CHAPTER IX
THE ENCOUNTER
Solomon, Jack and their friend left London that afternoon in the saddle and took lodgings at The Rose and Garter, less than a mile from the scene appointed for the encounter. That morning the Americans had sent a friend of Preston by post chaise to Deal, with Solomon's luggage. Preston had also engaged the celebrated surgeon, Doctor Brooks, to spend the night with them so that he would be sure to be on hand in the morning. The doctor had officiated at no less than a dozen duels and enjoyed these affairs so keenly that he was glad to give his help without a fee. The party had gone out in the saddle because Preston had said that the horses might be useful.
So, having discussed the perils of the immediate future, they had done all it was in their power to do to prepare for them. Late that evening the General and his son and four other gentlemen arrived at The Rose and Garter. Certain of them had spent the afternoon in the neighborhood shooting birds and rabbits.
Solomon got Jack to bed early and sat for a time in their room tinkering with the pistols. When the locks were working "right," as he put it, he polished their grips and barrels.
"Now I reckon they'll speak out when ye pull the trigger," he said to Jack. "An' yer eyesight 'll skate erlong easy on the top o' them bar'ls."
"It's a miserable kind of business," said the young man, who was lying in bed and looking at his friend. "We Americans have a rather hard time of it, I say. Life is a fight from beginning to end. We have had to fight with the wilderness for our land and with the Indians and the French for our lives, and now the British come along and tell us what we must and mustn't do and burn up our houses."
"An' spit on us an' talk as if we was a lot o' boar pigs," said Solomon. "But ol' Jeff tol' me 'twere the King an' his crowd that was makin' all the trouble."
"Well, the King and his army can make us trouble enough," Jack answered. "It's as necessary for an American to know how to fight as to know how to walk."
"Now ye stop worryin' an' go to sleep 'er I'll take ye crost my knee," said Solomon. "They ain't goin' to be no great damage done, not if ye do as I tell ye. I've been an' looked the ground over an' if we have to leg it, I know which way to go."
Solomon had heard from Preston that evening that the Lieutenant was the best pistol shot in his regiment, but he kept the gossip to himself, knowing it would not improve the aim of his young friend. But Solomon was made uneasy by this report.
"My boy kin throw a bullet straight as a plumb line an' quick as lightnin'," he had said to Preston. "It's as nat'ral fer him as drawin' his breath. That ere chap may git bored 'fore he has time to pull. I ain't much skeered."
Jack was nervous, although not from fear. His estimate of the value of human life had been increased by his affection for Margaret. When Solomon had gone to bed and the lights were blown, the young man felt every side of his predicament to see if there were any peaceable way out of it. For hours he labored with this hopeless task, until he fell into a troubled sleep, in which he saw great battalions marching toward each other. On one side, the figures of himself and Solomon were repeated thousands of times, and on the other was a host of Lionel Clarkes.
The words came to his ear: "My son, we're goin' to fight the first battle o' the war."
Jack awoke suddenly and opened his eyes. The candle was lighted. Solomon was leaning over him. He was drawing on his trousers.
"Come, my son," said the scout in a gentle voice. "They ain't a cloud an' the moon has got a smile on her face. Come, my young David. Here's the breeches an' the purty stockin's an' shoes, an' the lily white shirt. Slip 'em on an' we'll kneel down an' have a word o' prayer. This 'ere ain't no common fight. It's a battle with tyranny. It's like the fight o' David an' Goliar. Here's yer ol' sling waitin' fer ye!"
Solomon felt the pistols and stroked their grips with a loving hand.
Side by side they knelt by the bed together for a moment of silent prayer.
Others were stirring in the inn. They could hear footsteps and low voices in a room near them. Jack put on his suit of brown velvet and his white silk stockings and best linen, which he had brought in a small bag. Jack was looking at the pistols, when there came a rap at the door. Preston entered with Doctor Brooks.
"We are to go out quietly ahead of the others," said the Captain. "They will follow in five minutes."
Solomon had put on the old hanger which had come to England with him in his box. He put the pistols in his pocket and they left the inn by a rear door. A groom was waiting there with the horses saddled and bridled. They mounted them and rode to the field of honor. When they dismounted on the ground chosen, the day was dawning, but the great oaks were still waist deep in gloom. It was cold.
