The years which followed our long struggle for freedom were busy years for the mind of man. The philosophers in France were teaching men strange doctrines, and fashion, ever eager for change, reveled in the new political philosophy. The stir of unrest was in the air, among the people, in the talk of the salons.

The Bastille had long since fallen, and already in the provinces murder and pillage had begun. The terrible example set by Jourdan late in '91 was received in Paris with other than reprobation. He was to return to Avignon and, strange irony of fate, to be condemned as a moderate and to die by the guillotine amid the rejoicing of the children of his victims; but this was to be far away in '94.

The massacres of August, '92, when the king left the Swiss to their fate, all the lightning and thunder of the gathering storm of war without and frenzied murder within the tottering kingdom, had not as yet in this midsummer been heard of in America.

After four years as our minister in Paris, Mr. Jefferson had long ago come back to add the mischief of a notable intellect to the party which sincerely believed we were in danger of a monarchy, and was all for France and for Citizen Equality, who, as Hamilton foresaw, might come to be the most cruel of tyrants.

The long battle of States' rights had begun in America. The Federalists, led by Hamilton, were for strong central rule; their opponents, the Republicans, later to be called Democrats, were gone mad in their Jacobin clubs of many cities, bonnet rouge at feasts, craze about titles, with Citizen for Mr., and eagerly expecting a new French minister.

Washington, a Federalist, smiled grimly at the notion of kingship, and the creature of no party, with his usual desire for peace, had made up, of both parties, a cabinet sure to disagree.

To hear the clamor of the Jacobin clubs, a stranger coming among us in '92 might have believed us ruined. Nevertheless, Hamilton had rescued our finance, assured a revenue not as yet quite sufficient, founded the bank, and assumed the State debts. The country was in peril only from disorders due to excess of prosperity, the podagra of the state. There was gambling in the new script, lotteries innumerable, and the very madness of speculation in all manner of enterprises—canals, toll-pike roads, purchases of whole counties.

Cool heads like Schmidt looked on and profited. The Quaker merchants, no wise perturbed by the rashness of speculation, accumulated irredeemable ground rents, and thriving, took far too little interest in the general party issues, but quietly created the great schools which are of our best to-day, endowed charities, and were to be heard of later as fearless Christian gentlemen in a time of death and despair, when men unafraid in battle shrank from the foe which struck and was never seen.

In the early August days, madame had driven now and then with Mistress Wynne, and at present was gone, not quite willingly, to stay a while at the Hill. Mrs. Wynne had called, and her husband, more than once, with a guarded word or two from his wife as to the manner of usefulness of his young clerk. "Mind you, Hugh, let it be secretary. Do not hurt the poor lady's pride." So counseled Darthea, kindly wise, and he obeyed, having come in time to accept his wife's wisdom in many matters social and other.

To the Hill farm came to call, on the vicomtesse, the Vicomte de Noailles, the prosperous partner of William Bingham; and, asked by the Wynnes, Mrs. Bingham, to be at a later day the acclaimed beauty of London; her kin, the Willings, with the gift of hereditary good looks; and the Shippens. The vicomtesse received them all with a certain surprise at their ceremonious good manners and their tranquil sense of unquestioned position. She would return no visits as yet, and her son was busy and, too, like herself, in mourning. In fact, she shrank from general contact with the prosperous, and dreaded for RenÉ this gay world of pretty young women. Ciel! What might not happen?

On their part, they were curious and kind. Emigrant ladies were rare; but, as to foreign titles, they were used to them in the war, and now they were common since a great influx of destitute French had set in, and not all who came were to their liking.

"There," said the German one evening, kindling a great pipe, "enough of politics, De Courval; you are of the insatiably curious. We are to dine to-morrow at the fashionable hour of four with Mistress Wynne and the maid, my Pearl. It is an occasion of some worthiness. She has come to town for this feast, one of her freaks. Did ever you see a great actress?"

"I?" said De Courval. "No, or yes—once, in France, Mademoiselle Mars. We of the religion do not go to the theater. What actress do you speak of?"

"Oh, women—all women; but to-morrow on the stage will be Miss Gainor, become, by pretty courtesy of possibilities declined, Mistress Gainor by brevet—"

De Courval, delighted, cried: "But your little Quaker lady—is she to have a rÔle? She seems to me very simple."

