Last Pages. Oscar Mandel

are making ready to sweep the province clear of rebels. They are a loose collection of shallow rascals, all brave enough behind their fences, but routed by the first volley of our muskets. They cannot enlist respectable officers—ah, you said so yourself, Marquise. This is June. We shall have peace before winter, I assure you.”

      “Good. Now let me speak of Sergeant Alexander Cuff.”

      “Reliable, I hope!” exclaimed the Judge.

      “Undoubtedly. I must meet with him as soon as possible. I have a letter for him as well. You and he must be the only persons on the island privy to my mission. May we meet again in this very place tomorrow at eleven o’clock in the morning—I, you, and the Sergeant?

      “Of course.”

      “I shall pretend to be strolling as a newcome visitor would, and knock at your door, or ring the doorbell, when I see no one in the street. I am leaving it to you, sir, to advise the sergeant.

      Just as they were all rising from their chairs, a series of strong knocks at the front door was heard, the door was opened, and Jenny came hastily into the parlor. “Begging your pardon,” she cried, curtseying, “but there’s Mr. Mayhew, the young one, in the hall, wanting urgently to see you, Mr. Weamish.”

      “Splendid!” cried Aimée; “have him come in. What luck!”

      “Yes, madam,” said Jenny. A moment later, Nicholas Mayhew appeared, tall, lean, hale and resolute. He seemed to bring with him, from the outside, a wave of fresh air. “Judge Weamish,” he said, doffing his hat (the Mayhews wore their own hair, slightly powdered), “where is our mail? I know you are entertaining distinguished visitors; I took note of their vehicle; pray accept my sincerest apologies.” And here he bowed and addressed himself to the ladies. “I am Nicholas Mayhew, gentle ladies, often called Young Nick, my bad temper was given me by the devil, I was not consulted.” And he swiveled again to the Judge. “Sir: myself and my uncle are expecting important commercial letters from the mainland. Three weeks have gone by without a single message. Today the New York packet arrives.” Now again to the women: “And by the way, allow me to report that I happened to see your trunks safely delivered at Swain’s Inn.” Then back to Weamish. “Today, I repeat, the packet from New York puts in. Several sacks of mail emerge from the captain’s cabin. Your constable George Hackbutt removes them. Now sir: I make no accusations, but I demand of you, as chief magistrate of this island, whether orders have been issued to seize, withhold, or destroy our mail, merely because it is universally known that a Mayhew, of whom by the way we know next to nothing, is sitting presently at the Congress in Philadelphia.”

      Weamish winked significantly at Aimée and said, “My dear Mr. Mayhew, calm yourself.”

      “I am enraged, but in full control of myself.”

      “Sir,” said Aimée to the Judge, “will you introduce us to this most sympathique gentleman?” This was soon done, Nicholas declaring that he was honored, and Aimée hinted that she sympathized with his anger.

      “And so do I,” said Weamish. “Nothing is being withheld here, Mr. Mayhew. What is confiscated in New York, or intercepted on the way, I cannot tell. My orbit is limited to these few islands. Come, sir, sit down with us. I predict that you shall have your letters before the week is over. Let me propose something a fillip stronger than warm chocolate.”

      Opening the door of a sideboard, Weamish produced a flask of rum and several tumblers. Nicholas took a chair, saying, “Judge Weamish, if I’m not mistaken, this is a product of contraband.”

      Weamish laughed. “Justice is blindfolded.”

      “A little concession to the good life, eh?” said Aimée.

      “Ah, how else can a gentleman survive? Nothing but sperm oil, tar, pitch …”

      “All the same,” said Nicholas, “your worthy ancestor made a pretty thing out of your despised sperm oil. Manufactured sperm candles,” he added, turning to the ladies, and then, in a mock aside: “A fortune!”

      The Judge gave his mouth a deprecatory bend. “To be sure, he said, we colonials must be content to derive from trade and industry.”

      “Don’t apologize, sir,” said Aimée, “I have lived on your continent long enough to value the spirit of commerce.”

      “This is true elevation of mind! Ah, how I feel the absence of my mother. She is worthy of your acquaintance, Marquise.”

      “Let us drink to her prompt return, shall we? Shall we, Mr. Mayhew?”

      “With pleasure.”

      The glasses clinked, the Barbados was drunk or, in Madeleine’s case, tasted.

      “Thank you,” said Weamish, adding—rather shrewdly—“and now, I propose a toast to His Excellency, Governor Gage. Will you join us, Mr. Mayhew, in spite of your cousin?”

      “Of course I will. Let it be noted that the sympathies of Mayhew & Mayhew are universal, for it is trade that makes us what we are. May Tom Gage live to be a hundred!”

      “As Frenchwomen,” said Aimée, lifting her glass, “our good-will can hardly fly towards the English, who are now occupying our beloved Canada. But in the interest of peace—I have it! Madeleine, you shall not toast, but half of us will, in the interest of universal love. To Tom Gage!”

      “And to his brilliant victory at Bunker Hill!” added Weamish.

      Nicholas frowned.

      “What brilliant victory?” he asked, setting down his glass.

      “He doesn’t know!” cried Weamish. “Come, come, you’re jesting, sir.”

      “No, I protest. No jest intended. At Charlestown you mean?”

      “I do mean at Charlestown, Mr. Mayhew, on Saturday, three days ago. Nonsense! You do know! Wait. Jenny! Jenny!”

      Jenny came to the door; Weamish ordered her upstairs to his library—his “chambers”—to fetch the Gazette and Post-Boy lying on his desk. When she returned with the paper, Weamish opened it for Nicholas to read. The young man did so, half aloud, half mumbling.

      “So that’s the battle, is it?” said Nicholas in conclusion. “Upon my word, the engagement is so differently described in The Spy that I become confused.”

      Whereupon he produced a gazette of his own that stood out from one of his pockets.

      “Rubbish!” cried Weamish. “The Spy! A well-deserved name. How came you by it, Mr. Mayhew?”

      “I found it crumpled on the floor of the Custom Collector’s office.”

      Aimée could say with perfect sincerity, “You pique my curiosity, Mr. Mayhew. Tell us more. What really happened at Charlestown?”

      “Perhaps this Rebel sheet is lying, Marquise, but it reports that over a thousand Redcoats were killed or maimed.”

      “How dreadful!” cried out Madeleine, her hand rising to her mouth. A quick thought came and went in Nicholas’ head as he glanced at the girl. “A lovely loving lass!” But Weamish was saying, “Stuff and nonsense! The Rebels were driven from the peninsula!”

      “The writer,” said Nicholas, pointing with his finger at the article in question, “manfully confesses it: an admission which throws some flickers of likelihood upon the rest of his account. And if the rest be true, the British are broken at Boston.”

      “Pah! Your gazette cannot impose on a rational observer. Trust me, my kindhearted mademoiselle, the rabble is not born that can slaughter the king’s army in fair battle. But do I detect a note of glee in your voice, Mr. Mayhew?”

      “Nothing of the sort. Long live King George, third of the name, and long may he rule over England.”

      Another opportunity for Aimée.

      “I