Part 4 (1/2)

”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, Rene; 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, Rene--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 G.o.d! 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, Rene. 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 s.h.i.+ning bra.s.s 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 ap.r.o.n, 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.”