The House of de Mailly

by Margaret Horton Potter

She held something out to him, something white, and heavy with gold and little jewels. It was the mate to that gauntlet which he had won from her and given to the King ten days ago. He took it, mechanically, and placed it, almost without looking at it, in a pocket. Then he picked up his cloak and his hat. Slowly he put both on; and, once more, all accoutred, he turned to look at her. Her back was towards him. Her head was bent. He could not speak coherently. He put out his hand and felt for the fastening of the door. There was a long, inaudible sigh. The door swung open. An effort, two steps, a slight mist before his eyes—he was gone. In the antechamber Henri, with haggard face and tears unconcealed, waited also for a clasp of the hand, to bid him godspeed to his banishment.

Book II
DEBORAH

CHAPTER I
A Ship Comes In

All night the waters of the Chesapeake and those of the Atlantic beyond had been tumbling under the force of a fresh east wind that was bearing an incoming vessel straight up to her harbor and home. But with the first streak of gray along the far horizon, Night ceased to flap her dusky wings, and the wind fainted till it was but a breath. As the wavelets lapped against the ship's side, her captain, longing for home, shrugged his big shoulders and ordered out more canvas.

It was a fair dawn. The whole stretch of sky over the bay was flushed with pink and beamy with gold; while beyond this the clear greenish turquoise of mid-sky and the west grew so vivid that the last clinging night-mist melted away, and the day waited only for the sun. He came at last, a great, fiery wheel, dripping from a watery bath and pouring his splendor back to the waters again till the river ran gold, dazzling the eyes of the gulls that veered across its breast down to the bay and out towards the salty sea. And the sun woke the forests of birches and poplars and spruce, colored the dandelions in the grass all over again, drank dew from the flower-cups, played with the breeze among the peach-blossoms of the orchard on the bank, and finally entered into the quaint breakfast-room of a colonial house, Trevor Manor, that stood on the river Severn, three miles from the city of Annapolis.

Adam, the house-butler, very black and very sleepy, was in this small apartment, dusting. From the next room Lilith, his wife, hummed, in a rich contralto, over her sweeping. Otherwise the house was still; for the sun rises early in May.

The breakfast-room wherein Adam worked, or played at work, is worthy of description, perhaps; for the colonial country-side knew nothing just like it. It was the south-west corner room on the lower floor, opening out of the library, but so easily accessible from the kitchen, which was fifty feet from the house, that the family commonly used it for all their meals. The general Southern fashion of dining in the central hall, from a custom of hospitality, had its drawbacks. On the north side of the breakfast-room were the library door, a small buffet covered with the best cheynay, some chased silver, and a little Venetian glassware, the pride of the family heart, and, on the other side of the doorway, a badly done family portrait. In the east wall was a large fireplace, with a mantel above, on which stood two large porcelain jars and a black bust of Plato, over which hung a recent print of his Majesty King George. To the south a large window looked out upon the yard behind; but the western wall of this little place was no wall at all. Across the top of it, just below the ceiling, a grudging support to the upper story was given by a heavy oaken beam. Beneath this all was glass. The little, opal-like, diamond-shaped panes, were wont to catch the rays of the afternoon sun, and make the room, from noon to twilight, a blinding, rainbow cloud of light. A door, too, there was here, all of glass and bound with lead—a real triumph of craftsman's skill in those simple days. It had been Madame Trevor's idea, however,—and where was the workman in Maryland who would not have been stimulated to inspiration with Madame Trevor to oversee his work? The door opened upon a terrace which led by a little flight of steps down into the rose-garden, or, by a diverging path, off to the big round kitchen, in which last building the morning fires had been lit, and Chloe, with Phyllis, her scullion, daughter, and probable successor, was plucking spring chickens for the morning meal.

Adam and Lilith, their first tasks ended, were now setting the table in the breakfast-room, with table-cloth of unbleached linen, the ordinary service of burnished pewter, silver knives, and carving-set of steel, horn-handled. When the six places at the oval table had been laid, Lilith disappeared through the glass door, to return presently with a great platter of newly picked strawberries, green-stemmed, scarlet and fragrant, and still glistening with dew. These were set in the centre of the table, while on either side stood an earthenware bowl heaped with sugar, patiently scraped by Adam from the high, hard loaves that came, wrapped in bright purple "dye-paper," up from the Spanish Indies.

The sun being by this time nearly two hours high in the heavens, the breakfast-room was deserted by serving-folk to regain a more tranquil tone for the reception of its ordinary habitants. Through the open door came the breath of the May morning, heavy with the sweetness of the garden just outside. Plato gazed mildly down upon the two or three lazy flies that hummed over the strawberries, and once a robin from the woods near by skimmed into the room, brushed past the decanters on the buffet, halted for a second on a jar near King George, and made a darting exit through the open southern window.