Preston called his friends to his side and said:
"You will fight at twenty paces. I shall count three and when I drop my handkerchief you are both to fire."
Solomon turned to Jack and said:
"If ye fire quick mebbe ye'll take the crook out o' his finger 'fore it has time to pull."
The other party was coming. There were six men in it. The General and his son and one other were in military dress. The General was chatting with a friend. The pistols were loaded by Solomon and General Clarke, while each watched the other. The Lieutenant's friends and seconds stood close together laughing at some jest.
"That's funny, I'll say, what--what!" said one of the gentlemen.
Jack turned to look at him, for there had been a curious inflection in his "what, what!" He was a stout, highly colored man with large, staring gray eyes. The young American wondered where he had seen him before.
Preston paced the ground and laid down strips of white ribband marking the distance which was to separate the principals. He summoned the young men and said: "Gentlemen, is there no way in which your honor can be satisfied without fighting?"
They shook their heads.
"Your stations have been chosen by lot. Irons, yours is there. Take your ground, gentlemen."
The young men walked to their places and at this point the graphic Major Solomon Binkus, whose keen eyes observed every detail of the scene, is able to assume the position of narrator, the words which follow being from a letter he wrote to John Irons of Albany.
"Our young David stood up thar as straight an' han'some as a young spruce on a still day--not a quiver in ary twig. The Clarke boy was a leetle pale an' when he raised his pistol I could see a twitch in his lips. He looked kind o' stiff. I see they was one thing' 'bout shootin' he hadn't learnt. It don't do to tighten up. I were skeered--I don't deny it--'cause a gun don't allus have to be p'inted careful to kill a man.
"We all stood watchin' every move. I could hear a bird singin' twenty rod,--'twere that still. Preston stood a leetle out o' line 'bout half-way betwixt 'em. Up come his hand with the han'kerchief in it. Then Jack raised his pistol and took a peek down the line he wanted. The han'kerchief was in the air. Don't seem so it had fell an inch when the pistols went pop! pop! Jack's hollered fust. Clarke's pistol fell. His arm dropped an' swung limp as a rope's end. His hand turned red an' blood began to spurt above it. I see Jack's bullet had jumped into his right wrist an' tore it wide open. The Lieutenant staggered, bleedin' like a stuck whale. He'd 'a' gone to the ground but his friends grabbed him. I run to Jack.
"'Be ye hit?' I says.
"'I think his bullet teched me a little on the top o' the left shoulder,' says he.
"I see his coat were tore an' we took it off an' the jacket, an' I ripped the shirt some an' see that the bullet had kind o' scuffed its foot on him goin' by, an' left a track in the skin. It didn't mount to nothin'. The Doctor washed it off an' put a plaster on.
"'Looks as if he'd drawed a line on yer heart an' yer bullet had lifted his aim,' I says. 'Ye shoot quick, Jack, an' mebbe that's what saved ye.'
"It looked kind o' neevarious like that 'ere Englishman had intended they was goin' to be one Yankee less. Jack put on his jacket an' his coat an' we stepped over to see how they was gettin' erlong with the other feller. The two doctors was tryin' fer to fix his arm and he were groanin' severe. Jack leaned over and looked down at him.
"'I'm sorry,' he says. 'Is there anything I can do?'
"'No, sir. You've done enuff,' growled the old General.
"One o' his party stepped up to Jack. He were dressed like a high-up officer in the army. They was a cur'ous look in his eyes--kind o' skeered like. Seemed so I'd seen him afore somewheres.
"'I fancy ye're a good shot, sir--a good shot, sir--what--what?' he says to Jack, an' the words come as fast as a bird's twitter.
"I've had a lot o' practise,' says our boy.
"'Kin ye kill that bird--what--what?" says he, p'intin' at a hawk that were a-cuttin' circles in the air.
"'If he comes clus' 'nough,' says Jack.
"I passed him the loaded pistol. In 'bout two seconds he lifted it and bang she went, an' down come the hawk.
"Them fellers all looked at one 'nother.
"'Gin'ral, shake hands with this 'ere boy,' says the man with the skeered eyes. 'If he is a Yankey he's a decent lad--what--what?'
