friendship

and seemed like such as comes, though rarely, when the ties of blood are

drawn closer by respect, service, and love. He had ceased to think of

the mystery which puzzled many and of which Hamilton and Mr. Justice

Wilson were believed to know more than any others. Being of the

religion, he had said to Schmidt in a quiet, natural way that their

coming together was providential, and the German had said: "Why not? It

was provided." Then he saw Gainor Wynne, so sturdy and full of insistent

kindness; the strong, decisive nephew; the Quaker homes; all these

amazing people; and, somehow with a distinctness no other figure had,

the Pearl in the sunlight of an August evening.

The name Margaret fits well--ah--yes. To sing to her the old French

verse--there in the garden above the river--well, that would be

pleasant--and to hear how it would sound he must try it, being in a

happy mood.

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

sang:

LE BLASON DE LA MARGUERITE

En Avril 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 is

only a song.

"Well sung," said the captain, not ignorant of French. "Do you sing that

to the lady who is written in your heart?"

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

IX

It is well for us to follow the fortunes of some of those who were in De

Courval's mind as the _Marie_ lost sight of the steeple of Christ

Church.

Mrs. Swanwick, born in the creed and customs of the Church of England,

was by many ties of kindred allied to the Masters, Willings, Morrises,

and to that good Whig rector, the Rev. Richard Peters. She had conformed

with some doubts to the creed of John Swanwick, her dead husband, but

was of no mind to separate her daughter altogether from the gay cousins

whose ways her simpler tastes in no wise always approved.

It was also black Nanny's opinion that the girl should see the gayer

world, and she expressed herself on this matter to her mistress with the

freedom of an old servant. She could neither read nor even tell the

time, and never left the house or garden, except for church or the

funeral of some relative. Just now, a week after the vicomte had gone,

she was busy in the kitchen when Mrs. Swanwick came in.

"Were there many at thy cousin's burial?" asked the mistress.

"Yes, there was; but this goin' out don't agree with me. I ain't young

enough to enjoy it." Then she said abruptly: "Miss Margaret she's pinin'

like. She ain't no Quaker--no more than me."

Mrs. Swanwick smiled, and Nanny went on peeling potatoes.

"I don't go with Friends--I'm church people, and I likes the real

quality."

"Yes, I know, Nanny." She had heard all this many times.

"I heard the Governor askin' you--"

"Yes, yes. I think she may go, Nanny."

"She'll go, and some time she'll stay," said Nanny.

"Indeed? Well--I shall see," said the mistress.

"Potatoes ain't what they used to be, and neither is folks."

Now and then, with more doubt as Margaret grew and matured, her mother

permitted her to stay for a day at Belmont, or at Cliveden with the

Chews, but more readily with Darthea Wynne. Just now an occasional

visitor, Mr. John Penn, the Proprietary, had come with his wife to ask

the girl to dine at Landsdowne. It would be a quiet party. She could

come with Mr. Schmidt, who, like Nanny, seeing the girl of late somewhat

less gay than usual and indisposed to the young Quaker kinsfolk, with

whom she had little in common, urged the mother to consent. She yielded

reluctantly. "Ann," said the gentleman in the ruby-colored coat, "would

take care of her." This Ann, the daughter of the Chief Justice Allen,

was a friend of Mary Swanwick's youth. There was advice given, and some

warnings, which the pleased girl, it is to be feared, thought little of

as, wrapped in furs, Schmidt drove her in his sleigh over the float

bridge at the middle ferry, and at last along the Monument Road from

the Lancaster Pike to the front of the Italian villa John Penn built

where now in the park stands the Horticultural Hall.

The sky was clear, the sun brilliant. There were far-away glimpses of

the river, and on the terrace to meet them, at three o'clock, a group of

gay young cousins, who came out with Mrs. Byrd of Westover, the hostess,

Ann Penn, very splendid in gown and powder, with Mr. Peters, their

neighbor, of late made a judge, and the Governor in purple velvet

short-clothes and gold buckles. He put out in welcome a lace-ruffled

hand, of which he was said to be proud. A hood, and over it a calash for

shelter from cold, had replaced the girl's Quaker bonnet, and now it was

cast back, and the frost-red cheeks were kissed, and the profuse

compliments of the day paid to the really charming face of Margaret,

whom nature had set off with color and whom stern decrees of usage had

clad for contrast in relieving gray silks.

There was whispering among those madcap cousins as they hurried her away

to Ann Greenleaf's room, a niece of Mrs. Penn, "to set thy hair in order

for dinner, thou darling Quaker." She was used to their ways, and went

merry with the rest up the great stairway whence William Penn, in the

serene beauty of his youth, looked down at the noisy party, now bent

upon a prank altogether in the fashion of their day.

As Margaret entered the room, she saw Miss Ann Greenleaf being trussed

up in stays by a black maid.

"Why, dear, is the room so dark?" asked Margaret; for the curtains were

drawn, and there were candles on the mantel and in sconces.

"The better to see how we shall look--in the evening," replied Miss

Willing.

Gowns, silken hose, high, red-heeled shoes, and powder-puffs lay about

on bed and chairs.

"We have a little secret," cried Miss Willing, "and we will never tell,

dear."

"Never!" cried they.

"We want to dress thee just for to see how thou wouldst look in the gown

of decent Christians."

"I could never think of it."

"Come, girls," cried Miss Willing, "let us dress her just once."

"Oh, but just for a half-hour," they said, and gathered around her,

laughing, urgent.

Nice Christians these! She would not. Mother would not like it, and--ah,

me, she was not unwilling to see herself once in the long cheval-glass.

She had had naughty dreams of brocade and powder. Despite her

resistance, they had off the prim Quaker dress, and blushing,

half-angry, half-pleased, she was in slim attire, saying: "Thou really

must not. My stockings, oh, not my stockings! Oh, Molly Greenleaf, how

can I? It is dreadful--please not." But the silk stockings were on, and

the garters, with compliments my modest pen declines to preserve. There

was enough of the maiden neck in view above the undervest, and very

splendid length of brocade gown, with lace of the best, and a petticoat,

pearl-tinted, "Because, dear, we are all Quakers," they cried. "And do

keep still, or the powder will be all over thee. What color, girls! Can

it be real? I must kiss thee to see if it be rouge."

"For shame!" cried Margaret, between tears and laughter.

"Now a fan--and patches, Molly Greenleaf! No. The old women wear them;

but gloves, crumpled down at the elbow. So!" She had given up at last.

