Part 7 (1/2)
”This is Friend de Courval,” said Mrs. Swanwick.
”You must pardon me, Vicomte,” said Miss Wynne. ”You must pardon a rude old woman. I am Hugh Wynne's aunt. May I ask about your mother? Is she very ill? I meant to call on her shortly. I am heartily at your service.”
”I fear she is very ill,” he replied.
”Have you a doctor?”
”We were just now thinking whom we should have,” said Mrs. Swanwick.
”The vicomtesse speaks no English.”
”Yes, yes,” said Mistress Wynne; ”who shall we have? Not Dr. Rush. He would bleed her, and his French--la, my cat can meow better French. Ah, I have it. I will fetch Chovet. We have not spoken for a month, because--but no matter, he will come.”
There was nothing to do but to thank this resolute lady. ”I will send for him at once, Aunt Gainor,” said Mrs. Swanwick.
To De Courval's surprise, it was Margaret who answered. ”He will come the quicker for Aunt Gainor, mother. Every one does as she wants.” This was to De Courval.
”Except you, you demure little Quaker kitten. I must go,” and the masterful woman in question was out of the house in a moment, followed by Schmidt and De Courval.
”A chair. I can't mount as I used to.” Her black groom brought out a chair. In a moment she was on the back of the powerfully built stallion and clattering up Front Street with perilous indifference to an ill-paved road and any unwatchful foot-pa.s.senger. She struck up Spruce Street and the unpaved road then called Delaware Fifth Street and so down Arch. It was mid-morning, and the street full of vehicles and people a-foot. Suddenly, when near her own house, she checked her horse as she saw approaching a chaise with leather springs, the top thrown back, and in front a sorry-looking white horse. Within sat a man who would have served for the English stage presentation of a Frenchman--a spare figure, little, with very red cheeks under a powdered wig; he was dressed in the height of the most extravagant fas.h.i.+on of a day fond of color. The conventional gold-headed cane of the physician lay between his legs. At sight of Mistress Wynne he applied the whip and called out to his horse in a shrill voice, ”_Allez_. Get on, ca Ira!”
The spinster cried to him as they came near: ”Stop, stop, Doctor! I want you. Stop--do you hear me?”
He had not forgotten a recent and somewhat fierce political pa.s.sage of arms, and turned to go by her. With a quick movement she threw the big stallion in front of ca Ira, who reared, stopped short, and cast the doctor sprawling over the dash-board. He sat up in wrath. ”_Sacre bleu!_” he cried, ”I might have been killed. _Quelle femme!_ What a woman! And my wig--” It was in the street dust.
”Why did you not stop? Get the man's wig, Tom.” The groom, grinning, dismounted and stood still, awaiting her orders, the dusty wig in his hand.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”With a quick movement she threw the big stallion in front of ca Ira”]
”My wig--give it to me.”
”No, don't give it to him.” The doctor looked ruefully from the black to the angry spinster.
”What means this, madame? My wig--”
”I want you to go at once to see a sick woman at Mrs. Swanwick's.”
”I will not. I am sent for in haste. In an hour or two I will go, or this afternoon.”
”I don't believe you. You must go now--now. Who is it is ill?” People paused, astonished and laughing.
”It is Citizen Jefferson. He is ill, very ill.”
”I am glad of it. He must wait--this citizen.”
”But he has a chill--_un diable_ of a chill.”
”If the devil himself had a chill,--Lord, but it would refresh him!--he would have to wait.”
He tried to pa.s.s by. She seized the rein of his horse. Her blood was up, and at such times few men cared to face her.
”You will go,” she cried, ”and at once, or--there is a tale I heard about you last year in London from Dr. Abernethy. That highwayman--you know the story. Your wig I shall keep. It is freshly powdered. Lord, man, how bald you are!”