Читать книгу The Red City - S. Weir Mitchell - Страница 7

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On reaching Mrs. Swanwick's home in the afternoon, the vicomtesse went at once to her room, where the cleanliness and perfect order met her tacit approval, and still more the appetizing meal which the hostess herself brought to the bedside of her tired guest.

Mr. Schmidt, the other boarder, was absent at supper, and the evening meal went by with little talk beyond what the simple needs of the meal required. De Courval excused himself early and, after a brief talk with his mother, was glad of a comfortable bed, where he found himself thinking with interest of the day's small events and of the thin, ruddy features, bright, hazel eyes and red hair, of the tall Virginia statesman, the leader of the party some of whose baser members had given the young vicomte unpleasant minutes at Oeller's Hotel.

When very early the next day De Courval awakened and looked eastward from his room in the second story of Mrs. Swanwick's home, he began to see in what pleasant places his lot was cast. The house, broad and roomy, had been a country home. Now commerce and the city's growth were contending for Front Street south of Cedar, but being as yet on the edge of the town, the spacious Georgian house, standing back from the street, was still set round with ample gardens, on which just now fell the first sunshine of the May morning. As De Courval saw, the ground at the back of the house fell away to the Delaware River. Between him and the shore were flowers, lilacs in bloom, and many fruit-trees. Among them, quite near by, below the window, a tall, bareheaded man in shirt-sleeves was busy gathering a basket of the first roses. He seemed particular about their arrangement, and while he thus pleased himself, he talked aloud in a leisurely way, and with a strong voice, now to a black cat on the wall above him, and now as if to the flowers. De Courval was much amused by this fresh contribution to the strange experiences of the last two days. The language of the speaker was also odd.

As De Courval caught bits of the soliloquy under his window, he thought of his mother's wonder at this new and surprising country.

What would she write Rochefoucauld d'Entin? She was apt to be on paper, as never in speech, emotional and tender, finding confession to white paper easy and some expression of the humorous aspects of life possible, when, as in writing, there needed no gay comment of laughter. If she were only here, thought the son. Will she tell the duke how she is "thou" to these good, plain folk, and of the prim welcomes, and of this German, who must be the Friend Schmidt they spoke of—no doubt a Quaker, and whom he must presently remind of his audience? But for a little who could resist so comic an opportunity? "Gute Himmel, but you are beautiful!" said the voice below him. "Oh, not you," he cried to the cat, "wanton of midnight! I would know if, Madame Red Rose, you are jealous of the white-bosomed rose maids. If all women were alike fair as you, there would be wild times, for who would know to choose? Off with you, Jezebel, daughter of darkness! 'Sh! I love not cats. Go!" and he cast a pebble at the sleepy grimalkin, which fled in fear. This singular talk went on, and De Courval was about to make some warning noise when the gardener, adding a rose to his basket, straightened himself, saying: "Ach, Himmel! My back! How in the garden Adam must have ached!"

Leaving his basket for a time, he was lost among the trees, to reappear in a few minutes far below, out on the water in a boat, where he undressed and went overboard.

"A good example," thought De Courval. Taking a towel, he slipped out noiselessly through the house where no one was yet astir, and finding a little bathhouse open below the garden, was soon stripped, and, wading out, began to swim. By this time the gardener was returning, swimming well and with the ease of an expert when the two came near one another a couple of hundred yards from shore.

As they drew together, De Courval called out in alarm: "Look out! Take care!"

Two small lads in a large Egg Harbor skiff, seeing the swimmer in their way, made too late an effort to avoid him. A strong west wind was blowing. The boat was moving fast. De Courval saw the heavy bow strike the head of the man, who was quite unaware of the nearness of the boat. He went under. De Courval struck out for the stern of the boat, and in its wake caught sight of a white body near the surface. He seized it, and easily got the man's head above water. The boat came about, the boys scared and awkward. With his left hand, De Courval caught the low gunwale and with his right held up the man's head. Then he felt the long body stir. The great, laboring chest coughed out water, and the man, merely stunned and, as he said later, only quarter drowned, drew deep breaths and gasped, "Let them pull to shore." The boys put out oars in haste, and in a few minutes De Courval felt the soft mud as he dropped his feet and stood beside the German. In a minute the two were on the beach, the one a young, white figure with the chest muscles at relieving play; the other a tall, gaunt, bronzed man, shaking and still coughing as he cast himself on the bordering grass without a word.

