Chapter X: Puritan and Courtier

"What time was it when you reached home last night, Deborah?" asked Madam Trevor.

The doctor, his sisters, and their guests were seated at a very late breakfast, of which extremely little was being eaten.

Deborah looked uncomfortable at the bald directness of the question. Being under no suspicious eye, however, she dropped an hour, and was able to reply, with some nonchalance: "About twelve, I believe, madam. Really--my head--I'm not quite certain about the time."

Lucy nodded sympathetically: "Indeed, Debby, if your head then was like mine now--"

"You will not complain of your health in this manner, before us all. It is most unladylike!" said Madam Trevor, sharply.

Lucy quivered and shrank into silence. She was in the highest disfavor with her mother this morning, and only too well did she know why. Aching head or not, there was an ordeal ahead of her for the afternoon, to endure which she was inwardly praying for strength, but over which she was in reality desperate. If Rockwell appeared at the plantation, as he had vowed to do, with Madam Trevor still in this morning's mood, poor Lucy knew that John Whitney's fate and hers hung in a hopeless balance. And there was no one to whom she could look for help. Virginia and Deborah would be very kind, but neither of them could bring any opposition to her mother's intention. Of Vincent she did not think at all. Had she done so, it would have been merely to add a new despair; for to consider Vincent as her ally against his mother was impossible on the face of it. So little Lucy reasoned, dolefully, through the meal, till her attention was caught by Vincent's question:

"Where's Charles, doctor--Fairfield, I mean? I haven't seen him since we were dancing last night."

"Sir Charles is not in the house," replied the doctor, with a quick glance at Virginia, whose face was perfectly passive.

"Not in the house! Why--what has happened?"

"Oh, very little, I fancy. Last night, as we came up Church Street, I saw him with Rockwell at the door of the 'Three Blue Balls.' He was probably about to celebrate his happiness. Young men, you know."

Vincent's face grew dark. "Pretty ways for Rockwell," he muttered; and St. Quentin, whose eye was upon him, nodded slightly.

Lucy took sudden heart, but was wise enough not to look up till her mother, much displeased, rose from the table, and so ended the meal.

"Mistress Lettice, we will not trespass longer on your hospitality, for which we are vastly indebted. I have ordered the coach for eleven. You, Vincent, at least, will ride with us?"

Her son bowed courteously, and presently disappeared into the doctor's study, where he took the liberty of making use of his host's desk for a few moments. Upon finishing his note he carried it out to the deserted dining-room, where Jeremiah was clearing the table.

"Jerry, can you do an errand for me this morning--no, at once?"

"Fo' shuah, Mist' Trev', if Doc' Ca'l 'll let me go."

"I'll explain that I sent you off. Here's a note to be taken round to the cottage that Mr. John Whitney lives in. He's a Puritan parson. His house is just on the other side of the Gloucester Street bridge. Give him this note, Jerry, and here's a shilling for some extra tobacco, if you get it to him by eleven o'clock. Understand?"

"Ye-ah! He'll get it 's mo'n fo' shuah. Thanks, Mist' Trev'."

Showing all his glistening teeth, the negro pocketed the coin, which no slave was supposed to possess, and, leaving his work unfinished, departed at once on the very welcome errand which served to let him out of the house for an hour into the August sunshine.

Vincent found the doctor in the hall, and lightly touched his arm: "I have sent your black, Jerry, on an errand, Carroll. It was important, or I shouldn't have presumed. You'll pardon me?"

"My dear Vincent, while you are with me my house is yours. Don't speak of it. So soon, madam? This is a niggardly visit, I vow!"

Carroll hurried forward as Madam Trevor entered the hall. She had just come down, the three young women behind her, each carrying a package containing her party finery and night garments. The coach and Vincent's riding-horse were already at the door. After a chorus of farewells and acknowledgments of hospitality, the ladies were finally settled in the roomy vehicle, which set off in a whirl of dust down Gloucester Street. On their way through the town they passed the door of the "Blue Balls" tavern, and madam bit her lip.

