She was sitting waiting when she heard Neil's call, and Oh! how sweet is the voice of love in the hour of anxious sorrow! She never thought of her appearance or her dress; she hasted to Neil, and he folded her to his heart and for the first time touched her white cheek with his lips. She made no resistance, it was not an hour for coy withdrawals, and they understood, amid their silent tears, far more than any future words could explain.
Then Neil told her all that had happened, and when he described John Bradley's open recognition of his son she smiled proudly and said, "That was like father. If I had been there I would have done the same. It is a long time," she said, looking anxiously at Neil. "Will father soon be home?"
"I expected to find him here. I will go to the court now; the trial ought to be over."
But complications had arisen in what at first seemed to be a case that proved itself. Harry was not easily managed. He admitted that he had been in America for more than three years, but declared that his father had been totally ignorant of his presence. When asked where he had dwelt and how he had employed himself during that time, he gave to every question the same answer, "I refuse to tell."
Then the saddle found in his boat was brought forward, and he was asked from whom he received it and to whom he was taking it. And to both these questions there was the same reply, "I refuse to tell."
"It is indisputably a Bradley saddle," said the assistant magistrate, DuBois. "Let John Bradley identify it."
Bradley came forward, looked at the saddle, and answered, "I made it; every stitch of it."
"For whom? Mr. Bradley?"
"I should have few saddles to make if I talked about my patrons in this place. I refuse to tell for whom I made it."
"The court can fine you, sir, for contempt of its requests."
"I would rather pay the fine than bring my patron's name in question and cause him annoyance."
There was considerable legal fencing on this subject, but nothing gained; a parcel also found in the boat was opened and its contents spread out for examination. They consisted of a piece of damasse for a lady's gown, some lace, two pairs of silk stockings, two pairs of gloves, some ribbon, and a fan that had been mended. Everything in this parcel was obviously intended for a woman, but Harry was as obdurately noncommittal as he had been about the saddle. Nothing could be gained by continuing an examination so one-sided, and the next witness called was Captain Quentin Macpherson. He came forward with more than his usual haughty clangor, and was first asked if he had ever seen the prisoner before.
"Yes," he answered, "for about half an hour yesterday evening, say, between half-past seven and eight o'clock."
"Did you have any conversation with him?"
"Very little. When I began to question him about his residence he rose and went away."
"Who else was present?"
"Miss Bradley and Miss Semple."
"Tell the court what occurred when the prisoner left."
"Miss Bradley went to the gate with him, Miss Semple remained with me. I noticed that she was anxious, and found my company disagreeable; and suddenly she excused herself and left the room. As she did so a pebble was thrown through the window, it fell at my feet; a note was wrapped round it, and I read the note."
There was a low hiss-s-s-s! at these words, which pervaded the whole room. Macpherson waited until it had subsided, and then in a loud, defiant voice repeated his last sentence, "I read the note, and acted upon it."
The note was then handed to him, and he positively recognized it, and as it was not his note, nor intended for him, he was unable to protest against DuBois's reading it aloud. It made a pleasant impression. Men looked at the boy prisoner sympathetically, and a little scornful laugh pointed the epithet "that Scot!" which infuriated Macpherson.
In this favorable atmosphere Mr. Curtis rose, and sarcastically advised Judge Matthews that it was "evident the posse of Highland soldiers had been called out to prevent a lovers' tryst and satisfy the wounded vanity or jealousy of Captain Macpherson." The soldier glared at the lawyer, and the lawyer smiled and nodded at the audience, as if telling them a secret; and it really seemed possible for a minute or two that Harry might escape through the never-failing sympathy that lovers draw to themselves.
Unfortunately, at this moment a man entered with a shabby-looking little book, and Harry's face showed an unmistakable anxiety.
"What is the purport of this interruption?" asked DuBois as the volume was handed to him.
"This book fell from the prisoner's jacket last night and John VanBrunt, the jailor, picked it up. This morning he noticed that it had been freshly bound, and he ripped open the leather and found this letter between the boards."
The letter was eagerly examined, but it was in cipher and nothing could be made of it. One thing, however, instantly struck Judge Matthews; it was written on paper presumably only to be obtained in the Commander-in-Chief's quarters. This discovery caused the greatest sensation, and Harry was angrily questioned as to how the letter got inside the binding of a book he was carrying.
