"No," he said; "I must have my way. You have cared for me in sickness and health these five years. Now it is my turn. This disease will pass along the water-front. You are not safe an hour." She gave way to his wishes as usual, and next day they were pleasantly housed in the country.
Business ceased as if by agreement, and the richer families, if not already in the country, began to flee. The doom of a vast desertion and of multiplying deaths fell on the gay and prosperous city. By September 10 every country farm was crowded with fugitives, and tents received thousands along the Schuylkill and beyond it. Sooner or later some twenty-three thousand escaped, and whole families camped in the open air and in all weather. More would have gone from the city, but the shops were shut, money ceased to circulate, and even the middle class lacked means to flee. Moreover, there was no refuge open, since all the towns near by refused to receive even those who could afford to leave. Hence many stayed who would gladly have gone.
Madame de Courval was at Merion, and Margaret had now rejoined her mother, brought over by her uncle. He had ventured into the city and seen Matthew Clarkson, the mayor, on business. He would talk no business. "Terrible time," said Josiah—"terrible! Not a man will do business." Did he feel for these dying and the dead? Schmidt doubted it, and questioned him quietly. The doctors were not agreed, and Rush bled every one. He, Josiah, was not going back. Half a dozen notes he held had been protested; a terrible calamity, but fine for debtors; a neat excuse.
Mr. Wynne had closed his counting-house, and was absent on the Ohio, and De Courval was left to brood; for now the French legation had gone to the country, the cabinet fled to Germantown, and the President long before to Mount Vernon for his summer rest.
The day after Josiah's visit, Schmidt left a letter on Mrs. Swanwick's table, and rode away to town without other farewell.
"Look at that, my friend," said the widow to René, and burst into tears. He read and re-read the letter:
Dear Madam: The city has no nurses, and help is needed, and money. I have a note from Girard. He has what Wetherill once described as the courage of the penny, not the cowardice of the dollar. I go to help him, for how long I know not, and to do what I can. My love to my friend René. I shall open your house. I have taken the key. I shall write when I can. I leave in my desk money. Use it. I owe what no money can ever repay.
I am, as always, your obedient, humble servant,
J. S.
There was consternation in the home and at Merion, where he was a favorite, and at the Hill, which Gainor had filled with guests; but day after day went by without news. No one would carry letters. Few would even open those from the city. The flying men and women told frightful stories. And now it was September. Two weeks had gone by without a word from Schmidt. The "National Gazette" was at an end, and the slanderer Freneau gone. Only one newspaper still appeared, and the flight went on: all fled who could.