"Are you all right?" asked De Courval, anxiously.

For a moment the rescued man made no reply as he lay looking up at the sky. Then he said: "Yes, or will be presently. This sun is a good doctor and sends in no bill. Go in and dress. I shall be well presently. My boat! Ah, the boys bring it. Now my clothes. Do not scold them. It was an accident."

"That is of the past," he said in a few moments as De Courval rejoined him, "a contribution to experience. Thank you," and he put out a hand that told of anything but the usage of toil as he added: "I was wondering, as I dressed, which is the better for it, the helper or the helped. Ach, well, it is a good introduction. You are mein Herr de Courval, and I am Johann Schmidt, at your honorable service now and ever. Let us go in. I must rest a little before breakfast. I have known you,"—and he laughed—"shall we say five years? We will not trouble the women with it."

"I? Surely not."

"Pardon me. I was thinking of my own tongue, which is apt to gabble, being the female part of a man's body."

"May I beg of you not to speak of it," urged De Courval, gravely.

"How may I promise for the lady?" laughed Schmidt as they moved through the fruit-trees. "Ah, here is the basket of roses for the Frau Von Courval."

A singular person, thought the vicomte, but surely a gentleman.

Madame de Courval, tired of looking for a home, had resolved to give no trouble to this kindly household and to accept their hours—the breakfast at seven, the noonday dinner, the supper at six. She was already dressed when she heard the step outside of her door, and looking up from her Bible, called "Entrez, my son. Ah, roses, roses! Did you gather them?"

"No; they are for you, with the compliments of our fellow-lodger, a German, I believe, Mr. Schmidt; another most strange person in this strange land. He speaks English well, but, mon Dieu, of the oddest. A well-bred man, I am sure; you will like him."

"I do not know, and what matters it? I like very few people, as you know, René; but the place does appear to be clean and neat. That must suffice."

He knew well enough that she liked few people. "Are you ready, maman? Shall we go down?"

"Yes, I am ready. This seems to me a haven of rest, René—a haven of rest, after that cruel sea."

"It so seems to me, maman; and these good Quakers. They tutoyer every one—every one. You must try to learn English. I shall give you lessons, and there is a note from Mr. Wynne, asking me to call at eleven. And one word more, maman—"

"Well, my son?"

"You bade me put aside the past. I shall do so; but you—can not you also do the same? It will be hard, for you made me make it harder."

"I know—I know, but you are young—I old of heart. Life is before you, my son. It is behind me. I can not but think of my two lonely little ones in the graveyard and the quiet of our home life and, my God! of your father!" To his surprise, she burst into tears. Any such outward display of emotion was in his experience of her more than merely unusual. "Go down to breakfast, René. I shall try to live in your life. You will tell me everything—always. I shall follow you presently. We must not be late."

"Yes," he said; but he did not tell her of his morning's adventure. Even had he himself been willing to speak of it, the German would not like it, and already Schmidt began to exercise over him that influence which was more or less to affect his life in the years yet to come. As he went down to the broad hall, he saw a floor thinly strewn with white sand, settles on both sides, a lantern hanging overhead, and the upper half of the front door open to let the morning air sweep through to the garden.

A glance to right and left showed on one side a bare, whitewashed front room, without pictures or mirrors, some colonial chairs with shells carved on feet and knees, and on a small table a china bowl of roses. The room to right he guessed at once to be used as a sitting-room by Schmidt.

The furniture was much as in the other room, but there were shining brass fire-dogs, silver candlesticks on the mantel, and over it a pair of foils, two silver-mounted pistols, and a rapier with a gold-inlaid handle. Under a window was a large secretary with many papers. There were books in abundance on the chairs and in a corner case. The claw-toed tables showed pipes, tobacco-jars, wire masks, and a pair of fencing-gloves. On one side of the hall a tall clock reminded him that he was some ten minutes late.

The little party was about to sit down at table when he entered. "This is Friend de Courval," said the widow.

"We have met in the garden," returned Schmidt, quietly.