"The Gin'ral shook hands with Jack an', says he: 'Young man, I have no doubt o' 'yer curidge or yer decency.'
"A grand pair o' hosses an' a closed coach druv up an' the ol' what-whatter an' two other men got into it an' hustled off 'cross the field towards the pike which it looked as if they was in a hurry. 'Fore he were out o' sight a military amb'lance druv up. Preston come over to us an' says he:
"'We better be goin'.'
"'Do ye know who he were?' asks Jack.
"'If ye know ye better fergit it,' says Preston.
"'How could I? He were the King o' England,' says Jack. 'I knowed him by the look o' his eyes.'
"'Sart'in sure,' says I. 'He's the man that wus bein' toted in a chair.'
"'Hush! I tell ye to fergit it,' says Preston.
"'I can fergit all but the fact that he behaved like a gentleman,' says Jack.
"'I 'spose he were usin' his private brain,' says I."
This, with some slight changes in spelling, paragraphing and punctuation, is the account which Solomon Binkus gave of the most exciting adventure these two friends had met with.
Preston came to Jack and whispered: "The outcome is a great surprise to the other side. Young Clarke is a dead shot. An injured officer of the English army may cause unexpected embarrassment. But you have time enough and no haste. You can take the post chaise and reach the ship well ahead of her sailing."
"I am of a mind not to go with you," Jack said to Solomon. "When I go, I shall take Margaret with me."
So it happened that Jack returned to London while Solomon waited for the post chaise to Deal.
CHAPTER X
THE LADY OF THE HIDDEN FACE
Next morning at ten, the door boy at his lodgings informed Jack that a lady was waiting to see him in the parlor. The lady was deeply veiled. She did not speak, but arose as he entered the room and handed him a note. She was tall and erect with a fine carriage. Her silence was impressive, her costume admirable.
The note in a script unfamiliar to the young man was as follows:
"You will find Margaret waiting in a coach at eleven to-day at the corner of Harley Street and Twickenham Road."
The veiled lady walked to the door and turned and stood looking at him.
Her attitude said clearly: "Well, what is your answer ?"
"I will be there at eleven," said the young man. The veiled lady nodded, as if to indicate that her mission was ended, and withdrew.
Jack was thrilled by the information but wondered why it was so wrapped in mystery. Not ten minutes had passed after the departure of the veiled lady when a messenger came with a note from Sir Benjamin Hare. In a cordial tone, it invited Jack to breakfast at the Almack Club at twelve-thirty. The young man returned his acceptance by the same messenger, and in his best morning suit went to meet Margaret. A cab conveyed him to the corner named. There was the coach with shades drawn low, waiting. A footman stood near it. The door was opened and he saw Margaret looking out at him and shaking her hand.
"You see what a sly thing I am!" she said when, the greetings over, he sat by her side and the coach was moving. "A London girl knows how to get her way. She is terribly wise, Jack."
"But, tell me, who was the veiled lady?"
"A go-between. She makes her living that way. She is wise, discreet and reliable. There is employment for many such in this wicked city. I feel disgraced, Jack. I hope you will not think that I am accustomed to dark and secret ways. This has worried and distressed me, but I had to see you."
"And I was longing for a look at you," he said.
"I was sure you would not know how to pull these ropes of intrigue. I have heard all about them. I couldn't help that, you know, and be a young lady who is quite alive."
"Our time is short and I have much to say," said Jack. "I am to breakfast with your father at the Almack Club at twelve-thirty."
She clapped her hands and said, with a laughing face, "I knew he would ask you!"
"Margaret, I want to take you to America with the approval of your father, if possible, and without it, if necessary."
"I think you will get his approval," said the girl with enthusiasm. "He has heard all about the duel. He says every one he met, of the court party, last evening, was speaking of it. They agree that the old General needed that lesson. Jack, how proud I am of you!"
She pressed his hand in both of hers.
"I couldn't help knowing how to shoot," he answered. "And I would not be worthy to touch this fair hand of yours if I had failed to resent an insult."