"The book is one of my schoolbooks," said Harry. "I am a poor counter, and it is, as you see, a Ready Reckoner. I use its tables in my business calculations constantly; it was falling to pieces, and a friend offered to bind it afresh for me. As for the letter, I did not put it there. I do not know who put it there. I do not know a word of its meaning. It may be an old puzzle, put there for want of a better piece of paper. That is all I can tell."
"You can tell the name of the friend who rebound your book?"
"No, I cannot."
"Will not, you mean?"
"As you say."
A recess was taken at this point of the examination, and the Judges retired to consider what ought to be done. "The letter must, of course, be laid before General Clinton at once," said DuBois; "and as for the prisoner, there can now be no doubt of his treason. I am in favor of hanging him at sunset to-day."
"I think," answered Matthews, "we had better give the young man a day to tell us what he knows. This letter proves that there are worse traitors, and more powerful ones, behind him. It is our duty to at least try and reach them through their emissary."
"He will never tell."
"The shadow of the gallows is a great persuader. This cipher message is a most important affair. I propose to make the sentence of death to-morrow at sunset, with the promise of life if he gives us the information we want."
Matthews carried his point, and Neil Semple arrived at the court house just as the sentence in accord with this opinion was pronounced. Harry hardly appeared to notice it; his gaze was fixed upon his father. The words had transfigured, not petrified him. His soul was at his eyes, and that fiery particle went through those on whom he looked and infected them with fear or with sympathy. He had risen to his feet when his son did, and every one looked at him, rather than at the prisoner. For mental, or spiritual, stature is as real a thing as physical; and in the day of trial this large-souled man, far from shrinking, appeared to grow more imposing. He had a look about him of a mountain among hills. The accepted son of a divine Father, he knew himself to be of celestial race, and he scorned the sentence of shameful death that had fallen from the lips of man upon his only son.
As he turned to the door he smiled bravely on Harry, and his smile was full of promise. He declined all help from both Medway and Semple, and was almost the first to leave the room. The crowd fell away from him as he passed; though he neither spoke nor moved his hands, it fell away as if he pushed it aside. Yet it was a pitiful, friendly crowd; not a man in it but would have gladly helped him to save his boy's life.
"What will he do?" asked Medway of his companion.
"I cannot tell," answered Semple. "He has some purpose, for he walks like a man who knows what he intends and is in a hurry to perform it."
"This is a very bad case. I see not how, in any ordinary way, the young man can be saved. You are a lawyer, what think you?"
"Unless there are extraordinary ways of helping him; there are no ordinary ones. He is undoubtedly a rebel spy. Any court, either police or court-martial, would consider his life justifiably forfeit."
"Have you any influence, secret or open?"
"None whatever. If I had, we should not have been fined. Bradley may have, but I doubt it."
"I think he has. Men are not silent and observant year after year for nothing. But we must not trust to Bradley. Can I see Miss Semple at seven o'clock this evening? I know, madame your mother is averse to Englishmen, but in this case——"
"Miss Semple will certainly see you."
Then the young men parted and Neil returned to his home, for he did not dare to intrude his presence at that hour between the distressed father and daughter. It was hard enough to have Maria to meet; and the moment she heard his step she came weeping to him.
"Tell me, Uncle Neil," she cried, "what have they done to Harry? I am sick with suspense. Are they going to kill—to hang him?"
Her voice had sunk to a terrified whisper, and he looked pitifully at her and drew her within his embrace. "My dear Maria!" then his lips refused to say more, and he suffered his silence to confirm her worst fears. After a few moments he added:
"His only hope is in Lord Medway's influence. I think Medway may do something."
"Oh!" she sobbed "if he can only save his life! I would be content never to see him again! Only ask him to save his life. If Harry is killed I shall feel like a murderer as long as I live. I shall not dare to look at myself, no one will want to look at me. I shall die of grief and shame! Uncle, pity me! pity me!"
"My dear Maria, it is not your fault."
"It is, it is! He took his life in his hand just to see me."
"He was a selfish fool to do such a thing. See what misery he has made. It is his own fault and folly."
"Every one will despise me. I cannot bear it. People will say, 'She deserves it all. Why did she meet the young man unknown to her friends? See what she has done to her grandparents and her uncle.' People like Captain DeVries will frown at me and cross the street; and their wives and children will go into their houses when I come near and peep at me through the windows, and the mothers will say, 'Look at her! look at her! She brought a fine young man to the gallows, and her friends to shame and poverty.' Uncle, how am I to bear it?"
"I think, my poor child, Lord Medway has some plan. Money unbars all doors but heaven's, and Medway has plenty of money. Besides, General Clinton is easily moved by him. I do not think Clinton will refuse Medway anything; certainly not, if Harry will tell who wrote the cipher message he was carrying."