"Indeed. Thou wilt sit by me, Friend de Courval, and presently thy mother on my right." As she spoke, Madame de Courval paused at the door while the hostess and her daughter bent in the silent grace of Friends. The new-comer took her place with a pleasant word of morning greeting in her pretty French; an old black woman brought in the breakfast. A tranquil courtesy prevailed.

"Will thy mother take this or that? Here are eggs my uncle sent from the country, and shad, which we have fresh from the river, a fish we esteem."

There was now for a somewhat short time little other talk. The girl of over sixteen shyly examined the new-comers. The young man approved the virginal curves of neck and figure, the rebellious profusion of dark chestnut-tinted hair, the eyes that could hardly have learned their busy attentiveness in the meeting-house. The gray dress and light gray silk kerchief seemed devised to set off the roses which came out in wandering isles of color on her cheeks. Madame's ignorance of English kept her silent, but she took note of the simple attire of her hostess, the exquisite neatness of the green apron, then common among Friends, and the high cap. The habit of the house was to speak only when there was need. There was no gossip even of the mildest.

"June was out all night," said Mrs. Swanwick. "That is our cat," she explained to De Courval.

"But she brought in a dead mouse," said the girl, "to excuse herself, I suppose." Schmidt smiled at the touch of humor, but during their first meal was more silent than usual.

"I did not tell thee, Margaret," said Mrs. Swanwick, "that William Westcott was here yesterday at sundown. I have no liking for him. I said thou wert out."

"But I was only in the garden."

"I did say thou wert out, but not in the garden."

Schmidt smiled again as he set his teaspoon across his cup, the conventional sign that he wished no more tea.

Then the girl, with fresh animation, asked eagerly: "Oh, mother, I forgot; am I to have the book Ann Bingham thought delightful, and her father told thee I should read?"

"I am not so minded," replied the mother, and this seemed to end the matter. De Courval listened, amused, as again the girl asked cheerfully:

"Aunt Gainor will be here to take me with her to see some china, mother, at twelve. May I not go?"

"No, not to-day. There is the cider of last fall we must bottle, and I shall want thy help. The last time," she said, smiling, "thou didst fetch home a heathen god—green he was, and had goggle eyes. What would Friend Pennington say to that?"

"But I do not pray to it."

"My child!" said the mother, and then: "If thou didst pray to all Aunt Gainor's gods, thou wouldst be kept busy. I have my hands full with thee and Gainor Wynne's fal-lals and thy Uncle Langstroth's follies." She smiled kindly as she spoke, and again the girl quietly accepted the denial of her request, while De Courval listened with interest and amusement.

"I shall go with Miss Wynne," said Schmidt, "and buy you a brigade of china gods. I will fill the house with them, Margaret." He laughed.

"Thou wilt do nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"Well, Nanny would break them pretty soon. Brief would be the lives of those immortals. But I forgot; I have a book for thee, Pearl."

De Courval looked up. "Yes," he thought; "the Pearl, Marguerite. It does seem to suit."

"And what is it?" said the mother. "I am a little afraid of thee and thy books."

"'The Vicar of Wakefield' it is called; not very new, but you will like it, Pearl."

"I might see it myself first."

"When Pearl and I think it fit for thee," said Schmidt, demurely. "I did see also in the shop Job Scott's 'The Opening of the Inward Eye, or Righteousness Revealed.' I would fetch thee that—for thyself."

The hostess laughed. "He is very naughty, Friend de Courval," she said, "but not as wicked as he seems." Very clearly Schmidt was a privileged inmate. Madame ate with good appetite, pleased by the attention shown her, and a little annoyed at being, as it were, socially isolated for want of English. As she rose she told her son that she had a long letter she must write to Cousin Rochefoucauld, and would he ask Mr. Wynne how it might be sent. Then Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come to my room. There we may smoke, or in the garden, not elsewhere. There is here a despotism; you will need to be careful."

"Do not believe him," said the Pearl. "Mother would let him smoke in meeting, if she were overseer."

"Margaret, Margaret, thou art saucy. That comes of being with the Willing girls and Gainor, who is grown old in sauciness—world's people!" and her eyebrows went up, so that whether she was quite in earnest or was the prey of some sudden jack-in-the-box of pure humor, De Courval did not know. It was all fresh, interesting, and somehow pleasant. Were all Quakers like these?