It was only for a frolic half-hour. "Go now and see thyself." Two of the

merriest seized lighted candles, for the room was made dark by the drawn

curtains, and stood on each side of the long cheval-glass, a pretty

picture, with Margaret before the mirror, shy and blushing. "Great

heavens! you are a wonder! Isn't she, oh, isn't she, the sweetest

thing!"

The Quaker maiden looked down at the rich brocade and then looked up,

and knew that she was beautiful. She stood still, amazed at the

revelation, and the gods who give us uncalled-for thoughts set in her

mind for a moment the figure of the young vicomte. She colored, and

cried, laughing, as she turned away from the glass: "You have had your

way with me, and now--undress me, girls, please. I should scarce know

how."

"Oh, the sweet, innocent thing!" cried they. "But wait a little. Now thy

hair--so--and so, and a bit more powder. La, but you are dangerous!

Where are thy Quaker gown and stockings? Where can they be! Molly

Greenleaf, what have you done with them? And, oh, Cinderella, the

slippers fit to a charm." No one knew where had gone the gown, the

shoes, the shawl, the rest of the simple garb. "The fairy godmother has

done it," cried Miss Cadwalader. "What shall we do?" cried Betty Morris.

The gong, a new fashion, rang for dinner. The girl was angry.

"This passes the limit of a jest," she cried. "Go down? I? No. I will

die first." They implored, laughing; but she refused, saying, "I sit

here till I have my gown," and would speak no more.

At this minute came Mrs. Penn. "What is all this noise, young women?

Good Lord! Margaret Swanwick! So this is what these minxes have been at

all the morning?"

"I have been tricked," said Margaret, "and--and I will never forgive

them--never."

"But come down to dinner, my dear. You will have your revenge when the

men see you. There, the Governor dislikes to wait. He has sent up to say

dinner is ready."

"I want my gown," said the Pearl, "and I will not go down." Only anger

kept her from tears.

"But the Governor must see you. Come, no one will know, and, bless me!

but you are a beauty!"

"Isn't she?" they cried in chorus. A glance at the mirror and a

triumphant sense of victorious capacities to charm swept over the

hesitating girl. Life of late had been as gray as her garb.

"Come, dear. You really must. You are making too much, quite too much,

of a bit of innocent fun. If you wait to dress, I shall have to explain

it all, and the Governor will say you lack courage; and must I say I

left you in tears? And the mutton, my dear child--think of the mutton!"

"I am not in tears, and I hate you all, every one of you; but I will

go."

Her head was up, as fan in hand she went down in front of the cousins,

now mildly penitent, Mrs. Penn at her side. "Did they think to show off

an awkward Quaker cousin, these thoughtless kittens? Give them a lesson,

my dear."

"I mean to," said Margaret, her eyes flashing.

The men were about the fire in the great drawing-room, one little girl

just slipping out, the future wife of Henry Baring. The party was

large--young Mr. Rawle and General Wayne and the Peters from Belmont

near by.

The men turned to bow as Mrs. Penn stepped aside, and left to view a

startling vision of innocence and youth and loveliness. The girl swept a

curtsey, the practice when dreams of the world were teasing her had not

been in vain. Then she rose and moved into the room. For a moment there

was silence. Except Schmidt, no one knew her. The Governor, bowing,

cried, "By George! Margaret, you beat them all! What fairies have

metamorphosed you?"

"We, we," cried the chorus. The men paid her compliments after the

downright fashion of their set. She was gay, quick to reply, amazingly

at ease. Schmidt watched her, comprehending as no one else did the

sudden revelation to the young woman of the power and charm of her

beauty and the primal joy of unused weapons. To the younger men she was

a little reserved and quiet, to the elder men all grace and sweetness,

to the trickster cousins, disconcertingly cool.

"Where on earth did she learn it all?" said Mrs. Byrd, as she went out

to dinner with Mr. Penn.

"Heaven knows. But it was a saucy trick and she will pay for it, I fear,

at home."

"Will she tell?" said Morris, the master of the rolls, as he followed

behind them with Mrs. Wayne.

"Yes," said Mrs. Byrd, "she will tell; but whether or not, the town will

ring with it, in a day or two. A pity, too, for the child is brought up

in the straightest way of Friends. None of Madame Logan's fine gowns and

half-way naughtiness for her."

At dinner Margaret quietly amused Mr. Morris with Schmidt's terror of

June, the cat, and with Mr. Jefferson's bout with Hamilton, and the tale

of the sad lapse of De Forest, which greatly pleased General Wayne, her

right-hand neighbor. When they left the men to their Madeira, she

insisted on changing her dress. A not duly penitent bevy of maids

assisted, and by and by it was a demure Quaker moth who replaced the gay

butterfly and in the drawing-room helped Madame Penn to make tea. They

paid her fair compliments, and she smiled, saying: "I, dear Mrs.

Penn--was I here? Thou must be mistaken. That was Grandmama Plumstead

thou didst have here. Oh, a hundred years ago."

"Ask her to come again," said Mrs. Penn.

"And to stay," said Mrs. Wayne; "a charming creature."

"The maid is clever," said Mrs. Masters.

Meanwhile the wine went round on the coasters over the mahogany table in

the dining-room, and men talked of France, and grew hot with wine and

more politics than pleased their host, who had no definite opinions, or,

if any, a sincere doubt as to the quality of a too aged Madeira.

He gave a toast: "The ladies and our Quaker Venus." They drank it

standing.

"This wine needs fining," said his reverence, the rector of Christ

Church. They discussed it seriously.

Mr. Rawle cried, "A toast: George Washington and the Federal party."

"No politics, gentlemen," said Penn; "but I will drink the first half of

it--His Excellency."

* * * * *

Mr. Langstroth on this day rode to town, and there learned that Margaret

was at Landsdowne, and also a surprising piece of news with which he did

not regale Mary Swanwick.

Full of what he had heard, Mr. Langstroth, being now on horseback and on

his way to Gray Pines, his home, was suddenly minded to see his

great-niece. Therefore he rode up the avenue at Landsdowne, and hitching

his horse, learned that the men were still over their wine. "I will go

in," he said, well pleased.

"Ah," said Penn, rising, "you are just in time for the punch." He hated

the man and all his positive ways, but, the more for that, was

courteous, if rather formal. "A glass for Mr. Langstroth. Your health,

sir; your very good health."

"It is not good," said the new-comer.

"But the wine I trust is," said the Governor.