"But Harry will not tell, will he?"
"I feel sure he will not."
"If he did, he would deserve to die. I would not shed a tear for him. As for Quentin Macpherson!—I wish that I was a man. I would cut his tongue out."
"Maria!"
"I would, truly. Then I would flog him to death."
Neil's dark face flushed crimson; his fingers twitched; he looked with approval and admiration at the passionate girl. "One hundred years ago—in Scotland," he said, "I would have answered, 'Yes! He deserves it! I will do it for you!'"
"It is so wretched to be a woman! You can go out, see for yourself, hear for yourself; a girl can only suffer. Hour after hour, all night long, all day long, I have walked the floor in misery. How does Agnes bear it? She was cross, and sent me away this morning."
"She looks very ill; but she is calm, and not without hope. She has spoken to God and been comforted. Can you not do so?"
"No. I am not Agnes. I cannot pray. I want to do something. Oh, dear me! all this shame and sorrow because I had a little love-making with her brother and we did not tell the whole town about it. It is too great a punishment! It is not just nor kind. What wrong have I done? Yet how I have to suffer! No, I cannot pray, but if I can do anything, see any one, be of any earthly help or use——"
"I think Medway has some scheme, if Clinton should fail, and that this scheme requires a woman's help."
"I hope it does! I hope it does! I will run any risk."
"Medway is coming here at seven o'clock. He wishes distinctly to see you. Run what risk you choose. I am not afraid of you. Nothing will make you forget you are Maria Semple."
"Thank you, Uncle Neil. Lord Medway and I have always been good friends. He will not ask me to do anything wrong; and if he did, I would not do it."
The prospect of his visit somewhat soothed Maria. Though Medway had never said a word of love to her, she knew she was adorable in his eyes as well as she knew the fact of her own existence. Women need no formal declarations; they have considered a lover's case and decided it many a time before he comes to actual confession. In her great trouble she hoped to find this love sufficient in some way for the alleviation of Harry's desperate position. But though she really was in the greatest sorrow, she was not oblivious to her beauty. She knew if she had a favor to ask, it was the best reason she had to offer. So, as the hour approached, she bathed her face and put on the negligée of scarlet silk, which was one of her most becoming house costumes. She thought her intentional, pleasing carelessness of dress would only be noticed in its effect; but Lord Medway was much in love, and love is an occult teacher. He noticed at once the studied effort to make grief attractive—the glowing silk of her gown, the bronze slippers, the bewitching abandon of her dark, curling hair against the amber cushion of the chair on which she sat. And though he had an astonishing plan for Harry's life to propose, Maria's careful negligence gave him hope and courage. For if he had been quite indifferent to her, she would have been more indifferent to the dress she was to meet him in.
Nothing else in her surroundings spoke of love or happiness. The best parlor had been opened for his reception; but the few sticks of wood sobbed and sung wearily on the cold hearth, and the room was chill and half-lighted and full of shadows. He noticed, nothing, however, but the lovely girl who came to meet him as he entered it, and who, even in the gloom, showed signs of the violent grief which she soon ceased to restrain. For his tenderness loosed afresh all her complaining; and he encouraged her to open her heart, and to weep with that passionate abandon youth finds comfort in. But when she was weary and had sobbed herself into silence he said:
"Miss Semple—may I call you Maria?"
"Yes, if you will be my friend, if you will help me."
"I am your friend, and if there is help in man I will get it for you."
"I want Harry's life; he risked it for me. If they kill him, all my days I shall see that sight and feel that horror. I shall go mad, or die."
"Would you be content if I saved his life? He may be sent to prison."
"There is hope in that. I could bear it better."
"He will certainly be forbidden to come near New York, for——"
"Only let him live."
"He is without doubt a rebel."
"So am I, from this day forth."
"And a spy."
"I wish I could be one. There is nothing I would not tell."
He looked at her with the unreasoning adoration of a lover; then taking her cold hands between his own, he said in a slow, fervent voice:
"If you will promise to marry me, I will save the young man's life."
"You are taking advantage of my trouble."
"I know I am. A man who loves as I do must make all events go to further his love."
"But I love Harry Bradley."
"You think so. If you had met him under ordinary circumstances you would not have looked twice at him. It was the romance, the secrecy, the danger, the stolen minutes—all that kind of thing. There is no root in such love."
"I shall never cease to love Harry."