"Virginia, be assured that I shall speak to Charles when he returns. It is disgraceful, it is abominable, this behavior on the very night of his engagement to you. You may be certain that it shall not go unnoticed."

For an instant Virginia's lip curled scornfully. Then all the former indifference came back again to her face. She made no reply to her mother's words, but, as they continued on their way, some other train of thought brought a new expression to her fine features--an expression of resigned sorrow, of hidden suffering, of strong repression, that her mother did not see, and could not have read even had she noticed it. The rest of the drive was silent. Madam Trevor, seated beside Virginia, was very firm of lip, very straight of shoulder, very immovable as to hands. Lucy and Deborah, on the opposite side of the coach, had no desire to indulge in the usual ball reminiscences common to young girls. One of them was anxious-eyed and pale with foreboding; the other sat motionless, eyes closed, face unreadable, but enduring such inward tumult as none, seeing her, could have conceived.

At three o'clock in the afternoon of that same Thursday a man on foot crossed the narrow bridge over the inlet at the end of Prince George Street, and started up the country road that led along the left bank of the Severn. The day was intensely hot, the white dust inches deep, and what wind blew at all was from the west, a mere breath of parching grass and thirsting prairie lands. The man, however, was not thinking of heat. His face showed very plainly that his mind was some distance away, and that it was fixed on a subject of deep import to him. His prim black suit grew gray with sand, his immaculate queue flopped limply on his shoulder, his face was damp with perspiration, his very eyebrows were ruffled by the vigorous mopping which he now and then gave his forehead. Nevertheless, oblivious of discomfort, John Whitney plodded on his way towards the Trevor plantation, his eyes on the road, his hope in the clouds. For the first time he was treading this well-known path with an untroubled conscience. He was going to Lucy openly, not even of his own planning, but at the request of Lucy's brother, whose courteous note of invitation lay hot under his vest, next to the homespun linen shirt which it was his pleasure to wear.

Whitney was within five minutes of his destination, already visible above the trees round the little bend in the shore, when the sound of wheels rapidly approaching from behind him caused him hastily to mount the bank at the side of the road. A _calèche_, drawn by two horses and containing a man garbed in shining pink satin, flashed by in a whirl of dust, and presently turned in at the road leading to the Trevor house. Whitney pursed his lips, stared a little, and moved on again.

Claude, in his court costume and hired vehicle, stopping at the door of Deborah's home, found Jim, the stable-boy, white-eyed and open-mouthed with amazement at his dress, waiting to receive him and to fetch water for the horses.

"I am seeking Mr. Trevor--and--madame," said Claude, on the step of the portico.

"Yes, sah; ef you'll walk right in, sah--dey's right--"

"M. de Mailly! You honor us, sir!" Vincent, who had witnessed the arrival, appeared from the hall and came hastily out to meet his guest. His astonishment at such a costume as he had never before, even in England, beheld, was, perhaps, visible in his face; but if Claude perceived it he said nothing.

"Come inside, will you not? The heat is great to-day. We--Rockwell is here," explained the host, in a slightly disconcerted tone. He was expecting another visitor, and de Mailly's arrival was ill-timed.

"Thank you," responded Claude, still suavely oblivious, and flicking some dust from his sleeve with an enormous lace-bordered handkerchief.

Side by side they entered the hall, wherein, all very stiff as to appearance, and even more uncomfortable in expression, sat Madam Trevor, Lucy, Virginia, and George Rockwell. There was the usual series of salutations, followed by a pause so heavy, so unbreakable, that Claude flushed. He glanced at the rector, to find that gentleman glaring at him with a mixture of intense apprehension and extreme anger. Madam Trevor looked infinitely annoyed, and her lips were firmly set. Lucy, dull, mute, motionless, was pathetically hopeless. Finally, Virginia, with a kind of dry humor, set herself to save the situation.

"Perhaps, M. de Mailly," she said, "you come as suitor for my sister Lucy's hand?"