"It might supply goodness," Langstroth replied, "if it were not a bit

pricked." It was a tender subject, and his host, feeling grossly

wronged, was silent.

"Any fresh news?" said the attorney-general.

"Yes, sir; yes. The Princeton College lottery was drawn this morning,

and guess who drew a prize?"

"Not I"--"Nor I," they cried. "Who was it? Not you?"

"I! No such luck."

"Who, then?"

"Well, I bought ten chances in the fall, and one for my great-niece,

Margaret Swanwick. Her mother did not like it. Friends are all for

putting an end to lotteries."

"And she won?"

"She did. I chose for luck the number of her age and the last two

figures of the year--1792. That took it."

"How much? How much?" they shouted, the wine and rum punch having done

their work. "How much?"

"Eight thousand, nine hundred, and thirty-four dollars, as I'm a

sinner."

"The girl may have gay gowns now," cried one.

"Let us go out, and tell her," said the Governor, as men still called

him; and upon this, having had wine and rum more than was well, they

went laughing into the drawing-room.

"Oh, news! news!" cried one and another.

Mrs. Penn looked annoyed. "What is it?" she asked.

"Ho, ho! Fine news!" said Langstroth. "Margaret has the great prize in

the Princeton lottery--eight thousand and more. It was drawn this

morning."

"What luck!" cried the ladies. "And you are not jesting?"

"No. It is true. I bought it for her," roared Langstroth, triumphant.

"Think of that, Margaret--eight thousand and--"

"For me--mine!" said the girl, rising as she spoke. "Don't speak to me,

Cousin Penn. I have had too much to-day. I am troubled. I must go." No,

she did not want to discuss it. She must go home. "May I not go, Friend

Schmidt? If this is a joke, uncle, it is not to my taste. I must go."

"Certainly. The sleigh is at the door."

Langstroth was angry. He had had no thanks, not a word. There was some

embarrassment, but the women must need felicitate the unwilling winner.

She made short answers.

"The puss has her claws out," murmured Mrs. Byrd, as she heard in reply

to her congratulations: "I think it is a misfortune--a--a--what will my

mother say? I must go." She was a child again. Mrs. Penn, understanding

the girl, went out with her, saying kind things, and helping her to put

on her over-wrap.

"Damn the fool!" said her uncle, who had followed her into the hall, and

to whom she would not speak.

The gentlemen were silent, not knowing how to sympathize with a

misfortune so peculiar. Schmidt, tranquil and undisturbed, made the

usual formal adieus and followed her out of the room. He tucked in the

furs with kindly care, and through the early evening dusk they drove

away across the snow, the girl silent, the man respectful of her mood.

X

It was after dark when Schmidt left Margaret at her home. As he was

about to drive away to the stable, he said, "Those are wild girls, but,

my dear child, you were so very pretty, I for one almost forgave them."

"Oh, was I?" she cried, shyly pleased and a little comforted. "But the

lottery prize; I shall hear about that, and so will my mother, too. I

never gave it a thought when uncle spoke of it long ago."

"It is a small matter, Pearl. We will talk about it later. Now go in and

quit thinking of it. It is shrewd weather, and nipping."

Margaret knew very well that she had good cause to be uneasy. Friends

had been of late much exercised over the evil of lotteries, and half of

Langstroth's satisfaction in this form of gambling was due to his love

of opposition and his desire to annoy the society of which he still

called himself a member. Although, to his anger, he had long ago been

disowned, he still went to meeting once or twice a year. He had had no

such sacrificial conscience in the war as made Clement Biddle and

Wetherill "apostates," as Friends called them. He was by birthright a

member of the society, and stood for King George, and would pay no war

tax. But when the vendue-master took his old plate and chairs, he went

privately and bought them back; and so, having thus paid for the joy of

apparent opposition, drank to the king in private, and made himself

merry over the men who sturdily accepting loss for conscience's sake,

sat at meals on their kitchen chairs, silently unresistant, but, if

human, a little sorrowful concerning the silver which came over with

Penn and was their only material reminder of the Welsh homes their

fathers had left that they might worship God in their own simple way.

The one person Langstroth loved was his great-niece, of whose attachment

to the German he was jealous with that keen jealousy known to those who

are capable of but one single love. He had meant to annoy her mother;

and, with no least idea that he would win a prize for her child, was now

vexed at Margaret's want of gratitude, and well pleased with the fuss

there would be when the news got out and Friends came to hear of it.

When Pearl threw herself into the mother's arms and broke into tears,

sobbing out the double story, for a moment Mrs. Swanwick was silent.

"My dear," she said at last, "why didst thou let them dress thee?"

"I--I could not help it, and--and--I liked it, mother. Thou didst like

it once," she added, with a look of piteous appeal. "Don't scold me,

mother. Thou must have liked it once."

"I, dear? Yes, I liked it. But--scold thee? Do I ever scold thee? 'T is

but a small matter. It will be the talk of a week, and Gainor Wynne will

laugh, and soon it will be forgotten. The lottery is more serious."

"But I did not do it."

"No."

"They will blame thee, mother, I know--when it was all my uncle's doing.

Let them talk to him."

The widow smiled. "Nothing would please him better; but--they have long

since given up Josiah for a lost sheep--"

"Black, mother?" She was a trifle relieved at the thought of an

interview between Friend Howell, the gentlest of the gentle, and Josiah.

"Brown, not black," said the mother, smiling. "It will someway get

settled, my child. Now go early to bed and leave it to thy elders. I

shall talk of it to Friend Schmidt."

"Yes, mother." Her confidence in the German gentleman, now for five

years their guest, was boundless.

"And say thy prayers with a quiet heart. Thou hast done no wrong. Good

night, my child. Ask if Friend de Courval wants anything. Since her son

went away, she has been troubled, as who would not be. Another's real

cause for distress should make us feel how small a matter is this of

ours." She kissed her again, and the girl went slowly up-stairs,

murmuring: "He went away and never so much as said good-by to me. I do

not think it was civil."

Meanwhile the mother sat still, with only the click, click of the

knitting-needles, which somehow seemed always to assist her to think.

She had steadily refused help in money from Uncle Josiah, and now,

being as angry as was within the possibilities of a temper radiant with

the sunshine of good humor, she rejoiced that she owed Josiah nothing.

"He shall have a piece of my mind," she said aloud, and indeed a large

slice would have been a sweetening addition to his crabbed sourness.

