"Thou art foolish, Hugh Wynne; but I will take them."
Then the perverted Secretary of State went away. Mrs. Swanwick, still in search of literature, received an innocent book called "The Haunted Priory, or the Fortunes of the House of Almy." There were pleasant introductions, and, to De Courval's satisfaction, their baggage would be taken in charge, a chaise sent in the afternoon for his mother and himself, and for terms—well, that might bide awhile until they saw if all parties were suited. The widow, pleased to oblige her old friend, had still her reserve of doubt and some thought as to what might be said by her permanent inmate, Mr. Johann Schmidt.
III
On reaching Mrs. Swanwick's home in the afternoon, the vicomtesse went at once to her room, where the cleanliness and perfect order met her tacit approval, and still more the appetizing meal which the hostess herself brought to the bedside of her tired guest.
Mr. Schmidt, the other boarder, was absent at supper, and the evening meal went by with little talk beyond what the simple needs of the meal required. De Courval excused himself early and, after a brief talk with his mother, was glad of a comfortable bed, where he found himself thinking with interest of the day's small events and of the thin, ruddy features, bright, hazel eyes and red hair, of the tall Virginia statesman, the leader of the party some of whose baser members had given the young vicomte unpleasant minutes at Oeller's Hotel.
When very early the next day De Courval awakened and looked eastward from his room in the second story of Mrs. Swanwick's home, he began to see in what pleasant places his lot was cast. The house, broad and roomy, had been a country home. Now commerce and the city's growth were contending for Front Street south of Cedar, but being as yet on the edge of the town, the spacious Georgian house, standing back from the street, was still set round with ample gardens, on which just now fell the first sunshine of the May morning. As De Courval saw, the ground at the back of the house fell away to the Delaware River. Between him and the shore were flowers, lilacs in bloom, and many fruit-trees. Among them, quite near by, below the window, a tall, bareheaded man in shirt-sleeves was busy gathering a basket of the first roses. He seemed particular about their arrangement, and while he thus pleased himself, he talked aloud in a leisurely way, and with a strong voice, now to a black cat on the wall above him, and now as if to the flowers. De Courval was much amused by this fresh contribution to the strange experiences of the last two days. The language of the speaker was also odd.
As De Courval caught bits of the soliloquy under his window, he thought of his mother's wonder at this new and surprising country.
What would she write Rochefoucauld d'Entin? She was apt to be on paper, as never in speech, emotional and tender, finding confession to white paper easy and some expression of the humorous aspects of life possible, when, as in writing, there needed no gay comment of laughter. If she were only here, thought the son. Will she tell the duke how she is "thou" to these good, plain folk, and of the prim welcomes, and of this German, who must be the Friend Schmidt they spoke of,—no doubt a Quaker, and whom he must presently remind of his audience? But for a little who could resist so comic an opportunity? "Gute Himmel, but you are beautiful!" said the voice below him. "Oh, not you," he cried to the cat, "wanton of midnight! I would know if, Madame Red Rose, you are jealous of the white-bosomed rose maids. If all women were alike fair as you, there would be wild times, for who would know to choose? Off with you, Jezebel, daughter of darkness! 'Sh! I love not cats. Go!" and he cast a pebble at the sleepy grimalkin, which fled in fear. This singular talk went on, and De Courval was about to make some warning noise when the gardener, adding a rose to his basket, straightened himself, saying: "Ach, Himmel! My back! How in the garden Adam must have ached!"