"Although he is a friend of the General, my father was pleased," she went on. "He calls you a good sport. 'A young man of high spirit who is not to be played with,' that is what he said. Now, Jack, if you do not stick too hard on principles--if you can yield, only a little, I am sure he will let us be married."
"I am eager to hear what he may say now," said Jack. "Whatever it may be, let us stick together and go to America and be happy. It would be a dark world without you. May I see you to-morrow?"
"At the same hour and place," she answered.
They talked of the home they would have in Philadelphia and planned its garden, Jack having told of the site he had bought with great trees and a river view. They spent an hour which lent its abundant happiness to many a long year and when they parted, soon after twelve o'clock, Jack hurried away to keep his appointment.
2
Sir Benjamin received the young man with a warm greeting and friendly words. Their breakfast was served in a small room where they were alone together, and when they were seated the Baronet observed:
"I have heard of the duel. It has set some of the best tongues in England wagging in praise of 'the Yankee boy.' One would scarcely have expected that."
"No, I was prepared to run for my life--not that I planned to do any great damage," said Jack.
"You can shoot straight--that is evident. They call your delivery of that bullet swift, accurate and merciful. Your behavior has pleased some very eminent people. The blustering talk of the General excites no sympathy here. In London, strangers are not likely to be treated as you were."
"If I did not believe that I should be leaving it," said Jack. "I should not like to take up dueling for an amusement, as some men have done in France."
"You are a well built man inside and out," Sir Benjamin answered. "You might have a great future in England. I speak advisedly."
Their talk had taken a turn quite unexpected. It flattered the young man. He blushed and answered:
"Sir Benjamin, I have no great faith in my talents."
"On terms which I would call easy, you could have fame, honor and riches, I would say."
"At present I want only your daughter. As to the rest, I shall make myself content with what may naturally come to me."
"And let me name the terms on which I should be glad to welcome you to my family."
"What are the terms?"
"Loyalty to your King and a will to understand and assist his plans."
"I could not follow him unless he will change his plans."
The Baronet put down his fork and looked up at the young man. "Do you really mean what you say?" he demanded. "Is it so difficult for you to do your duty as a British subject?"
"Sir Benjamin, always I have been taught that it is the duty of a British subject to resist oppression. The plans of the King are oppressive. I can not fall in with them. I love Margaret as I love my life, but I must keep myself worthy of her. If I could think so well of my conduct, it is because I have principles that are inviolable."
"At least I hope you would promise me not to take up arms against the King."
"Please don't ask me to do that. It would grieve me to fight against England. I hope it may never be, but I would rather fight than submit to tyranny."
The Baronet made no reply to this declaration so firmly made. A new look came into his face. Indignation and resentment were there, but he did not forget the duty of a host. He began to speak of other things. The breakfast went on to its end in an atmosphere of cool politeness.
When they were out upon the street together, Sir Benjamin turned to him and said:
"Now that we are on neutral ground, I want to say that you Americans are a stiff-necked lot of people. You are not like any other breed of men. I am done with you. My way can not be yours. Let us part as friends and gentlemen ought to part. I say good-by with a sense of regret. I shall never forget your service to my wife and daughter."
"Think not of that," said the young man. "What I did for them I would do for any one who needed my help."
"I have to ask you to give up all hope of marrying my daughter."
"That I can not do," said Jack. "Over that hope I have no control. I might as well promise not to breathe."
"But I must ask you to give me your word as a gentleman that you will hold no further communication with her."
"Sir Benjamin, I shall be frank with you. It is an unfair request. I can not agree to it."
"What do you say?" the Englishman asked in a tone of astonishment, and his query was emphasized with a firm tap of his cane on the pavement.
"I hate to displease you, sir, but if I made such a promise, I would be sure to break it."
"Then, sir, I shall see to it that you have no opportunity to oppose my will."
In spite of his fine restraint, the eyes of the Baronet glowed with anger, as he quickly turned from the young man and hurried away.
"Here is more tyranny," the American thought as he went in the opposite direction. "But I do not believe he can keep us apart."