"Ah, me!" she added, "I must not think of the money; but how easy it

would make things!" Not even Schmidt had been permitted to pay more than

a reasonable board. No, she would not repine; and now madame,

reluctantly accepting her son's increased wages, had insisted that his

room be kept vacant and paid for, and was not to be gainsaid about the

needed fur-lined roquelaure she bought for her hostess and the extra pay

for small luxuries.

"May God forgive me that I have been unthankful for His goodness," said

Mary Swanwick, and so saying she rose and putting aside her thoughts

with her knitting, sat down to read a little in the book she had taken

from the library, to Friend Poulson's dismay. "Thou wilt not like it,

Mary Swanwick." In a minute of mischief young Mr. Willing had told her

of a book he had lately read--a French book, amusing and witty. He had

left her wishing he could see her when she read it, but self-advised to

stay away for a time.

She sat down with anticipative satisfaction. "What hard French!" she

thought. "I must ask help of madame," as she often called her, Friend

Courval being, as she saw plainly, too familiar to her guest. As she

read, smiling at the immortal wit and humor of a day long passed,

suddenly she shut the book with a quick movement, and set it aside.

"What manner of man was this Rabelais? Friend Poulson should have been

more plain with me; and as for Master Willing, I shall write to him,

too, a bit of my mind." But she never did, and only said aloud: "If I

give away any more pieces of my mind, I shall have none left," and

turned, as her diary records, to the "Pilgrim's Progress," of which she

remarked, "an old book by one John Bunyan, much read by Friends and

generally approved, ridiculed by many, but not by me. It seems to me

good, pious wit, and not obscene like the other. I fear I sin sometimes

in being too curious about books." Thus having put on paper her

reflections, she went to bed, having in mind a vague and naughty desire

to have seen Margaret in the foolish garb of worldly folk.

Margaret, ashamed, would go nowhere for a week, and did more than the

needed housework, to Nanny's disgust, whose remembrances were of days of

luxury and small need for "quality folks" to dust rooms. The work over,

when tired of her labor, Margaret sat out in the winter sunshine in the

fur-lined roquelaure, madame's extravagant gift, and, enraptured, read

"The Mysteries of Udolpho," or closing the book, sailed with the

_Marie_, and wondered what San Domingo was like.

Meanwhile the town, very gay just now with dinners Mr. John Adams

thought so excessive, and with sleigh-riding parties to Belmont and

Cliveden, rang with wild statements of the dressing scene and the

lottery. Very comic it was to the young bucks, and, "Pray, Mrs. Byrd,

did the garters fit?" "Fie, for shame!" "And no stays, we hear," wives

told their husbands, and once in the London Coffee-house, in front of

which, long ago, Congo slaves were sold and where now men discussed

things social, commercial, and political, Schmidt had called a man to

stern account and exacted an apology. The gay girls told their Quaker

cousins, and at last Friends were of a mind to talk to Mary Swanwick,

especially of the lottery.

Before graver measures were taken, it was advisable that one should

undertake to learn the truth, for it was felt not to be desirable to

discipline by formal measures so blameless a member where clearly there

had been much exaggeration of statement.

Ten days after the dinner at Landsdowne, John Pemberton was met in the

hall of the Swanwick house by Mr. Schmidt, both women being out. The

German at once guessed the errand of this most kindly of Quaker gentles,

and said, "Mr. Pemberton, you are come, I suppose, to speak for Friends

of the gossip about these, my own friends. Pray be seated. They are

out."

"But my errand is not to thee, who art not of the Society of Friends."

"I am of the society of these friends. I know why you are come. Talk to

me."

"I am advised in spirit that it may be as well to do so. Thou art a just

man. I shall speak."

On this he sat down. It was a singular figure the German saw. The broad,

white beaver hat, which the Quaker gentleman kept on his head, was

turned up in front and at the back over abundant gray hair. A great

eagle nose overhanging a sharp chin, brought near to it by the toothless

jaws of age, gave to the side face a queer look of rapacity,

contradicted by the refinement and serene kindliness of the full face

now turned upon the German.

"Friend Schmidt," he said, "our young friend, we are told, has been

unwise and exhibited herself among those of the world in unseemly

attire. There are those of us who, like Friend Logan, are setting a bad

example in their attire to the young. I may not better state how we feel

than in the words of William Penn: 'Choose thy clothes by thine own eye,

not by another's; the more simple and plain they are the better; neither

unshapely nor fantastical, and for use and decency, not for pride.' I

think my memory serves me."

"I shall not argue with you, sir, but being in part an eye-witness, I

shall relate what did occur," and he told very simply of the rude jest,

and of the girl's embarrassment as he had heard it from the mother.

"I see," said Pemberton. "Too much has been made of it. She will hear no

more of it from Friends, and it may be a lesson. Wilt thou greet her

with affectionate remembrance from an old man and repeat what I have

said?"

"I will do so."

"But there is a matter more serious. We are told that she bought a

lottery-ticket, and has won a great prize. This we hear from Josiah

Langstroth."

"Did he say this--that she bought a ticket?"

"We are so advised."

"Then he lied. He bought it in her name, without asking her."

"Art thou sure? Thy language is strong."

"Yes, I am sure."

"And what will Mary Swanwick do with this money won in evil ways?"

"I do not know."

"It is well that she should be counseled."

"Do you not think, sir, as a man of sense and a gentleman and more, that

it may be well to leave a high-minded woman to dispose of this matter?

If she goes wrong, will it not then be time to interfere? There is not a

ha'-penny of greed in her. Let her alone."

The Quaker sat still a moment, his lean figure bent over his staff.

"Thou art right," he said, looking up. "The matter shall rest, unless

worse come of it."

"Why not see Mr. Langstroth about it?" said the German, mischievously

inclined. "He is of Friends, I presume."

"He is not," said Pemberton. "He talked in the war of going forth from

us with Wetherill, but he hath not the courage of a house-fly. His

doings are without conscience, and now he is set in his ways. He hath

been temperately dealt with long ago and in vain. An obstinate man; when

he sets his foot down thou hast to dig it up to move him. I shall not

open the matter with Josiah Langstroth. I have been led to speak

harshly. Farewell."

When Mrs. Swanwick heard of this and had talked of it to Margaret, the

Pearl said, "We will not take the money, and uncle cannot; and it may

go." Her decisiveness both pleased and astonished the mother. It was a

maturing woman who thus anticipated Schmidt's advice and her own, and

here for a little while the matter lay at rest.