Claude turned to her quickly: "I have not that honor, Miss Trevor. I had, indeed, understood that your sister was already--um--bespoken. I came to ask of Mr. Trevor that I may pay my addresses to Miss Travis."

"Deborah!" cried both Lucy and her mother.

Rockwell breathed, a sweat broke gently upon his brow, and all danger of spontaneous combustion was happily at an end.

"Deborah, madame," repeated Claude, quietly.

At the same moment a dusty figure ascended the portico steps and came presently into the hall. At sight of him Lucy grew pink, Rockwell purple, and Virginia Trevor very white. Madam bridled as she saw her son grasp the "Puritan" cordially by the hand, and Claude glanced rapidly over the face and figure, which were not unlike his own.

John Whitney looked measuredly round the circle, greeted his rival with perfect imperturbability, sent a long glance into Lucy's eyes, and profoundly saluted Madam Trevor, who returned the bow with the barest inclination of her head. Then Vincent spoke:

"M. de Mailly, let me make you known to the Reverend Mr. Whitney, of Boston. Gentlemen, you are here on like errands. 'Tis a curious thing. Perhaps--it were as well to settle all, here, at once."

"I protest, sir!" cried Rockwell, jumping up. "The present matter lies between Mistress Lucy, Master Whitney, and myself. I vow no stranger shall be in it!"

"The Count de Mailly is no stranger, sir!" returned Vincent. "He has announced his intention, without hesitancy, before you. I see no objection to his learning that you and that gentleman are rivals for the hand of my sister Lucy, and that you are here to-day in order that the affair be decided once for all."

"I cannot see any necessity for discussion, Vincent. Lucy is promised to Mr. Rockwell. Mr.--Whitney has nothing to do with the affair," observed Madam Trevor, rather insolently.

The controversy being now open, Claude was, for the moment, forgotten.

"Madam, I crave pardon, but Mr. Whitney has just this to do with the matter. It appears, from all I have heard, that Lucy herself does not care for Mr. Rockwell as she should care for the man she marries. Also--I believe--she does so care for Mr. Whitney."

"Let me ask, Mr. Whitney, what means you have at your disposal for this young lady's support? How many slaves have you? How--

"I have no slaves at all, Mr. Rockwell, being a Christian!" retorted Whitney, forgetting himself for an instant. Then, after an ominous little pause, he remarked, in another tone: "I crave your pardon. I have one hundred pounds a year from my parish, and something laid by. It is quite true that I cannot give Mistress Lucy a home like this; but I will engage to keep her always housed from God's weather, well shielded from cold, and with enough to eat--if not of the finest, at least of such as should satisfy her, provided it be served with the sauce of sweet content. Moreover--I will take no dower with my wife."

At this last Claude opened his eyes widely, Rockwell looked put out, and Madam Trevor glanced at the speaker with a new expression.

Vincent, turning from the Puritan with the barest smile at his earnestness, addressed his rival: "And you, George Rockwell--what have you?"

Rockwell cleared his throat, and rose as if he were to speak from the pulpit: "My income from St. Anne's is, I confess without mortification, no greater than that which this gentleman--um--ah--has just said to be his portion from the meeting-house. My fees and perquisites as Church of England clergyman, however, make the sum far larger annually. I think also that you, madam, and Mistress Lucy, will recognize the difference between the--to speak gently--the somewhat humble abode of Mr. Whitney and the rectory which I myself have the honor to occupy, and where I am accustomed to entertain his excellency himself."

"Pardon me, sir, but could you indeed imagine that, after my marriage, I should not instantly remove to an abode more suited than my present one to a lady's convenience? Do you imagine--"

"You interrupt, sir. I make no observations on what your conduct will be. I am only aware of what it is."

"It is, sir, so far as I am aware, irreproachable!"