"I will teach you to forget him."
"No, no! How can you ask me in an hour like this? It is cruel."
"Love is cruel. Sooner or later love wounds; for love is selfish. I want you for my wife, Maria. I put aside so," and he swept his hand outward, "everything that comes in the way."
"You want to buy me! You say plainly, 'I will give you your lover's life for yourself.' I cannot listen to you!"
"Be sensible, Maria. This infatuation for a rebel spy is infatuation. There is nothing real to it. If the war were over, and you saw young Bradley helping his father in his shop and going about in ordinary clothes about ordinary business, you would wonder what possessed you ever to have fancied yourself in love with him."
"Oh, but you are mistaken!"
"You would say to yourself, 'I wish I had listened to Ernest Medway. He would have taken me all over the happy, beautiful world, to every lovely land, to every splendid court. He would have surrounded me with a love that no trouble could put aside; he would have given me all that wealth can buy; he would have loved me more and more until the very last moment of my life, and followed me beyond life with longings that would soon have brought us together again.' Yes, Maria, that is how I love you."
"Harry loves me."
"Not he! If he had loved you he would not, for his own pleasure, have run any risk of giving you this trouble. What did I say? Love is selfish, love wounds——"
"You wound me. You are selfish."
"I am. I love you. You seemed to belong to me that first hour I saw you. I will not give you up."
"If you really loved me, if you were really noble, you would save Harry without any conditions."
"Perhaps. I am not really noble. I can't trust such fine sentiments. They will lead, I know not where, only away from you. I tell you plainly, I will save the young fellow's life, if it be possible, on condition that you promise to marry me."
"I am not eighteen years old yet."
"I will wait any reasonable time."
"Till the end of the war?"
"Yes, provided it is over when you are twenty-one."
She pondered this answer, looking up covertly a moment at the handsome, determined face watching her. Three years held innumerable possibilities. It was a period very far away. Lord Medway might have ceased to love her before it was over; he might have fallen in love with some other girl. He might die; she might die; the wide Atlantic ocean might be between them. The chances were many in her favor. She remained silent, considering them, and Medway watched with a curious devotion the expressions flitting across her face.
"Think well, Maria," he said at last, letting her hands drop gently from his own. "Remember that I shall hold you to every letter of your promise. Do not try to make yourself believe that if Bradley escapes and you come weeping and entreating to me I shall give way. I shall not. I want to be very plain with you. I insist that you understand, Harry Bradley is to be given up finally and forever. He is to have no more to do with your life. I am planning for our future; I do not think of him at all. When he leaves New York to-morrow he must be to you as if he had never been."
"Suppose I do not promise to marry you, what then?"
"Nothing. I shall go away till you want me, and send for me."
"Oh!"
"Yes."
"And not even try to save Harry's life? Not even try?"
"Why should I? Better men than Harry Bradley have died in the same cause."
She rose and walked across the room a few times, and then, being cold, came back to the fire, knelt on the rug and warmed her hands. He watched her intently, but did not speak. She was trying to find something which should atone to her better self for such a contract. It came with the thought of Harry's father and Agnes. For their sakes, she ought to do all she could. Harry, for her sake, had taken his life in his hand and forfeited it; surely, then, it was right that she, having the power to do so, should redeem it. Better that he should live for others than die for her. Better that she should lose him in the living world than in the silent grave. Through Agnes she would hear of his comings and goings, his prosperity, and his happiness; but there would come no word to her from the dead whether at all he lived and loved, or not. With a quick, decisive motion she rose and looked at the man who was waiting in such motionless, but eager, silence.
"A life for a life!" she said simply, offering Medway her hand.
"You mean that you will be my wife?"
"Yes. I will marry you when the war is over."
"Or when you are twenty-one, even if it be not over?"
"Yes."
"Now, then," he said, "you are my betrothed;" and he drew her within his arm. "My honor, my hopes, my happiness, are in your hands."
"They are safe. Though I am only a girl, I know what my promise means. I shall keep it."
"I believe you. And you will love me? You will learn to love me, Maria?"
"I will do my best to make you happy, you ought not to ask more."