"I walked on and on," he wrote to a friend. "Never had I felt such a sense of loss and loneliness and dejection. I almost resented the inflexible tyranny of my own spirit which had turned him against me. I accused myself of a kind of selfishness in the matter. Had it been right in me to take a course which endangered the happiness of another, to say nothing of my own? But I couldn't have done otherwise, not if I had known that a mountain were to fall upon me. I am like all of those who follow the star in the west. We do as we must. I had not seen Franklin since my duel, and largely because I had been ashamed to face him. Now I felt the need of his wisdom and so I turned my steps toward his door."
3
"I am like the land of Goshen amid the plagues of Egypt," said Franklin, when the young man was admitted to his office. "My gout is gone and I am in good spirits in spite of your adventure."
"And I suppose you will scold me for the adventure."
"You will scold yourself when the consequences have arrived. They will be sure to give you a spanking. The deed is done, and well done. On the whole I think it has been good for the cause, but bad for you."
"Why?"
"You may have to run out of England to save your neck and the face of the King. He was there, I believe?"
"Yes, sir." "The injured lad is in a bad way. The wound caught an infection. Intense fever and swelling have set in. I helped Sir John Pringle to amputate the arm this afternoon, but even that may not save the patient. Here is a storm to warn the wandering linnet to his shade. A ship goes to-morrow evening. Get ready to take it. In that case your marriage will have to be delayed. Rash men are often compelled to live on hope and die fasting."
"With Sir Benjamin, the duel has been a help instead of a hindrance," said the young man. "My stubborn soul has been the great obstacle."
Then he told of his interview with Sir Benjamin Hare.
Franklin put his hand on Jack's shoulder and said with a smile:
"My son, I love you. I could wish you to be no different. Cheer up. Time will lay the dust, and perhaps sooner than you think."
"I hope to see Margaret to-morrow morning."
"Ah, then, 'what Grecian arts of soft persuasion!'" Franklin quoted. "I hope that she, too, will follow the great star in the west!"
"I hope so, but I greatly fear that our meeting will be prevented."
"Did you get my note of to-day at your lodgings?" Franklin asked.
"No," said Jack. "I left there soon after ten."
"Lord Chatham has kindly offered to secure admission for you and me to the House of Lords. He is making an important motion. Come, let us go and see the hereditary legislators."
Lord Stanhope met them at the door of the House of Lords. There was a great bustle among the officers when His Lordship announced their names and his desire to have them admitted. The officers hurried in after members and there was some delay, in the course of which the Americans were turned from the division reserved for eldest sons and brothers of peers. Not less than ten minutes were consumed in the process of seating Franklin and his friend.
Soon Lord Chatham arose and moved that His Majesty's forces be withdrawn from Boston. With a singular charm of personality and address, the great dissenter made his speech. Jack wrote in his diary that evening: "The most captivating figure that ever I saw is a well-bred Englishman trained in the art of public speaking." The words were no doubt inspired by the impressive speech of Chatham, which is now an imperishable part of the history of England. These words from it the young man remembered:
"If the ministers thus persevere in misleading and misadvising the King, I will not say that they can alienate the affection of his subjects from his crown, but I will affirm that they will make his crown not worth his wearing; I will not say that the King is betrayed, but I will say that the kingdom is undone."
Lord Sandwich in a petulant speech declared that the motion ought not to be received. He could never believe it the production of a British peer. Turning toward Franklin, he flung out:
"I fancy that I have in my eye the person who drew it up--one of the bitterest and most mischievous enemies this country has ever known."
"Franklin sat immovable and without the slightest change in his countenance," Jack wrote in a letter to The Pennsylvania Gazette.
Chatham declared that the motion was his own, and added:
"If I were the first minister of this country, charged with the settling of its momentous business, I should not be ashamed to call to my assistance a man so perfectly acquainted with all American affairs, as the gentleman so injuriously referred to--one whom all Europe holds in high estimation for his knowledge and wisdom, which are an honor, not only to England, but to human nature."
"Franklin told me that this was harder for him to bear than the abuse, but he kept his countenance as blank as a sheet of white paper," Jack wrote. "There was much vehement declamation against the measure and it was rejected.
"When we had left the chamber, Franklin said to me:
"'That motion was made by the first statesman of the age, who took the helm of state when the latter was in the depths of despondency and led it to glorious victory through a war with two of the mightiest kingdoms in Europe. Only a few of those men had the slightest understanding of its merits. Yet they would not even consider it in a second reading. They are satisfied with their ignorance. They have nothing to learn. Hereditary legislators! There would be more propriety in hereditary professors of mathematics! Heredity is a great success with only one kind of creature.'