"Simple! Yes, here, or at meeting, I daresay. Thou shouldest see her with Friend Waln. Her eyes humbly adore his shoe-buckles—no, his shoe-ties—when he exhorts her to the preservation of plainness of attire, and how through deep wading, and a living travail of soul, life shall be uplifted to good dominion. It is a godly man, no doubt, and a fine, ripe English he talks; and Arthur Howell, too."

"I must hear them."

"You will hear noble use of the great English speech. But best of all are the Free Quakers, like Samuel Wetherill, an apostate, says Friend Pennington with malignant sweetness, but for me a sterling, well-bred gentle, if ever God made one. Ah, then the maid, all godliness and grace, will take his hat and cane and, the head a bit aside, make eyes at him. Ah, fie for shame! And how we purr and purr—actresses, oh, all of them! There is the making of a Quaker Juliet in that girl."

"One would scarce think it. My mother is Éprise—oh, quite taken with Miss Margaret, and now, I think, begins a little to understand this household, so new and so wonderful to me and to her. But I meant to ask you something. I have part paid the queer doctor, and the bill, I suppose, is correct. It is long—"

"And large, no doubt."

"And what with a new gown my mother needs and some clothes I must have—"

The German interrupted him. "De Courval, may I not help you, to whom I owe a debt which can never be paid?"

"Oh, no, no. I shall soon have more wages." He grew red as he spoke.

"But why is money such a wonder thing that only some saleable article shall count against it? I lack hospitality to entertain the thought."

"Would you take it of me?"

"I? Yes. I took my life of you—a poor thing, but mine own."

"I think you had small choice in the matter," laughed RenÉ.

"Der Teufel! Very little. Let it be a loan, if you will. Come, now. You make me unhappy. I lend you five hundred livres—a hundred dollars we call it here. You pay, when you can."

De Courval hesitated. Was there not something ignoble in refusing a kindness thus offered? Schmidt laughed as he added: "Reverse it. Put it in this fashion: good master of my fate, let me drown. I would owe no coin of life to any. To end it, I put to-night in this left-hand drawer money. Use it freely. Leave a receipt each time, if you like."

"I am so little used to kindness," said De Courval, wavering.

"I know," returned Schmidt—"bittersweet to some men, but should not be to the more noble nature."

"No, no, not to me. I take it and gladly, but"—and once more he colored, as he said with a certain shyness—"would you mind calling me RenÉ? I—I should like it."

"And I, too," said the German, as he put a hand of familiar kindliness on the younger man's knee. "Now that is settled, and you have done me another favor. I have an errand at Germantown, and shall join you at Miss Wynne's at four to-morrow. Are there any ships come in? No? There will be, I fear, evil news from France, and storms, storms that will roll across the sea and beat, too, on these shores. It will stir here some foolish echoes, some feeble mockery of what over there cries murder." De Courval had had too much reason to believe him. "Ach, I am sleepy. Shall you go to see your mother on Sunday? There is my mare at your service."

Yes, he had meant to walk, but he would be glad of the horse.

When, on Saturday, Mrs. Swanwick knew that Schmidt had gone to the country, she said Margaret would walk with the vicomte, and show him the way. He felt a fresh surprise, a little embarrassment. Young women were not thus free in France; but as he was the only one thus amazed, he set out with the Pearl in some wonderment at what his mother would have said or thought.

They walked up Front Street, and at last along Fifth. She was now, as Schmidt had said, the other Margaret of whom De Courval had had brief knowledge at times. A frank, natural, gay good humor was in all her ways, a gentle desire to please, which was but the innocent coquetry of a young girl's heart. She stayed a moment as they crossed Walnut Street, and replying to a question, said: "Yes, that is the jail men called the Provostry in the war. My grandfather lay in it—oh, very long. We have his sword in the attic. I would hang it up down-stairs, but Friends would not approve, thou must know. And that is Independence Hall, but thou hast seen it."

"Yes. Are you proud of it?"

"Surely. My people shed our blood for what strong men did in that hall. My uncle and my grandfather came out of the jail to die, oh, both of them!"