"Come, come, gentlemen," interposed Vincent, in some displeasure, "we wander from the subject. You--a--have not spoken of dower, Rockwell. Of course, my sister, being of our family, would not lack suitable outfit and settlement on entering a new estate. Still--"

"I was sure," interrupted Rockwell, hastily, for the point was delicate--"I was sure that you would regard it as well--nay, might as a pride consider it indispensable, Vincent, that--"

"Stop! Let me go away." Lucy had risen, quivering, to her feet, her mild eyes blazing, her voice low and unnatural. "I will not be bargained for, bought and sold, as slaves or horses are. Vincent, you have insulted me by permitting such a scene. And you--" turning to Whitney and Rockwell--"you are heartless and soulless. Love! What do you know of that?"

She turned, with Virginia at her side, and, not looking again at any one in the room, swept away towards the west wing. As her daughter departed, Madam Trevor rose undecidedly, then reseated herself, with a new and firm intention of having more to say in the forthcoming battle than she had had heretofore. Three of the men, Vincent and the rivals, were staring at each other, Whitney and Trevor in mortification, Rockwell merely in surprise.

"Egad!" murmured Vincent, softly, "the little girl was right."

"I apologize to you, Mr. Trevor, and to Mistress Lucy, for my utterly thoughtless and discourteous behavior," cried Whitney. "Indeed, I was thoughtless and unfeeling. I most painfully acknowledge that your sister's anger became the situation."

"Oh--the lady was piqued, sir, at your lack of worldly goods," observed Rockwell, with a grin of ingenuous conceit.

Claude regarded the man with languid disgust. Vincent flushed angrily, and Madam Trevor rose.

"We waste time, gentlemen," she said. "It is perfectly fitting that these matters should form part of the discussion. For my part, Mr. Rockwell, I am entirely with you. I wish my daughter to marry you, since I believe you competent of caring for her as should be. As to the settlements, of course--"

"Pardon me, madam, but this is quite useless," interrupted Vincent, coming forward, with the light of sudden resolve in his eyes. "You are aware that once before this matter has been most unsatisfactorily decided in this way. My sister has continually denied your statement that she was affianced to Mr. Rockwell, and I have been led to believe that it was through her attachment to Mr. Whitney, who some time since honorably professed to me his love for her. As legal head of this house, then, I cannot feel it otherwise than just to insist that my sister herself, and none other, shall choose between these two; and I now say that it shall be entirely without consideration of dower, settlement, or--perquisite. Further, I maintain that, if Lucy choose to reject both of these gentlemen, of her own free will, she shall thereafter be housed and protected under my roof till she find some one to her taste, or till she die here unmarried."

"Well spoken, sir!" cried Whitney, bravely, while Madam Trevor stood aghast, and Claude, intensely interested in the scene, deliberatively crossed the room and sat down with his back to the wall.

"You mean to inform me that my authority is at naught in this household?" inquired Madam Trevor, hoarse with excitement and anger.

"I am thinking only of Lucy's happiness," returned her son, gently. "She must be called to come back."

"I, certainly, shall not remain to witness this scene."

"Gentlemen, excuse me for one instant. I will summon my sister."

Vincent left the room; but, in spite of herself, his mother stayed. She was too deeply interested to go; and, despite her traditions, Lucy's happiness was really quite as dear to her as to her son. Claude, from behind the others, philosophized a little in the silence. How differently had such a scene been conducted in his country! There would have been no argument, no difficulty. Above all, Lucy herself would have been the last person to be consulted. Rockwell, for his means and position, would certainly have been chosen; and, if it were a Court affair, Whitney might have become her general escort afterwards. Claude sighed. This colonial boorishness produced far better results. Ethics here were regarded with some degree of blind appreciation. In his own country it was not so. A second sigh was in his heart when Lucy, preceded by her brother, re-entered the room.

There was still perfect silence. Near the doorway the young girl paused. She was pale and red-eyed, but steady of manner. The two clergymen, side by side, faced her, with Vincent to the right, and his mother upon the left. Claude, quite forgotten, still looked on from the opposite wall.

