Part 45 (1/2)

”Sit down, dear child.”

The girl sunk on a cus.h.i.+on at her feet, her head in the mother's lap. ”I could not help it,” she murmured, sobbing.

”I saw this would come to thee, long ago,” said the mother. ”I had hoped thou wouldst be so guided as not to let thy heart get the better of thy head.”

”It is my head has got me into this--this sweet trouble. Thou knowest that I have had others, and some who had thy favor; but, mother, here for two years I have lived day by day in the house with Rene, and have seen him so living as to win esteem and honor, a tender son to his mother, and so respectful to thee, who, for her, art only the keeper of a boarding-house. Thou knowest what Friend Schmidt says of him. I heard him tell Friend Hamilton. He said--he said he was a gallant gentleman, and he wished he were his son. You see, mother, it was first respect and then--love. Oh, mother, that duel! I knew as I saw him carried in that I loved him.” She spoke rapidly, with little breaks in her voice, and now was silent.

”It is bad, very bad, my child. I see no end of trouble--oh, it is bad, bad, for thee and for him!”

”It is good, good, mother, for me and for him. He has waited long. There has been something, I do not know what, kept him from speaking sooner.

It is over now.”

”I do not see what there could have been, unless it were his mother. It may well be that. Does she know?”

”When he comes back he will tell her.”

”I do not like it, and I dislike needless mysteries. From a worldly point of view,--and I at least, who have drunk deep of poverty, must somewhat think for thee. Here are two people without competent means--”

”But I love him.”

”And his mother?”

”But I love him.” She had no other logic. ”Oh, I wish Mr. Schmidt were here! Rene says he will like it.”

”That, at least, is a good thing.” Both were silent a little while. Mrs.

Swanwick had been long used to defer to the German's opinions, but looking far past love's limited horizon, the widow thought of the certain anger of the mother, of the trap she in her pride would think set for her son by designing people, her prejudices intensified by the mere fact of the poverty which left her nothing but exaggerated estimates of her son and what he was ent.i.tled to demand of the woman he should some day marry. And too, Rene had often spoken of a return to France. She said at last: ”We will leave the matter now, and speak of it to no one; but I should say to thee, my dear, that apart from what for thy sake I should consider, and the one sad thing of his willingness to avenge a hasty word by possibly killing a fellow-man,--how terrible!--apart from these things, there is no one I had been more willing to give thee to than Rene de Courval.”

”Thank thee, mother.” The evil hour when the vicomtesse must hear was at least remote, and something akin to anger rose in the widow's mind as she thought of it.

Rene came in to supper. Mrs. Swanwick was as usual quiet, asking questions in regard to Margaret's errand of charity, but of a mind to win time for reflection, and unwilling as yet to open the subject with Rene.

When, late in the evening, he came out of the study where he had been busy with the instructions left by Schmidt, he was annoyed to learn that Margaret had gone up-stairs. There was still before him the task of speaking to his mother of what he was sure was often in her mind, Carteaux. She had learned from the gossip of guests that a Frenchman had been set upon near Bristol and had been robbed and wounded. Incurious and self-centered, the affairs of the outer world had for her but little real interest. Now she must have her mind set at ease, for Rene well knew that she had not expected him to rest contented or to be satisfied with the result of his unfortunate duel. Her puritan creed was powerless here as against her social training, and her sense of what so hideous a wrong as her husband's murder should exact from his son.

”I have something to tell you, _maman_,” he said; ”and before I go, it is well that I should tell you.”

”Well, what is it?” she said coldly, and then, as before, uneasily anxious.

”On the twenty-ninth of November I learned that Carteaux had started for New York an hour before I heard of it, on his way to France. I had waited long--undecided, fearing that again some evil chance might leave you alone in a strange land.”

”You did wrong, Rene. There are duties which ought to permit of no such indecision. You should not have considered me for a moment. Go on.”

”How could I help it, thinking of you, mother? I followed, and overtook this man near Bristol. I meant no chance with the sword this time. He was unarmed. I gave him the choice of my pistols, bade him pace the distance, and give the word. He walked away some six feet, half the distance, and, turning suddenly, fired, grazing my shoulder. I shot him--ah, a terrible wound in arm and shoulder. Schmidt had found a note I left for him, and, missing his pistols, inquired at the French legation, and came up in time to see it all and to prevent me from killing the man.”

”Pre--vent you! How did he dare!”

”Yes, mother; and it was well. Schmidt found, when binding up his wound, that he was carrying despatches from the Republican Minister Fauchet to go by the corvette _Jean Bart_, waiting in New York Harbor.”

”What difference did that make?”