Not all Friends, however, were either aware of what Pemberton had

learned or were fully satisfied, so that one day Daniel Offley,

blacksmith, a noisy preacher in meetings and sometimes advised of elders

to sit down, resolved to set at rest alike his conscience and his

curiosity. Therefore, on a February afternoon, being the 22d, and

already honored as the birthday of Washington, he found Margaret alone,

as luck would have it. To this unusual house, as I have said, came not

only statesmen, philosophers, and the rich. Hither, too, came the poor

for help, the lesser Quakers, women and men, for counsel or a little

sober gossip. All were welcome, and Offley was not unfamiliar with the

ways of the house.

He found Margaret alone, and sitting down, began at once and harshly to

question her in a loud voice concerning the story of her worldly vanity,

and asked why she could thus have erred.

The girl had had too much of it. Her conscience was clear, and

Pemberton, whom she loved and respected, had been satisfied, as Schmidt

had told them. She grew red, and rising, said: "I have listened to thee;

but now I say to thee, Daniel Offley, that it is none of thy business.

Go home and shoe thy horses."

He was not thus to be put down. "This is only to add bad temper to thy

other faults. As a Friend and for many of the Society, I would know what

thee has done with thee devil wages of the lottery."

[Illustration: "'Thou canst not shoe my conscience'"]

She looked at him a moment. The big, ruddy face struck her as comical.

Her too often repressed sense of humor helped her, and crying, "Thou

canst not shoe my conscience, Daniel Offley," she fled away up-stairs,

her laughter ringing through the house, a little hysterical, perhaps,

and first cousin to tears. The amazed preacher, left to his meditations,

was shocked into taking off his beaver and saying strong words out of a

far away past.

She was angry beyond the common, for Schmidt had said it was all of it

unwise and meddlesome, nor was the mother better pleased than he when

she came to hear of Offley's visit. "I am but half a Friend," she

confessed to Schmidt, not liking altogether even the gentler inquiries

of John Pemberton.

When on the next Sunday Madame de Courval was about to set out for the

Swedes' church, Mrs. Swanwick said, "It is time to go to meeting, my

child."

"I am not going, mother."

"But thou didst not go last First Day."

"No. I cannot, mother. May I go with madame?"

"Why not?" said Schmidt, looking up from his book. And so the Pearl went

to Gloria Dei.

"They have lost a good Quaker by their impertinence," said Schmidt to

himself. "She will never again go to meeting." And, despite much gentle

urging and much persuasive kindness, this came at last to be her custom,

although she still wore unchanged her simple Quaker garb. Madame at

least was pleased, but also at times thoughtful of the future when the

young vicomte would walk between them down Swanson Street to church.

There was, of course, as yet no news of the _Marie_, and many bets on

the result of the bold venture were made in the coffee-houses, for now,

in March of the year '93, the story of the king's death and of war

between France and England began further to embitter party strife and

alarm the owners of ships. If the vicomtesse was anxious, she said no

word of what she felt. Outside of the quiet home where she sat over her

embroidery there was an increase of political excitement, with much

abuse, and in the gazettes wild articles over classic signatures. With

Jacobin France for exemplars, the half-crazed Republicans wore tricolor

cockades, and the _bonnet rouge_ passed from head to head at noisy

feasts when "Ca Ira" and the "Marseillaise" were sung. Many persons were

for war with England, but the wiser of both parties were for the

declaration of neutrality, proclaimed of late amid the fury of extreme

party sentiment. The new French minister eagerly looked for by the

republicans was soon to come and to add to the embarrassment of the

Government whatever of mischief insolent folly could devise.

Meanwhile the hearts of two women were on the sea, and the ship-owners

were increasingly worried; for now goods for French ports would be

seized on the ocean and sailors claimed as English at the will of any

British captain.

Amid all this rancor of party and increase of anxiety as to whether

America was to be at war or peace, the small incident of a girl's change

of church was soon forgotten. It was not a rare occurrence, and only

remarkable because, as Schmidt said to Gainor Wynne somewhat later, it

proved what a convincing preacher is anger.

Mistress Wynne had come home from Boston after a week's travel, and

being tired, went to bed and decided to have a doctor, with Chovet for

choice, because Rush had little gossip. She was amply fed with it,

including the talk about the change of dress and the lottery. So good

was the effect that, on the doctor's departure, she threw his pills out

of the window, and putting on pattens, took her cane and went away

through the slush to see Margaret. On the way many things passed through

her mind, but most of all she remembered the spiritual struggles of her

own young days, when she, too, had broken with Friends.

And now when she met Margaret in the hall, it was not the girl who wept

most, as Gainor cried to Schmidt to go and not mock at two women in

tears no man could understand.

"Ah," cried Schmidt, obediently disappearing, "he who shall explicate

the tears of women shall be crowned by the seraphs." Thus he saw Gainor

in her tender mood, such as made her to be forgiven much else of men and

of angels. She comforted the girl, and over the sad story of the stays

and garters she laughed--not then, but in very luxury of unfettered

mirth on her homeward way.

He who got the largest satisfaction out of poor Margaret's troubles was

Josiah Langstroth, as he reflected how for the first time in his life he

had made Mary Swanwick angry, had stirred up Friends, and at last had

left the Presbyterian ministers of the trustees of Princeton College in

a hopeless quandary. If the owner of the prize in their lottery would

not take it, to whom did it belong? And so at last it was left in Miss

Swanwick's name in the new bank Hamilton had founded, to await a use of

which as yet no man dreamed.

XI

When De Courval lost sight of the red city, and while the unusual warmth

of the winter weather was favoring their escape from the ice adrift on

the bay, the young man reflected that above all things it was wise to be

on good terms with his captain.

Accordingly, he said: "It is fit, sir, that you should advise me as to

Mr. Wynne's instructions. Have the kindness to read them. I have not

done so."

Much gratified, the captain took the paper. "Hum!" he exclaimed, "to

reach Port au Prince in time to prevent unloading of the _George

Washington_. To get her out and send her home with her cargo." He

paused. "We may be in time to overhaul and stop her; but if she has

arrived, to carry her out from under the guns of the fort is quite

another matter. 'To avoid the British cruisers.' Well, yes, we are only

in ballast,"--he looked up with pride at the raking masts and

well-trimmed sails,--"the ship does not float can catch the _Marie_.

'Free to do as seems best if we are stopped by privateers.' Ah, he knows

well enough what I should do."

"He seems to have provided for that," said De Courval, glancing at the

carronades and the long Tom in the bow such as many a peaceful ship

prudently carried.