"Lucy, I have brought you back here that you yourself may make choice between these men. Let me now, then, entreat you, most earnestly, to consider, to decide not hastily, but as in heart and mind you deem wisest. Love is not always all. Respect--firmness--wisdom--ability to protect--these are as strong. I place confidence in you, Lucy; and, in return, I ask sincerity from you. We will wait as long as you will. Choose."

During his words Lucy had looked earnestly at her brother. Now, however, her eyes fell. A delicate smile broke over her face, and when finally she looked up it was to encounter the eyes of John Whitney, who was regarding her with a look of such mingled love, fear, and longing, that she would not torture him by suspense. Gently she extended one hand, one arm to him, while her lips smiled "Come," and her face grew beautiful with the love-light in it.

He went, never heeding the rest, no longer aware, perhaps, that they were by. And, as he clasped her in his strong, young, Puritan arms, Claude looked courteously out o' window, but Madam Trevor, with a curious dryness in her throat, turned suddenly away.

As to Rockwell, he left the house very quietly, with just what feeling in his heart no one ever knew.

Then Vincent, all at once perceiving Claude, and remembering his pink satin errand, took him quietly by the arm, and led him into the parlor, Madam Trevor following them. The three sat down in the stiff little apartment, the closed door shutting the two in the hall from their sight. Claude's hour of patience was ended. His time had come now, and he was astonished to find himself nervous.

"I must, sir, crave your indulgence for my seeming discourtesy in keeping you waiting so long. However, as you have been a witness of the affair which detained me, you may perhaps be lenient with my rudeness."

Claude made a proper rejoinder. He was but half conscious of what he said, but most vigorously aware that Madam Trevor's eyes were travelling rapidly over his costume.

"You have already announced, monsieur, the surprising nature of your errand, and I presume that you now desire to discuss it with us."

Inwardly, Claude smiled at the words. They struck him as being very absurd, though, according to prevailing English notions, they were excellently chosen.

"I love your cousin, Mistress Deborah Travis, Mr. Trevor, and I am come to you to request permission to--address her on the subject of marriage. I am a stranger in your colony. I have no friends who know my family and estate. I have brought with me such papers as I possess, such as can in any way speak for the assurance of my birth, and them, and my word as a gentleman, I must ask you to believe."

Vincent was silent for some moments, considering; while Claude drew from one of his side pockets a little, flat parcel of papers, and sat nervously fingering them. It was Madam Trevor, who, after she had once more minutely examined him, from his bag-wig to his red-heeled shoes, voiced Vincent's wish:

"Will you, sir, be so vastly obliging as to tell us, in your own manner, your title, estate, lineage, and means of livelihood? I am sure, sir, that common prudence and the ardent desire for the welfare of my ward will seem to you adequate reason for such a request, and that you will have no hesitation in being perfectly frank with us."

Whatever the reason, madam's manner was as suavely gracious during this speech as Vincent could have wished, and he, therefore, did not add to it, but, expressing his approval with a slight nod, was expectantly silent as Claude began:

"My name, Madam Trevor, is Claude Vincent Armand Victor Anne de Nesle, Comte de Mailly. I am of the younger branch of the family Mailly-Nesle, my father having been the second son of Victor Armand Henri Claude, who died in the year ninety of the last century. My estates, which are in Languedoc, in the south of France, provide me with sufficient rental to maintain me comfortably at Versailles, where I have resided for many years. The elder branch of my family, which takes the title of Marquis de Mailly-Nesle, is well known and of high position at Court. Seven months ago I fell into disfavor because of my desire that a cousin of mine should--wed a gentleman of whom--his Majesty did not approve. I was requested to leave Versailles for the time, and so, determining to travel, I came first to the colonies; and how I have lived here you know. I should be--free to return to Court if--if Mistress Travis, should she accept me, would care to go thither. To be frank, I am myself a little homesick for my country. I should like to go home."

Claude stopped, having wandered too far in his explanation. He saw Madam Trevor regarding him blankly, and he read suspicion in Vincent's face.

"It is--pardon me, sir--an unusual story. Do they exile men in France for having opinions concerning a cousin's marriage?"