"Very well." He looked at her with a new and delightful interest. She was his own, her promise had been given. He could, indeed, tell by her eyes,—languid, but obstinately masterful—that she would not be easily won, but he did not dislike that; he would conquer her by the strength of his own love; he would make her understand what love really meant. Still, he felt that for the present it would be better to go away, so he said:
"You shall hear from me as soon as possible. Try and sleep, my dear one. You may tell yourself, 'Ernest is doing all that can be done.'" Then he took her hands and kissed them, and in a moment she was alone. Her heart was heavy as lead, and she was cold and trembling, but she was no longer in the shadow of Death. Medway's face, turned to her in the semi-darkness of the open door, was full of hope; and there was an atmosphere of power about the man which assured her of success; but she truly felt at that hour as if it was bought with her life. She was in the dungeon of despair; there seemed nothing to hope for, nothing to desire, in all the to-morrows of the years before her. "And I may have sixty years to live," she moaned; for youth exaggerates every feeling, and would be grieved to believe that its sorrows were not immortal.
She pushed the dying fire safely together, looked mournfully round the darksome room, closed and locked the door. Then Neil came toward her and asked if Lord Medway could do anything, and she answered, "He can save Harry's life; he has promised that. I suppose he will be imprisoned, but his life is saved. What did grandmother say about Lord Medway being here?"
"She has never been down stairs. She does not know he was here."
"Then we will not tell her. What is the use?"
"None at all. Father and mother have their own trouble. They are very anxious and almost broken-hearted at the indignity put upon our family. I heard my father crying as I passed his door and mother trying to comfort him, but crying, too. It made my heart stand still."
"It is my fault! It is my fault! Oh! what a wicked, miserable girl I am! What can I do? What can I do?"
"Try and sleep, and get a little strength for tomorrow. Within the next twenty-four hours Harry Bradley will be saved or dead."
"I think he is saved. I am sure of it."
"Then try and sleep; will you try, Maria?"
"Yes."
She said the word with a hopeless indifference, half nullifying the promise. Then, lighting her candle, she went slowly to her room. Oh, but the joy that is dead weighs heavy! Maria could hardly trail her body upstairs. Her life felt haggard and thin, as if it was in its eleventh hour; and she was too physically exhausted to stretch out her hand into the dark and find the clasp of that Unseen Hand always waiting the hour of need, strong to uphold, and ready to comfort. No, she could not pray; she had lost Harry: there was nothing else she desired. In her room there was a picture of the crucifixion, and she cast her eyes up to the Christ hanging there, forsaken in the dark, and wondered if He pitied her, but the pang of unpermitted prayer made her dumb in her lonely grief.
THE HELP OF JACOB COHEN.
On leaving Maria, Lord Medway went straight to his friend General Clinton. He had just dined, and having taken much wine, was bland and good-tempered. Medway's entrance delighted him. "I have had my orderly riding about for a couple of hours looking for you," he said. "Where have you been Ernest? My dinner wanted flavor without you."
"I have been seeing some people about this son of Bradley's that the Police Court has in its clutches. By-the-bye, why don't you put a stop to its infamous blackmailing? As a court, it is only a part of Howe's treachery, formed for the very purpose of extortion, and of bringing His Majesty's Government into disrepute. Abolish the whole affair, Henry. You are court sufficient, in a city under martial law."
"All you say is true, Ernest, and there is no doubt that Matthews and DuBois and the rest of them are the worst of oppressors. But I am expected to subjugate the whole South this winter, and I must leave New York in three or four weeks now."
"The Government expects miracles of you, Henry; but if military miracles are possible, you are the soldier to work them. I have found out to-day why you are not more popular; it is this Police Court, and they call it a Military Police Court, I believe; and all its tyrannies are laid to you because your predecessor instituted it. They might as well lay Howe's love for rebels to you."
"Speaking of rebels, I hear most suspicious things of Bradley's son. In fact, he is a spy. Matthews tells me that he ought to have been hung to-day. There is something unusual about the affair and I wanted to talk to you concerning it. Bradley himself has been here and said things that have made me uncomfortable—you know how he brings the next world into this one; Smith has been here, also, asking me to pardon the fellow, because the feeling in the city about Tryon's doings in Connecticut is yet like smoldering fire in the hearts of the burghers. Powell has been here asking me to pardon, because the spy's father has a thousand bridles to make for the troops going South, and he thinks hanging the youth would kill his father, or at least incapacitate him for work, and Rivington has just left, vowing he will not answer for consequences if his newspaper does not sympathize with the Bradleys. If Bradley's son had been the arch-rebel's son, there could hardly have been more petitions for his life. I don't understand the case. What do you say?"
"That Matthews and DuBois have made a tremendous blunder in fining the Semples for disloyalty in the matter. I will warrant the Semples' loyalty with my own."
"So would I. It is indisputable."