"'What creature?' I asked.
"'The ass,' he answered, with as serious a countenance as I have seen him wear.
"No further word was spoken as we rode back to his home," the young man wrote. "We knew the die had been cast. We had seen it fall carelessly out of the hand of Ignorance, obeying intellects swelled with hereditary passion and conceit. I now had something to say to my countrymen."
CHAPTER XI
THE DEPARTURE
That evening Jack received a brief note from Preston. It said:
"I learn that young Clarke is very ill. I think you would better get out of England for fear of what may come. A trial would be apt to cause embarrassment in high places. Can I give you assistance?"
Jack returned this note by the same messenger:
"Thanks, good friend, I shall go as soon as my business is finished, which I hope may be to-morrow."
Just before the young man went to bed a brief note arrived from Margaret. It read;
"DEAREST JACK. My father has learned of our meeting yesterday and of
how it came about. He is angry. He forbids another meeting. I shall
not submit to his tyranny. We must assert our rights like good
Americans. I have a plan. You will learn of it when we meet to-morrow
at eleven. Do not send an answer. Lovingly, MARGARET."
He slept little, and in the morning awaited with keen impatience the hour of his appointment.
On his way to the place he heard a newsboy shouting the words "duel" and "Yankee," followed by the suggestive statement: "Bloody murder in high life."
Evidently Lionel Clarke had died of his wound. He saw people standing in groups and reading the paper. He began to share the nervousness of Preston and the wise, far-seeing Franklin. He jumped into a cab and was at the corner some minutes ahead of time. Precisely at eleven he saw the coach draw near. He hurried to its side. The footman dismounted and opened the door. Inside he saw, not Margaret, but the lady of the hidden face.
"You are to get in, sir, and make a little journey with the madame," said the footman.
Jack got into the coach. Its door closed, the horses started with a jump and he was on his way whither he knew not. Nor did he know the reason for the rapid pace at which the horses had begun to travel.
"If you do not mind, sir, we will not lift the shades," said the veiled lady, as the coach started. "We shall see Margaret soon, I hope."
She had a colorless, cold voice and what was then known in London as the "patrician manner." Her tone and silence seemed to say: "Please remember this is all a matter of business and not a highly agreeable business to me."
"Where is Margaret?" he asked.
"A long way from here. We shall meet her at The Ship and Anchor in Gravesend. She will be making the journey by another road."
She had answered in a voice as cold as the day and in the manner of one who had said quite enough.
"Where is Gravesend?"
"On the Thames near the sea," she answered briskly, as if in pity of his ignorance.
He saw the plan now--an admirable plan. They were to meet near the port of sailing and be married and go aboard the ship and away. It was the plan of Margaret and much better than any he could have made, for he knew little of London and its ports.
"Should I not take my baggage with me?"
"There is not time for that," the veiled lady answered. "We must make haste. I have some clothes for you in a bag."
She pointed to a leathern case under the front seat.
He sat thinking of the cleverness of Margaret as they left the edge of the city and hurried away on the east turnpike. A mist was coming up from the sea. The air ahead had the color of a wool stack. They stopped at an inn to feed and water the horses and went on in a dense fog, which covered the hedge rows on either side and lay thick on the earth so that the horses seemed to be wading in it. Their pace slowed to a walk. From that time on, the road was like a long ford over which they proceeded with caution, the driver now and then winding a horn.
Each sat quietly in a corner of the seat with a wall of cold fog between them. The young man liked it better than the wall of mystery through which he had been able to see the silent, veiled form beside him.
"Do you have much weather like this?" he ventured to inquire by and by.
This answer came out of the bank of fog: "Yes," as if she would have him understand that she was not being paid for conversation.
From that time forward they rode in a silence broken only by the creaking of the coach and the sound of the horses' hoofs. Darkness had fallen when they reached the little city of Gravesend. The Ship and Anchor stood by the water's edge.