"And of what party are you, Miss Margaret?"

"Of George Washington's," she cried. "But Friends must have no party, or their women, at least—not even tea-parties," and she laughed.

"I think I am of your party," said De Courval—"George Washington's."

The conventual shelter of the silk bonnet turned toward him as she said: "Then we agree; but I am not sure that I like people to agree with me. It spoils talk, Mr. Schmidt says."

"Then I am all for Jefferson," he cried gaily, thinking in his grave way that this young girl was of a sudden older than her years.

"I am not sure that I like that either," she replied, and so chatting with easy freedom they came to Miss Wynne's door, opposite the Quakers' burial-ground, where their dead lay in unmarked graves. A negro servant in the brown livery of the Wynnes opened the door, and Aunt Gainor appeared in the hall in more than usual splendor.

"Good day, Vicomte," and to Margaret: "Take off your bonnet, child. How can any one, man or woman, kiss thee with that thing on thy head? It might be useful at need, but I do suppose you could take it off on such occasions."

"For shame, Aunt Gainor!" said the Pearl, flushing and glad of the bonnet she was in act to remove. Miss Wynne kissed her, whispering, "Good Lord! you are on the way to be a beauty!"

De Courval, who of course had called long since to thank his hostess, had so far dined in no one of the more luxuriously appointed homes of Philadelphia. Here were portraits; much, too much, china, of which he was no judge; and tables for work that Miss Wynne never did, or for cards at which she liked high play.

"Mr. Hamilton was to dine here, but was with me just now to be excused."

"He was with my mother an hour this morning," said Margaret, "about some small affairs we have in New York. He is to be here again on Saturday sennight to tell mother all about it."

"I am sorry to miss him," said Gainor; "but if I lose a guest I desired, I am to have one I do not want. Mr. Josiah Langstroth has bidden himself to dine with me."

"Uncle Josiah? I have not seen him for a month."

"There is a joss in the corner like him, Vicomte," said Miss Wynne. "If you look at it, you will need no presentation. I pray you to avoid the temptation of a look." Of course both young persons regarded, as she meant they should, the china god on his ebony stand.

"A reincarnation of the bulldog," remarked Gainor, well pleased with her phrase.

"If," said Margaret to the young man, "thou dost take my aunt or Uncle Josiah seriously, it will be what they never do one another. They fight, but never quarrel. My mother thinks this is because then they would stay apart and have no more the luxury of fighting again, a thing they do love."

"Are you sure that is thy mother's wisdom, Margaret?" said Gainor. "It is not like her."

"If I said it was mine, thou wouldst box my ears."

"Did ever one hear the like?"

The young girl occasionally ventured, when with aunt or uncle, upon these contributions of observation which now and then startle those who, seeing little change from day to day, are surprised by the sudden fruitage of developmental growth.

"I shall profit by Miss Swanwick's warning," said De Courval.

Miss Wynne, who kept both houses open, and now would not as usual, on account of the vicomtesse, fill her country house with guests, had come to town to dine Mr. Hamilton and to amuse herself with the young man. It cannot be said, despite her bluff kindness, that De Courval altogether or unreservedly liked her sudden changes of mood or the quick transitions which more or less embarrassed and at times puzzled him. Upon his inquiring for his mother, Miss Wynne replied:

"She is better, much better. You are to come to-morrow. You should come more often. It is absurd, most absurd, that you are so tied to the legs of a desk. I shall speak to my nephew."

"I beg of you, madame, to do no such thing. I am a clerk and the youngest." And then a little ashamed of his shame, he added: "I sweep out the office and lock up at evening. You would cause Mr. Wynne to think I had asked you." He spoke with decision.

"It is ridiculous. I shall explain, make it easy."

Then he said, "You will pardon me, who owe you so much, but I shall have to be beforehand and say I do not wish it."

"I retreat," said Miss Wynne. "I haul down my colors." He was quite sure that she never would.

"You are again kind, madame," he returned.

