"Ma.s.sa Wynne want to see Ma.s.sa 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-cla.s.s 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 ash.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.day visitors.

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

He paused before he knocked. Grat.i.tude, 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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.suming 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."