"You will please wait here," said the stern lady in a milder voice than she had used before, as the coach drew up at the inn door, "I shall see if she has come."
His strange companion entered the inn and returned presently, saying: "She has not yet arrived. Delayed by the fog. We will have our dinner, if you please."
Jack had not broken his fast since nine and felt keenly the need of refreshment, but he answered:
"I think that I would better wait for Margaret."
"No, she will have dined at Tillbury," said the masterful lady. "It will save time. Please come and have dinner, sir."
He followed her into the inn. The landlady, a stout, obsequious woman, led them to a small dining-room above stairs lighted by many candles where an open fire was burning cheerfully.
A handsomely dressed man waited by them for orders and retired with the landlady when they were given.
From this point the scene at the inn is described in the diary of the American.
"She drew off her hat and veil and a young woman about twenty-eight years of age and of astonishing beauty stood before me."
"'There, now, I am out of business,' she remarked in a pleasant voice as she sat down at the table which, had been spread before the fireplace. 'I will do my best to be a companion to you until Margaret arrives.'
"She looked into my eyes and smiled. Her sheath of ice had fallen from her.
"'You will please forgive my impertinence,' said she. 'I earn my living by it. In a world of sentiment and passion I must be as cold and bloodless as a stone, but in fact, I am very--very human.'
"The waiter came with a tray containing soup, glasses and a bottle of sherry. We sat down at the table and our waiter filled two glasses with the sherry.
"'Thank you, but self-denial is another duty of mine,' she remarked when I offered her a glass of the wine. 'I live in a tipsy world and drink--water. I live in a merry world and keep a stern face. It is a vile world and yet I am unpolluted.'
"I drank my glass of wine and had begun to eat my soup when a strange feeling came over me. My plate seemed to be sinking through the table. The wall and fireplace were receding into dim distance. I knew then that I had tasted the cup of Circe. My hands fell through my lap and suddenly the day ended. It was like sawing off a board. The end had fallen. There is nothing more to be said of it because my brain had ceased to receive and record impressions. I was as totally out of business as a man in his grave. When I came to, I was in a berth on the ship King William bound for New York. As soon as I knew anything, I knew that I had been tricked. My clothes had been removed and were lying on a chair near me. My watch and money were undisturbed. I had a severe pain in my head. I dressed and went up on deck. The Captain was there.
"'You must have had a night of it in Gravesend,' he said. 'You were like a dead man when they brought you aboard.'
"'Where am I going?' I asked.
"'To New York,' he answered with a laugh. 'You must have had a time!'
"How much is the fare?"
"'Young man, that need not concern you,' said the Captain. 'Your fare has been paid in full. I saw them put a letter in your pocket. Have you read it?'"
Jack found the letter and read:
"DEAR SIR--When you see this you will be well out of danger and, it is
hoped, none the worse for your dissipation. This from one who admires
your skill and courage and who advises you to keep out of England for
at least a year.
"A WELL WISHER."
He looked back over the stern of the ship. The shore had fallen out of sight. The sky was clear. The sun shining. The wind was blowing from the east.
He stood for a long time looking toward the land he had left.
"Oh, ye wings of the wind! take my love to her and give her news of me and bid her to be steadfast in her faith and hope," he whispered.
He leaned against the bulwark and tried to think.
"Sir Benjamin has seen to it," he said to himself. "I shall have no opportunity to meet her again."
He reviewed the events of the day and their under-current of intrigue. The King himself might have been concerned in that and Preston also. It had been on the whole a rather decent performance, he mused, and perhaps it had kept him out of worse trouble than he was now in. But what had happened to Margaret?
He reread her note.
"My father has learned of our meeting and of how it came about," he quoted.
"More bribery," he thought. "The intrigante naturally sold her services to the highest bidder."
He recalled the violent haste with which the coach had rolled away from the place of meeting. Had that been due to a fear that Margaret would defeat their plans?
All these speculations and regrets were soon put away. But for a long time one cause of worry was barking at his heels. It slept beside him and often touched and awoke him at night. He had been responsible for the death of a human being. What an unlucky hour he had had at Sir John Pringle's! Yet he found a degree of comfort in the hope that those proud men might now have a better thought of the Yankees.