The captain grinned. "That is like Hugh Wynne. But these island fools

rely on us for diet. They will be starving, and if the _George

Washington_ reach the island before we do, they will lose no time, and,

I guess, pay in worthless bills on France, or not at all. However, we

shall see." This ended the conversation.

They had the usual varied luck of the sea; but the master carried sail,

to the alarm of his mates, and seeing none of the dreaded cruisers,

overtook a French merchant ship and learned with certainty of the

outbreak of war between France and Great Britain, a fresh embarrassment,

as they well knew.

At sundown on February the 15th, the lookout on the crosstrees saw the

mountains of San Domingo back of the city of Port au Prince, and running

in under shelter of one of the many islands which protect the bay, the

captain and the supercargo took counsel as to what they should do.

"If," said De Courval, "I could get ashore as a French sailor at night,

and learn something of how things stand, we might be helped."

The captain feared risks neither for himself nor for another, and at

last said: "I can run you in at dark, land you on a spit of sand below

the town, and wait for you."

Thus it was that in sailor garb, a tricolor cockade in his hat, De

Courval left the boat at eight at night and began with caution to

approach the town. The brilliant moon of a clear tropic night gave

sufficient light, and following the shore, he soon came upon the

warehouses and docks, where he hoped to learn what ships were in the

harbor. Soon, however, he was halted by sentries, and being refused

permission to pass, turned away from the water-front. Passing among rude

cabins and seeing almost no one, he came out at last on a wide,

well-built avenue and into a scene of sorrowful misery. Although the new

commissioners of the republic had put down the insurrection of the

slaves with appalling slaughter, their broken bands were still busy with

the torch and the sword, so that the cities were filled with refugees of

the plantation class--men and women who were quite helpless and knew not

where to turn for shelter or for the bread of the day.

De Courval had been quite unprepared for the wretchedness he now saw.

Indistinct in the moon-made shadows, or better seen where the light lay,

were huddled groups of women and children, with here and there near by a

man made helpless by years of the ownership of man. Children were

crying, while women tried in vain to comfort them. Others were silent or

wildly bewailing their fate. To all seeming, indifferent to the

oft-repeated appeals of misery, went by officials, army officers,

smoking cigarettes, drunken sailors, and such women as a seaport

educates to baseness. Half of the town had been for months in ashes. The

congestion of the remainder was more and more felt as refugees from

ruined plantations came hither, hungry and footsore, to seek food where

was little and charity where was none.

Unable to do more than pity, the young vicomte went his way with care

along a street strangely crowded with all manner of people, himself on

the lookout for a cafe where he might find seamen. Presently he found

what he sought, and easily fell into sea-talk with a group of sailors.

He learned only that the town was without the usual supplies of food

from the States; that the troops lived on fish, bananas, and yams, and

that General Esbarbe had ruthlessly put down the negro insurrection.

Only one ship had come in of late. The outbreak of war between England

and France had, in fact, for a time put an end to our valuable trade

with the islands. Learning nothing of value, he paid his score and stood

a moment in the doorway, the drunken revel of idle sailors behind him

and before him the helpless wretchedness of men and women to whom want

had been hitherto unknown. He must seek elsewhere for what he wished to

learn. As he hesitated, two men in white linen went by with a woman.

They were laughing and talking loudly, apparently indifferent to the

pitiable groups on door-steps or on the sidewalks.

"Let us go to the Cocoanut," said the woman. One of the men said "Yes."

They went on, singing a light drinking song. No one seemed to care for

any one else: officials, sailors, soldiers, destitute planters seemed

all to be in a state of detachment, all kindly human ties of man to man

broken. In fact, for a year the island had been so gorged with tragedy

that it no longer caused remark.

De Courval followed the men and women, presuming that they were going to

a cafe. If he learned nothing there, he would go back to the ship.

Pushing carelessly by a group of refugees on the outside of the

"Cocoanut," the party went in, and one, an official, as he seemed to be,

sat down at a table with the woman. De Courval, following, took the

nearest table, while the other companion of the woman went to the

counter to give an order. The woman sat still, humming a coarse Creole

love-song, and the vicomte looked about him. The room was dimly lighted,

and quite half of it was occupied by the same kind of unhappy people who

lay about on the streets, and may have paid for leave to sit in the

cafe. The unrestrained, noisy grief of these well-dressed women amazed

the young man, used to the courage and self-control of the women of his

own class. The few tables near by were occupied by small parties of

officers, in no way interested in the wretchedness about them. A servant

came to De Courval. What would he have? Fried fish there was, and baked

yams, but no other dish. He asked for wine, paid for it, and began to be

of a sudden curious about the party almost within touch. The woman was a

handsome quadroon. Pinned in her high masses of black hair were a dozen

of the large fireflies of the tropics, a common ornament of a certain

class of women. From moment to moment their flashing lanterns strangely

illuminated her hair and face. As he watched her in wonder, the man who

had gone to the counter came back and sat down, facing the crowd.

"Those _sacres enfants_," he said, "they should be turned out; one can

hardly hear a word for the bawling. I shall be glad to leave--"

"When do you go, Commissioner?" said the woman.

"In a day or two. I am to return to France as soon as possible and make

our report."

De Courval was startled by the voice, and stared at the speaker. The

face was no longer clean-shaven, and now wore the mustache, a recent

Jacobin fashion. The high-arched eyebrows of the man of the Midi, the

sharp voice, decided him. It was Carteaux. For a moment Rene had the

slight vertigo of a man to whose intense passion is forbidden the relief

of physical action. The scene at Avignon was before him, and instantly,

too, the sense of need to be careful of himself, and to think solely of

his errand. He swallowed his wine in haste, and sat still, losing no

word of the talk, as the other man said:

"They will unload the American ship to-morrow, I suppose."

"Yes," said Carteaux; "and pay in good republican _assignats_ and

promises. Then I shall sail on her to Philadelphia, and go thence to

France. Our work here is over."

De Courval had heard enough. If the ship went to the States, there he

would find his enemy. To let him go, thus unpunished, when so near, was

obviously all that he could do. He rose and went out. In a few minutes

he had left the town behind him and was running along the beach,

relieved by rapid action. He hailed the boat, lying in wait off the

shore, and had, as he stood, the thought that with his father's murderer

within reach, duty had denied him the privilege of retributive justice.