"I hear Mr. Schmidt and the joss," she said as she rose, while Margaret, unobserved, cast a thoughtful glance at the clerk. It was a new type to her. The gravity, the decisiveness, and the moral courage, although she may not have so labeled the qualities, appealed to her who had proudly borne the annoyances of restricted means among friends and kindred who lived in luxury. She had heard Schmidt say to her mother that this De Courval was a man on the way to the making of a larger manhood. Even young as she was, about to be seventeen in September, she had among the young Friends those she liked and some who were disposed to like her too well; but this was another kind of man.

When Schmidt entered, followed by Friend Langstroth, De Courval was struck by the truth of Gainor's reference to the joss. Short, very fat, a triple chin and pendant cheeks under small eyes, and a bald head—all were there.

"You are both late. My back of mutton will be overdone. The Vicomte de Courval—Mr. Langstroth."

"Glad to see thee; meant to come and see thee. I was to give thee this letter, Friend Schmidt. Mr. Wynne sent it. A messenger came up from Chester while I was with him at the counting-house. The Saucy Sisters was lying below for the flood."

Schmidt glanced at it, hesitated a moment, and put it in his pocket as they went in to dinner.

"Any news?" asked Langstroth. "Any news from France?"

"I do not know," said Schmidt. He had no mind to spoil the meal with what he knew must very likely be evil tidings. "It is from England," he added. Miss Gainor, understanding him, said: "We were to have had Mr. Hamilton. I think I told you."

"I saw him at the office of the Secretary of the Treasury," said Schmidt; "a less capable successor he has in his place. We talked much about the rage for lotteries, and he would stop them by a law."

"He should let things alone," said Langstroth. "A nice muddle he has made of it with his bank and his excise."

"And what do you know about it?" said Gainor, tartly.

"Fiddlesticks! I know that a man who cannot manage his own affairs had better leave larger things alone."

"He has," said Schmidt quietly, "as I see it, that rare double gift, a genius for government and finance."

"Humph!" growled Langstroth.

Schmidt was silent, and took the Wynne Madeira with honest appreciation, while the young man ate his dinner, amazed at the display of bad manners.

Then the girl beside him said in a half-whisper: "Fiddlesticks! Why do people say that? The violin is hard to play, I hear. Why do men say fiddlesticks?"

De Courval did not know, and Aunt Gainor asked, "What is that, Margaret?"

"I was saying that the violin must be hard to play."

"Ah, yes, yes," returned the hostess, puzzled, while Schmidt smiled, and the talk fell upon mild gossip and the last horse-race—and so on to more perilous ground.

"About lotteries," said Josiah, "I have bought thee a ticket, Margaret, number 1792—the lottery for the college of Princeton."

"A nice Quaker you are," said Miss Wynne. "I see they forbid lotteries in Massachusetts. The overseers of meeting will be after you."

"I should like to see them. A damn pretty business, indeed. Suppose thee were to win the big prize, child." He spoke the intolerable language then becoming common among Friends. "Thee could beat Gainor in gowns."

"I should not be let to wear them." Alas! she saw herself in brocades and lutestring underskirts. The young man ignorantly shared her distress.

"There is small chance of it, I fear," said Gainor. "A hundred lottery chances I have bought, and never a cent the richer." And so the talk went on, Langstroth abusing all parties, Schmidt calmly neutral, the young people taking small part, and regarding the lottery business as one of Josiah's annoying jokes—no one in the least believing him.

At last the cloth was off the well-waxed mahogany table, a fresh pair of decanters set before the hostess, and each guest in turn toasted.

Langstroth had been for a time comfortably unamiable. He had said abusive things of all parties in turn, and now Schmidt amused himself by adding more superlative abuse, while Gainor Wynne, enjoying the game, fed Langstroth with exasperating additions of agreement. The girl, knowing them all well, silently watched the German's face, his zest in annoying Josiah unexpressed by even the faintest smile—a perfect actor. De Courval, with less full understanding of the players, was at times puzzled, and heard in silence Schmidt siding with Josiah. "It was most agreeable, my dear," said Mistress Gainor next day to one of her favorites, Tacy Lennox. "Josiah should of right be a gentleman. He has invented the worst manners ever you saw, my dear Tacy. He was like a mad bull, eager for war, and behold—he is fed and petted. Ah, but he was furious and bedazed. Tacy, I would you had seen it."

