Part 49 (1/2)

He walked slowly homeward, avoiding people and choosing the alley by-ways so numerous in Penn's city.

The hall door was usually open in the afternoon to let the breeze pa.s.s through. He went into Schmidt's room, and then into the garden, seeing only Nanny and black Cicero, with whom he was a favorite. No one was in but madame, his mother. Mr. Girard had been to ask for him and Mr.

Bingham and Mr. Wynne, and others. So it was to be the mother first.

He was used to the quiet, unemotional welcome. He kissed her hand and her forehead, saying, ”You look well, mother, despite the heat.”

”Yes, I am well. Tell me of your journey. Ah, but I am glad to see you!

I have had but one letter. You should have written more often.” The charm of his mother's voice, always her most gracious quality, just now affected him almost to tears.

”I did write, mother, several times. The journey may wait. I have bad news for you.”

”None is possible for me while you live, my son.”

”Yes, yes,” he said. ”The man Carteaux, having heard of Schmidt's absence and mine, has formally charged me with shooting him without warning in order to steal his despatches.”

”Ah, you should have killed him. I said so.”

”Yes, perhaps. The charge is clearly made on paper, attested by witnesses. He is said to be dying.”

”Thank G.o.d.”

”I have only my word.” He told quietly of the weakness of his position, of the political aspect of the affair, of his interview and his resignation.

”Did you ask Mr. Randolph to apologize, Rene?”

”Oh, mother, one cannot do that with a cabinet minister.”

”Why not? And is this all? You resign a little clerks.h.i.+p. I am surprised that it troubles you.”

”Mother, it is ruin.”

”Nonsense! What is there to make you talk of ruin?”

”The good word of men lost; the belief in my honor. Oh, mother, do you not see it? And it is a case where there is nothing to be done, nothing.

If Randolph, after my long service, does not believe me, who will?”

She was very little moved by anything he said. She lived outside of the world of men, one of those island lives on which the ocean waves of exterior existence beat in vain. The want of sympathy painfully affected him. She had said it was of no moment, and had no helpful advice to give. The constantly recurring thought of Margaret came and went as they talked, and added to his pain. He tried to make her see both the shame and even the legal peril of his position. It was quite useless. He was for her the Vicomte de Courval, and these only common people whom a revolution had set in high places. Never before had he fully realized the quality of his mother's una.s.sailable pride. It was a foretaste of what he might have to expect when she should learn of his engagement to Margaret; but now that, too, must end. He went away, exhausted as from a bodily struggle.

In the hall he met Margaret just come in, the joy of time-nurtured love on her face. ”Oh, Rene!” she cried. ”How I have longed for thee! Come out into the garden. The servants hear everything in the house.”

They went out and sat down under the trees, she talking gaily, he silent.

”What is the matter?” she inquired at last, of a sudden anxious.

”Pearl,” he said, ”I am a disgraced and ruined man.”

”Rene, what dost thou mean? Disgraced, ruined!”

He poured out this oft-repeated story of Avignon, the scene on the Bristol road, the despatch, and last, his talk with Randolph and his resignation.

”And this,” she said, ”was what some day I was to hear. It is terrible, but--ruined--oh, that thou art not. Think of the many who love thee! And disgraced? Thou art Rene de Courval.”