The House of de Mailly

by Margaret Horton Potter

"Yes. Let her out, and run free with the wind."

With this command, and a sigh of content, Deborah sank down at Carroll's feet, laid her head upon the seat, and said no more. Charles could feel a bit of her calico ruffle over his foot, and her shoulder close to his arm, and was perfectly happy in watching the sail and feeling the tiller quiver in his grasp. The stranger reclined on a cushion in the bottom of the boat, facing the stern, his eyes resting half the time upon Deborah, and half the time upon the silver wake of the little boat.

A more perfect afternoon the gods never contrived. The sun was by this time well on its descent, the west was a glare of glory, and the whole river caught its reflection and poured an endless golden ripple along the shores, upon whose deep velvet turf the yellow shadows were lengthening. From the bay, eastward, came a stiff salt breeze that stirred the lazy June air till it had revealed every flower-breath in the land, and was as rich as only June air can be. Farther up, the river narrowed and twined between its banks till Charles was obliged to tack in order to catch the wind. For the most part the shores were wooded and still; but every now and then came an opening through which one caught the glimpse of a red brick house with white windows and pillared portico gleaming through a mist of birch or willow branches. Occasionally a gull, just in from the ocean, would dart, arrow-like, into the water, churning it white with his dive, to reappear presently, holding a captive fish, scales flashing in the light, fast in his beak.

Claude de Mailly noted it all—all this natural beauty and perfumed silence that his life had lacked. It was entering into his nature at every pore of the flesh, and was to him as milk to a man dying of hunger and thirst. Only one unsatisfied desire was in his heart. And yet, was it easy to mourn, even for that, when, just before him, graceful, unconscious, careless, pure of brow, clear of eye, and with that mad hair clustering all about her neck, lay another woman, whose glance, every now and then encountering his own, would droop so swiftly that he could see the whiteness of her eyelids and the long, curling lashes that touched her delicately flushed cheeks? A new feeling was welling up in the courtier's heart—something that had never come before. He let it stay, nor tried to understand the reason for its being. But he knew that he was moved by the sight of Deborah, and instinctively he divined that his emotion was being echoed in her.

Deborah was cold, with a cold which the summer sun had no power to warm. But she had not found that chill in the salt, eastern wind. She knew and understood but half that was taking place this afternoon. She had waited for its like, without knowing what it might be, for a long time. Sir Charles had brought her something that emanated merely from himself; but here, at once, in the first glance ever given her by this other, while he had raved in fever, was all that she had dreamed of, and infinitely more. Had it been some weight that was crushing out her heart, she could only have opened wide her arms and fiercely welcomed it. It was not all de Mailly either, she thought, vaguely, as she felt Charles move the tiller. It was the whole day, the place, the sunlight, the river, even the imperturbable Carroll, who was silent for the sake of the air, and the water beneath the keel of his boat. The Severn was still swollen from heavy spring rains, and the shallows of later summer were covered now. Young Carroll presently ran the pinnace so close to the high north bank that a willow, growing in the water, sent out one pale, feathery arm that brushed Claude's head in passing. Deborah watched a long leaf draw over his neck, just below the ear. Taking the bough as it reached her, she pressed it half unconsciously to her forehead, looking up to find de Mailly smiling into her eyes. But when they emerged from the shadows he was looking beyond her, down the river, though the smile lingered still about his lips. Charles Carroll did not notice the incident. He was thinking of his pretty feat in steersmanship.

"Well, Deb," he said at last, "if I'm to get home for supper, we'll have to come about."

Deborah sighed, and acquiesced.

"Mind your head, then, sir," cried the boy, laughing.

And as de Mailly bent carefully over, he answered blithely: "Faith, sir, had you kept me out half an hour longer, I should so have lost my head that the boom could not have menaced it."

"Ay, the river's pretty."