It was like the dreams with which at times he was troubled--when he saw

Carteaux smiling and was himself unable to move. Looking back, as the

boat ran on to the beach, he saw a red glow far away, and over it the

pall of smoke where hundreds of plantations were burning, with

everywhere, as he had heard, ruin, massacre, and ruthless executions of

the revolted slaves set free. Such of the upper class as could leave had

departed, and long since Blanchelande, ex-governor, had been sent to

France, to be remembered only as the first victim of the guillotine.

The captain, uneasy, hurried De Courval into the boat, for he had been

gone two hours. There was a light, but increasing wind off shore to help

them and before them a mile's pull. As they rowed to the ship, the

captain heard De Courval's news. "We must make sure it is our ship,"

said the captain. "I could row in and see. I should know that old tub a

hundred yards away--yes, sir, even in the night."

"The town, Captain, is in confusion--full of planters, men, women, and

children lying about the streets. There is pretty surely a guard on

board that ship. Why not beat in closer without lights, and then, with

all the men you can spare, find the ship, and if it is ours, take her

out?"

"If we can. A good idea. It might be done."

"It is the only way. It must be done. Give me the mate and ten men."

"What! Give you my men, and sit down and wait for you? No, sir. I shall

go with you." He was of a breed which has served the country well on sea

and land, and whose burial-places are battle-fields and oceans.

It was soon decided to wait to attack until the town was asleep. In the

interval De Courval, in case of accident, wrote to his mother and to

Schmidt, but with no word of Carteaux. Then for a while he sat still,

reflecting with very mingled feelings that success in carrying the ship

would again cut him off from all chance of meeting Carteaux. It did seem

to him a malignant fate; but at last dismissing it, he buckled on his

sword, took up his pistols, and went on deck.

At midnight the three boats set out with muffled oars, and after a hard

pull against an off-shore wind, through the warm tropic night, they

approached the town.

The captain whistled softly, and the boats came together.

"Speak low," he said to De Courval. "It is the _George Washington_ and

no mistake. They are wide-awake, by ill luck, and singing."

"Yes, I hear them."

"But they are not on deck. There are lights in the cabin." The "Ca Ira"

rang out in bits across the water. The young noble heard it with the

anguish it always awakened; for unfailingly it gave back to memory the

man he longed to meet, and the blood-dabbled mob which came out of the

hall at Avignon shouting this Jacobin song.

The captain said: "We will board her on this side, all together. She is

low in the water. Pull in with your boat and secure the watch forward

and I will shut the after hatches and companionway. Look out for the

forecastle. If her own men are on board, they will be there."

De Courval's heart alone told him of the excitement he felt; but he was

cool, tranquil, and of the temperament which rises to fullest competence

in an hour of danger. A minute later he was on deck, and moving forward

in the silence of the night, came upon the watch. "Hush!" he said; "no

noise. Two to each man. They are asleep. There--choke hard and gag.

Here, cut up this rope; a good gag." In a moment three scared sailors

awoke from dreams of their Breton homes, and were trussed with sailor

skill.

"Now, then," he said in French, "a pistol ball for the man who moves.

Stay by them, you Jones, and come, the rest of you. Rouse the crew in

the forecastle, mate. Call to them. If the answer is in French, let no

man up. Don't shoot, if you can help it."

He turned quickly, and, followed by four men, ran aft, hearing wild

cries and oaths. A man looking out of a port-hole had seen two boats and

the glint of muskets. As the captain swung over the rail, half a dozen

men ran up on deck shouting an alarm. The captain struck with the butt

of his pistol. A man fell. De Courval grappled with a burly sailor, and

falling, rose as the mate hit the guard on the head with a

marline-spike. Then an officer fired, and a sailor went down wounded. It

was savage enough, but brief, for the American crew and captain

released, were now running aft from the forecastle, and the French were

tumbled into the companionway and the hatches battened down in haste,

but no man killed.

"Get up sail!" cried the captain. "An ax to the cable; she is moored to

a buoy. Tumble into the boats, some of you! Get a rope out ahead, and

pull her bow round. Now, then, put out the lights, and hurry, too!" As

he gave his orders, and men were away up the rigging, shot after shot

from the cabin windows drew, as was meant, the attention of the town.

Lights were seen moving on the pier, the sound of oars was heard. There

was the red flare of signals on shore; cries and oaths came from below

and from the shore not far away.

It was too late. The heavy ship, as the cable parted, swung round. The

wind being off the land, sail after sail filled, and picking up his

boats in haste, the captain stood by the helm, the ship slowly gathering

way, while cannon-shots from the batteries fell harmless in her wake.

"Darn the old sea-barrel!" the captain cried. Two boats were after them.

"Down! All of you, down!" A dozen musket-balls rattled over them. "Give

them a dose, boys!"

"No, no!" cried De Courval. "Shoot over them! Over! Ah, good! Well

done!" For at the reply the boats ceased rowing, and, save for a few

spent bullets, the affair was ended. The brig, moving more quickly, soon

left their pursuers, and guided by lights on the _Marie_, they presently

joined her.

"Now, then," said the captain, "get out a boat!" When one by one the

disgusted guard came on deck and in the darkness were put in the boat,

their officer asked in French who had been their captors.

De Courval, on hearing this, replied, "His Majesty's schooner _St.

George_, privateer of Bristol."

"But, _mon Dieu_," cried the bewildered man, "this ship is American. It

is piracy."

"No, monsieur; she was carrying provisions to a French port." The

persistent claim of England, known as the "provision order," was well in

force, and was to make trouble enough before it was abandoned.

The officer, furious, said: "You speak too well our tongue. Ah, if I had

you on shore!"

De Courval laughed. "Adieu, Citizen." The boat put off for the port, and

the two ships made all sail.

By and by the captain called to De Courval to come to the cabin. "Well,

Mr. Lewis,--if that is to be your name,--we are only at the beginning of

our troubles. These seas will swarm with ships of war and English

privateers, and we must stay by this old tub. If she is caught, they

will go over the manifest and take all they want out of her, and men,

too, damn 'em."

"I see," said De Courval. "Is there anything to do but take our chance

on the sea?"

"I shall run north and get away from the islands out of their cruising

grounds."

"What if we run over to Martinique? How long would it take?"

"Three days and a half as we sail, or as that old cask does. But what

for?"

"I heard that things are not so bad there. We might sell the old tub's

cargo."

"Sell it? They would take it."

"Perhaps. But we might lie off the port if there is no blockade

and--well, negotiate. Once rid of the cargo, she would sail better."

"Yes; but Mr. Wynne has said nothing of this. It is only to risk what we

have won. I won't risk it."

