Part 14 (2/2)

”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.”

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