CHAPTER XII
THE FRIEND AND THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM
After Jack had been whirled out of London, Franklin called at his lodgings and learned that he had not been seen for a day. The wise philosopher entertained no doubt that the young man had taken ship agreeably with the advice given him. A report had been running through the clubs of London that Lionel Clarke had succumbed. In fact he had had a bad turn but had rallied. Jack must have heard the false report and taken ship suddenly.
Doctor Franklin went that day to the meeting of the Privy Council, whither he had been sternly summoned for examination in the matter of the letters of Hutchinson et al. For an hour he had stood unmoved while Alexander Wedderburn, the wittiest barrister in the kingdom, poured upon him a torrent of abuse. Even the Judges, against all traditions of decorum in the high courts of Britain, laughed at the cleverness of the assault. That was the speech of which Charles James Fox declared that it was the most expensive bit of oratory which had been heard in England since it had cost the kingdom its colonies.
It was alleged that in some manner Franklin had stolen the letters and violated their sacred privacy. It is known now that an English nobleman had put them in his hands to read and that he was in no way responsible for their publication. The truth, if it could have been told, would have bent the proud heads of Wedderburn and the judges to whom he appealed, in confusion. But Franklin held his peace, as a man of honor was bound to do. He stood erect and dignified with a face like one carved in wood.
The counsel for the colonies made a weak defense. The triumph was complete. The venerable man was convicted of conduct inconsistent with the character of a gentleman and deprived of his office as Postmaster General of the Colonies.
But he had two friends in court. They were the Lady Hare and her daughter. They followed him out of the chamber. In the great hallway, Margaret, her eyes wet with tears, embraced and kissed the philosopher.
"I want you to know that I am your friend, and that I love America," she said.
"My daughter, it has been a hard hour, but I am sixty-eight years old and have learned many things," he answered. "Time is the only avenger I need. It will lay the dust."
The girl embraced and kissed him again and said in a voice shaking with emotion:
"I wish my father and all Englishmen to know that I am your friend and that I have a love that can not be turned aside or destroyed and that I will have my right as a human being."
"Come let us go and talk together--we three," he proposed.
They took a cab and drove away.
"You will think all this a singular proceeding," Lady Hare remarked. "I must tell you that rebellion has started in our home. Its peace is quite destroyed. Margaret has declared her right to the use of her own mind."
"Well, if she is to use any mind it will have to be that one," Franklin answered. "I do not see why women should not be entitled to use their minds as well as their hands and feet."
"I was kept at home yesterday by force," said Margaret. "Every door locked and guarded! It was brutal tyranny."
"The poor child has my sympathy but what can I do?" Lady Hare inquired.
"Being an American, you can expect but one answer from me," said the philosopher. "To us tyranny in home or state is intolerable. They tried it on me when I was a boy and I ran away."
"That is what I shall do if necessary," said Margaret.
"Oh, my child! How would you live?" her mother asked.
"I will answer that question for her, if you will let me," said Franklin. "If she needs it, she shall have an allowance out of my purse."
"Thank you, but that would raise a scandal," said the woman.
"Oh, Your Ladyship, I am old enough to be her grandfather."
"I wish to go with Jack, if you know where he is," Margaret declared, looking up into the face of the philosopher.
"I think he is pushing toward America," Franklin answered. "Being alarmed at the condition of his adversary, I advised him to slip away. A ship went yesterday. Probably he's on it. He had no chance to see me or to pick up his baggage."
"I shall follow him soon," the girl declared.
"If you will only contain yourself, you will get along with your father very well," said Lady Hare. "I know him better than you. He has promised to take you to America in December. You must wait and be patient. After all, your father has a large claim upon you."
"I think you will do well to wait, my child," said the philosopher. "Jack will keep and you are both young. Fathers are like other children. They make mistakes--they even do wrong now and then. They have to be forgiven and allowed a chance to repent and improve their conduct. Your father is a good man. Try to win him to your cause."
"And die a maiden," said the girl with a sigh.
"Impossible!" Franklin exclaimed.
"I shall marry Jack or never marry. I would rather be his wife than the Queen of England."
"This is surely the age of romance," said the smiling philosopher as the ladies alighted at their door. "I wish I were young again."