It was at last quite too much of a trial for Josiah, who turned from Gainor to Schmidt, and then to De Courval, with wild opinions, to which every one in turn agreed, until at last, beginning to suspect that he was being played with, he selected a subject sure to make his hostess angry. A look of pugnacious greed for a bone of contest showed on his bulldog face as he turned to Mistress Wynne. "This Madeira is on its last legs, Gainor."

"All of us are," laughed Schmidt.

"It is hardly good enough for my toast."

"Indeed," said Gainor; "we shall know when we hear it."

Then Josiah knew that for her to agree with him would this time be impossible. He smiled. "When I am at home, Gainor, as thee knows, I drink to our lawful king." He rose to his feet. "Here's to George the Third."

Gainor was equal to the occasion.

"Wait a little, Josiah. Take away Mr. Langstroth's glass, CÆsar. Go to the kitchen and fetch one of the glasses I use no more because the Hessian hogs used them for troughs when they were quartered on me in the war. CÆsar, a Hessian wine-glass for Mr. Langstroth."

De Courval listened in astonishment, while Schmidt, laughing, cried, "I will drink to George with pleasure."

"I know," cried Margaret: "to George Washington."

Schmidt laughed. "You are too sharp, Pearl. In a minute, but for your saucy tongue, I should have trapped our Tory friend. To George the greater," said Schmidt.

The Quaker turned down his glass. "Not I, indeed."

"I hope the poor man will never hear of it, Josiah," said Miss Wynne as she rose laughing, and presently Schmidt and the young people went away, followed shortly after by Langstroth.

For a while Margaret walked on in silence, De Courval and the German talking. At last she said: "Thou shouldst know that my uncle is not as bad as he seems. He is really a kind and generous man, but he loves to contradict my aunt, and no one else can so easily make her angry."

"Ah, Pearl, the Madeira was good," said Schmidt—"too good; or, rather, the several Madeiras. In the multitude of vinous counselers there is little wisdom, and the man's ways would tempt an angel to mischief."

Mrs. Swanwick, being alone, had gone out to take supper with a friend, and as Margaret left them in the hall, Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come in. I have a great package from Gouverneur Morris, from Paris. You may as well hear what news there is. I saw your anxiety, but I was of no mind to have that imitation Quaker discuss the agony of a great nation."

It took two months or more to hear from France, and each week added to the gathering anxiety with which De Courval awaited news. He was grateful for the daily labor, with its steady exactions, which forbade excessive thought of the home land, for no sagacity of his friend or any forecast that man could make three thousand miles away was competent to predict the acts of the sinister historic drama on which the curtain was rising far away in France.

As the German opened the envelop and set aside letter after letter, he talked on in his disconnected way. "I could like some bad men more than Josiah Langstroth. He has what he calls opinions, and will say, 'Welladay,'—no, that is my bastard English,—he will say 'Well, at all events, that is my opinion.' What means 'all events,' Herr RenÉ? A kick would change them. 'T is an event—a kick. And Mistress Wynne is sometimes not easy to endure. She steps heavily on tender toes, even when on errands of goodness." The younger man scarce heard these comments as letter after letter was put aside, until at last he put down his pipe, and Schmidt said: "I was sorry to keep you, but now this last letter has it all—all. There is no detail, my friend, but enough—enough. He writes me all France is in a ferment. This is from Mr. Morris, whom our mobocrats loathe for an aristocrat. He writes: 'The King has vetoed two bills, one about the priests and one of less moment. La Fayette is in disgrace, and wants the surgeon's courage to let blood. Worst of all, and I write in haste,' he says, 'a mob on June 20th broke into the Tuileries and there, in the Œil de Boeuf, a butcher mocked the King to his face as Monsieur Veto. The King laughed, it is said, and set their damned bonnet on his head, and drew his sword, and cried "Vive la nation!" The war goes ill or well as you please; ill for all, I fear. Dillon was murdered by his own regiment after a retreat.'"

"I knew him in the army," said De Courval. "I was young then. But the king—has he no courage? Are they all mad?"

"No. He has not the courage of action. He has the courage to endure, if that is to be so nominated. The other is needed just now. That is all—all."

"And too much."

"Yes. Come, let us go out and fence a bit in the garden, and sweat out too much Madeira. Come, there is still light enough."