He followed Schmidt into his sitting-room, where his host closed the door. "Sit down," he said. "Not there. These chairs are handsome. I keep them to look at and for the occasional amendment of slouching manners. Five minutes will answer. But here are two of my own contrivance, democratic, vulgar, and comfortable. Ah, do you smoke? Yes, a pipe. I like that. I should have been disappointed if you were not a user of the pipe. I am going to talk, to put you in pays de connaissance, as you would say. And now for comments! My acquaintance of five years—or five minutes, was it, that I was under water?—may justify the unloading of my baggage of gossip on a man whom I have benefited by the chance of doing a good deed, if so it be—or a kind one at least. You shall learn in a half hour what otherwise might require weeks."

De Courval, amused at the occasional quaintness of the English, which he was one day to have explained, blew rings of smoke and listened.

"I shall be long, but it will help you and save questions."

"Pray go on, sir. I shall be most thankful."

"Imprimis, there is Mrs. Swanwick, born in the Church of England, if any are born in church—Cyrilla Plumstead. She was brought up in luxury, which came to an end before they married her to a stiff Quaker man who departed this life with reasonable kindness, after much discipline of his wife in ways which sweeten many and sour some. She has held to it loyally—oh, more or less. That is the setting of our Pearl, a creature of divine naturalness, waiting until some Quaker Cupid twangs his bow. Then the kiss-defying bonnet will suffer. By the way, Mrs. Swanwick is a fair French scholar, but a bit shy with you as yet.

"Soon thou wilt see Josiah Langstroth, uncle of Mrs. Swanwick. Ah, there's a man that mocks conjecture; for, being a Quaker by pride of ancestral damnation, he goes to meeting twice a year, swears a little to ease his soul, toasts George the Third of Sundays, and will surely tell you how, driven out of the country, he went to London and was presented to the king and triumphantly kept his hat on his head. He is rich and would provide for his niece, who will take help from no one. He does at times offer money, but is ever well pleased when she refuses. As for Hugh Wynne, I will go with you to see him, a Welsh squire to this day, like the best of them here. I shall leave you to make him out. He is a far-away cousin of Margaret's mother.

"It is a fine menagerie. Very soon you will hear of Aunt Gainor Wynne—every one calls her aunt; I should not dare to do so—a sturdy Federalist lady, with a passion for old china, horses, and matchmaking, the godmother of Mrs. Swanwick. Take care; she will hate or love you at sight, and as great a maker of mischief as ever perplexed good sense; as tender an old woman at times as ever lacked need of onions to fetch tears; a fine lady when she chooses.

"There, I have done you a service and saved your wits industry. You listen well. There is a savor of grace in that. It is a virtue of the smoker. Question me if you like."

Nothing could better have pleased the young man.

"I would know more of this town, sir," and he told of his quest of a tavern. The German laughed.

"A good lesson—Federalists and ape democrats—wild politics of a nation in its childhood. Three great men—Washington, Hamilton, James Wilson, and perhaps John Adams; well—great merchants, Willings, Bingham, and Girard; and besides these, Quakers, many of them nobler for a creed unworkable in a naughty world, with offshoots of 'world's people,' which saved some fortunes in the war; and, ah, a sect that will die away—Free Quakers, high-minded gentlemen who made up for a century of peace when they elected to draw the sword. I fear I have been tedious."

"No, not at all; you are most kind, sir, and most interesting. I am sure to like it all. I hope my mother will be contented. We have never of late years been used to luxuries."

"She can hardly fail to be satisfied; but it is a simple life. There are only two servants, Cicero, and Nanny, once a slave, now, as Mrs. Swanwick says, a servant friend—ah, and a stiff Episcopal. She has never ceased to wonder why her mistress ever became a Quaker. I am much of her way of thinking. Are you of a mind to walk and see a little of the city? Later we will call upon Mr. Wynne." As they rose, he added: "I did not speak of the wrecks of French nobles cast on these shores—only a few as yet. You will see them by and by. They are various—but in general perplexed by inheritance of helplessness. Once for all you are to understand that my room is always and equally yours. Of course you use the foils. Yes; well, we shall fence in the garden. And now come; let us go out."

"I forgot, sir. My mother bade me thank you for the roses. She has as yet no English, or would herself have thanked you."

"But I myself speak French—of a kind. It will serve to amuse madame; but never will you hear French at its best until Miss Wynne does talk it."