"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. G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 st.u.r.dy 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-gla.s.s.

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-gla.s.s, 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 G.o.ds 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 gla.s.s: "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 G.o.dmother 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 pa.s.ses 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?"