"So it would appear, from my case," returned Claude, dryly.

"Again pardon me--but--have you a document of exile with you?"

Claude hesitated. The last sentence in that royal letter was the most awkward possible thing for a man who wished, in all sincerity, to marry. Long he studied young Trevor's face, and he saw the distrust therein growing with every instant. At last, with an imperceptible shrug, and a sigh, he took from his other pocket the small, worn paper with its red-brown seals that he had read to Deborah.

"It is in French, monsieur. You doubtless read it?"

Vincent took the paper scornfully, and began its perusal with a facility due to intercourse with Aimé St. Quentin. When he finished it, his mother held out her hand for the letter, and, as she read, Vincent, looking squarely into the other's eyes, said, slowly:

"You, monsieur, were the gentleman of whose marriage with your cousin the King did not approve?"

Claude, returning the look eye for eye, bowed.

"And who is this cousin?"

"The Duchesse de Châteauroux."

"Good Heaven!"

Madam Trevor, her face suddenly all alight, was looking at the young fellow in amazement--and something else. Could the other be admiration?

"Your cousin is--the--the--"

Claude nodded.

Silence.

It lasted for a long time. De Mailly felt his cause to be growing desperate. He did not understand. Morals, which were stanch in so far as Episcopal rectorship and five hundred a year were concerned, were nevertheless to be differently regarded in the presence of a courtier Count and cousinship to an almost queen, It was again Madam Trevor who finally ejaculated, from her whirling chaos of thoughts and plans:

"Deborah shall be fetched at once. Vincent, you will arrange the settlements."

Claude started with astonishment, and young Trevor rose:

"M. de Mailly, you may speak to Deborah. She has free choice--as did Lucy. She is now--in the rose-garden, I think."

Claude sprang to his feet and moved forward a pace or two, looking easily from one to the other of Deborah's guardians. He could not refrain from taking snuff, nor, having finished, from remarking, slowly:

"I shall certainly, Madame and Monsieur Trevor, endeavor to show myself worthy of the trust which you so readily place in me."

Thereupon, with two very polite bows, he left the parlor, alone. On entering the hall he was greeted by the sound of pawing hoofs, a negro's voice, and the steps of two men on the portico. The half-closed door was flung wide open, and Benedict Calvert, with Fairfield at his heels, entered the house. Claude stopped and turned to them.

"The devil!" said Sir Charles, his brows growing heavy.

"Monsieur, your eyes deceive you," responded de Mailly, pleasantly.

Calvert laughed.

"What's your business here?" demanded Fairfield in an ugly voice. He had been in no pleasant humor on his ride, a fact explained by his red eyes, pallid face, and slouching dress; and the unexpected presence of Claude was not calculated to render him better-natured.

"My business here, Sir Charles, concerns myself. However, if you are curious, I am about to offer myself to your cousin, Miss Travis."

Claude spoke with muscles tense, prepared to evade a sword thrust, for he himself wore no rapier to-day. To his amazement, his words for a moment produced no effect whatever on his quondam rival. Then, suddenly, while Calvert gazed at his comrade, Fairfield burst into a laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh, but it served its turn.

"What a household 'twill be! You and Deb, I and Virginia, Lou and her Puritan parson--for whom Benedict's come to plead. A fine match-maker y'are, Calvert. Why, monsieur, if 't'adn't been for _him_," pointing to the dark-browed ex-commissioner, "I would ha' called you out. As 'tis now, I'll--marry in a week, and be off for God's country, the Mall, St. Paul's, and White's as soon as a vessel will sail; and be damned to the colonies!"

"Hush, Charlie! Get to your room," whispered Calvert, laying a quiet hand on Fairfield's arm.

"I wish you good-afternoon, messieurs," added Claude, bowing.

Fairfield leered at him, with a glint of desperation in his eyes, and started off to the west wing, with Benedict Calvert at his elbow, while Claude de Mailly, musing gently, passed out into the golden mist of early twilight, on his way to the rose-garden and Deborah.