"I am sorry," said De Courval, "but now I mean to try it. Kindly run

your eye over these instructions. This is a matter of business only."

The captain reddened angrily as he said, "And I am to obey a boy like

you?"

"Yes, sir."

The master knew Hugh Wynne well, and after a pause said grimly: "Very

good. It is out of the frying-pan into the fire." He hated it, but there

was the order, and obedience to those over him and from those under him

was part of his sailor creed.

In four days, about dawn, delayed by the slower ship, they were off the

port of St. Pierre. The harbor was empty, and there was no blockade as

yet.

"And now," said the captain, "what to do? You are the master, it seems.

Run in, I suppose?"

"No, wait a little, Captain. If, when I say what I want done, it seems

to you unreasonable, I shall give it up. Get a bit nearer; beat about;

hoist our own flag. They will want to understand, and will send a boat

out. Then we shall see."

"I can do that, but every hour is full of risk." Still he obeyed,

beginning to comprehend his supercargo and to like the audacity of the

game.

Near to six o'clock the bait was taken. A boat put out and drew near

with caution. The captain began to enjoy it. "A nibble," he said.

"Give me a boat," said De Courval. "They will not come nearer. There

are but five men. I must risk it. Let the men go armed." In ten minutes

he was beside the Frenchmen, and seeing a young man in uniform at the

tiller, he said in French: "I am from that brig. She is loaded with

provisions for this port or San Domingo, late from the States."

"Very well. You are welcome. Run in. The vicomte will take all, and pay

well. _Foi d'honneur_, monsieur; it is all as I say. You are French?"

"Yes; an _emigre_."

"We like not that, but I will go on board and talk it over."

When on the _Marie_ they went to the cabin with the captains of the two

American ships. "And now let us talk," said De Courval. "Who commands

here for the republic?"

"Citizen Rochambeau; a good Jacobin, too."

De Courval was startled. "A cousin of my mother--the vicomte--a

Jacobin!"

"Is monsieur for our side?" asked the officer.

"No; I am for the king."

"King, monsieur! The king was guillotined on January 21."

"_Mon Dieu!_"

"May I ask your name, monsieur?"

"I am the Vicomte de Courval, at your service."

"By St. Denis! I know; you are of Normandy, of the religion, like

ourselves. I am the Comte de Lourmel."

"And with the Jacobins?"

"Yes. I have an eminent affection for my head. When I can, my brother

and I will get away."

"Then we may talk plainly as two gentlemen."

"Assuredly."

"I do not trust that vicomte of yours--a far-away cousin of my mother, I

regret to say."

"Nor would I trust him. He wished the town illuminated on account of the

king's death."

"It seems incredible. Poor Louis! But now, to our business. Any hour may

bring a British cruiser. This cargo is worth in peace twenty thousand

dollars. Now it is worth thirty-two thousand,--salt beef, potatoes,

pork, onions, salt fish, and some forty casks of Madeira. Ordinarily we

should take home coffee and sugar, but now it is to be paid for in louis

d'or or in gold joes, here--here on board, monsieur."

"But the cargo?"

"The sea is quiet. When the money is on deck, we will run in nearer, and

you must lighter the cargo out. I will give you one day, and only one.

There is no other way. We are well armed, as you see, and will stand no

Jacobin tricks. Tell the vicomte Sans Culottes I am his cousin, De

Courval. Stay, I shall write a note. It is to take on my terms, and at

once, or to refuse."

"He will take it. Money is plenty; but one cannot eat louis d'ors. How

long do you give us?"

"Two hours to go and return; and, monsieur, I am trusting you."

"We will play no tricks." And so presently the boat pushed off and was

away at speed.

"And now what is all that damned parley-vouing? It was too fast for me,"

said the captain; but on hearing, he said it would work. He would hover

round the _George Washington_ with cannon loaded and men armed. Within

the time set the officer came back with another boat. "I have the

money," he said. "The vicomte swore well and long, and would much desire

your company on shore." De Courval laughed. "I grieve to disappoint

him."

"The lighters are on the way," said De Lourmel--"a dozen; and upon my

honor, there will be no attempt at capture."

The ship ran in nearer while the gold was counted, and then with all

possible haste the cargo, partly a deck-load, was lightered away, the

wind being scarcely more than a breeze. By seven at night the vessel was

cleared, for half of the _Marie's_ men had helped. A small barrel of

wine was put in the count's boat, and a glad cheer rang out as all sail

was set.

Then at last the captain came over to where De Courval, leaning against

the rail, allowed himself the first pipe of the busiest day of his life;

for no man of the crew had worked harder.

"I want to say you were right, young man, and I shall be glad to say so

at home. I came darn near to not doing it."

"Why, without you, sir," said De Courval, "I should have been helpless.

The cutting out was yours, and this time we divide honors and hold our

tongues."

"Not I," said the master; nor did he, being as honest as any of his race

of sea-dogs.

The lumbering old brig did fairly well. After three stormy weeks, in

mid-March off the Jersey coast they came in sight of a corvette flying

the tricolor. The captain said things not to be put on record, and

signaled his clumsy consort far astern to put to sea. "An Englishman all

over," said the captain. Then he sailed straight for the corvette with

the flag he loved flying. There was a smart gale from the east, and a

heavy sea running. Of a sudden, as if alarmed, the Stars and Stripes

came down, a tricolor went up, and the _Marie_ turned tail for the

Jersey coast. De Courval watched the game with interest. The captain

enjoyed it, as men who gamble on sea chances enjoy their risks, and

said, laughing, "I wonder does that man know the coast? He's a morsel

reckless."

The corvette went about and followed. "Halloa! He's going to talk!" A

cannon flash was followed by a ball, which struck the rail.

"Not bad," said the captain, and turning, saw De Courval on the deck.

"Are you hit, man?" he cried.

"Not badly." But the blood was running freely down his stocking as he

staggered to his feet.

"Get him below!"

"No, no!" cried De Courval. The mate ripped open his breeches. "A bad

splinter wound, sir, and an ugly bruise." In spite of his protests, they

carried him to the cabin and did some rude sea surgery. Another sharp

fragment had cut open his cheek, but what Dr. Rush would have called

"diachylon plaster" sufficed for this, and in great pain he lay and

listened, still for a time losing blood very freely. The corvette veered

and let go a broadside while the captain looked up at the rigging

anxiously. "Too much sea on," he said. "I will lay his damn ribs on

Absecom Beach, if he holds on."