"I know, Mary, only the wildest tales. But when De Courval returns, I desire to see him at once."
"His mother heard from him to-day and we look for him possibly to-morrow. Gainor Wynne has been here, in a fine rage. The young man has very warm friends, Hugh. I cannot believe a word of it."
"Nor I, what I hear. But let him see me at once." The widow was distressed. "Something there must have been. Alas, my poor Margaret!"
Her life had been for many years a constant struggle with poverty, made harder by remembrance of early days of ease and luxury. She bore it all with high-hearted courage and the pride which for some inexplicable reason will accept any gift except money. It became an easier life when Schmidt took of her his two rooms and became by degrees their friend, while the fact that the daughter, inheriting her beauty, was like herself of Friends, did in a measure keep their lives simple and free from the need for many luxuries she saw in the homes of their cousins. Mrs. Swanwick thought, too, of these strangers whom she had nursed, of the vicomtesse, at times a little trying with her sense of what was due to her; of her son, kindly, grave, thoughtful of others, religious,—that was singular,—and twice, as it was said, engaged in bloody quarrels. How could one understand that?
She knew what her bountiful nature had given these exiles. Now she was again to be a reproach among Friends and to feel that these people had brought into her quiet home for her child only misfortune and sorrow. If Schmidt were but here! Margaret was at home, busy and joyful, knowing nothing of what lay before her or of this sinister story of attempted murder and robbery. Resolutely setting it all aside, Mrs. Swanwick went out to provide for the wants of the day.
A half hour later De Courval crossed the city, riding along High Street A pleasant comrade—Joy—went with him as he turned down Front Street, past widely separated houses and gardens gay with flowers. Once they had been country homes, but now the city was slowly crowding in on them with need for docks. He left his horse at the stable and walked swiftly homeward.
Mrs. Swanwick's house was still remote enough to be secure from the greed of commerce. The dusty, gray road before him, dry with the intense heat of August, ran southward. No one was in sight. There was something mysteriously depressing in the long highway without sign of life, a reminder of that terrible summer when day by day he had come out of the house and seen no one.
As he drew near Mrs. Swanwick's door, he met Captain Biddle. "Oh, by George!" said the sailor, "so you are come at last, and none too soon. I have been here thrice."
"What is the matter, Captain? Is any one ill?"
"No; but there is a lot of lies about you. There is neither decency nor charity ashore. Have you been at the State Department or seen any one?"