"Yet the Elder has been fined two hundred pounds, and Mr. Neil Semple one hundred pounds, because Bradley's son tied his boat at their landing; a fact they were as ignorant of as you or I. And you get the blame and ill-will of such tyranny, Henry. It is shameful!"
"It is," answered Clinton in a tone of self-pity; "the boat, however, was full of goods, about which the young man would say nothing at all."
"Women's bits of lace and ribbons; a mended fan, and some gloves and stockings."
"There was also a Bradley saddle."
"Yes, Bradley acknowledged it."
"Then father or son ought to have given information about it."
"It was their business; and if either you or I were brought before such an irresponsible court and such autocratic judges, I dare say we should consider silence our most practical weapon of defense. In Harry Bradley's position, I should have acted precisely as he did. The whole affair resolves itself into a lovers' tryst; the lad would not give the lady a disagreeable publicity; he would die first. You yourself would shield any good woman with your life, Henry, you know you would."
And Clinton thought of the bewitching Mrs. Badely and the lovely Miss Blundell, and answered with an amazing air of chivalry, "Indeed I would!"
"Have you ever noticed a Captain Macpherson, belonging to your own Highland regiment?"
"Who could help noticing him? He is always the most prominent figure in every room."
"He will be so no longer. He was almost hissed out of court to-day, and I was told the demonstrations on the street sent him stamping and swearing to his quarters. Well, he is the villain of this pitiful little drama. The heroine is that lovely granddaughter of Semples."
"I know her; a little darling! and as good as she is beautiful."
Then Medway, with an inimitable scornful mimicry told the story of the pebble and the note, the alarm of the Highland troops, the arrest of the Elder and his son, the subsequent proceedings in court, the sympathy of the people with the Semples, and the contempt which no one tried to conceal for the informer. Then, changing his voice and attitude, he described Bradley's speechless grief, the Semple's wounded loyalty and indignation, and finally the passionate sorrow of the mistress and sister of the doomed man.
"It is the most pitiful story of the age," he continued, "and if I were you, Henry, I would not permit civilians to usurp the power you ought to hold in your own hand. You have to bear the blame of all the crimes committed by this infamous court. Pardon the prisoner with a stroke of your pen, if only to put these fellows in their proper place."
"But there was a cipher message in his possession—here it is. It was in the binding of a book he carried in his pocket."
"He says he did not put it there. No one can read it. If you found a letter in the Babylonish speech, would you hang a man because you could not read the message he carried!"
"Special pleading, Ernest. And he ought to have told who rebound the book, and to whom he was carrying it. The paper on which the cipher is written is my paper. Some one, not far from me, must have taken it."
"Suppose you question Smith?"
"Do you intend to say that Smith is a traitor?"
"I say, ask Smith. I have no doubt he can read the Babylonish for you—if he will."
"You alarm me. Am I surrounded by enemies?"
"I think you have many round you. I have warned you often. My advice to you at this time is to pardon young Bradley."
"Why are you taking such an interest in young Bradley?"
"I have no secrets from you, he is my rival."
"Preposterous! How could he rival you in anything?"
"Yet he is my rival in the affections of Maria Semple."
"Then let him hang! He will be out of your way."
"No, he would be forever in my way. She would idolize him, make him a hero and a saint, and worship him in some secret shrine of memory as long as she lives. I am going to marry her, and I want no secret shrines. He is a very good-looking, ordinary young man; only the circumstances of the time lifted him out of the average and the commonplace. Let him go scot free that he may find his level which is far below the horizon of my peerless Maria."
"I don't think I can let him go 'scot free,' Ernest. I should offend many if I did, and it would be made a precedent; suppose I imprison him during the continuance of the war!"
"That is too romantic. Maria would haunt the prison and contrive some way of communication. He would still be her hero and her lover."
"And you will marry this infatuated girl?"
"Yes, a thousand times, yes! Her love for that boy is mere sentiment. I will teach her what love really means. She has promised to marry me—if I save Harry Bradley's life."
"I never saw you taken so with any woman before."
"I never cared for a woman before. The moment I saw Maria Semple it was different. I knew that she belonged to me. Henry, you are my best friend, give me my wife; no one but you can do so."
"Ernest! Ernest! You ask a great thing."
"Not too great for you to grant. You have the will and you have the power. Are you not going to make me happy, Henry?"
"Privately, it would be a delight to humor you, Ernest; but officially, what am I to say to Matthews, DuBois and others."
"Tell them, that as a matter of military policy, you wish the prisoner released. Why should you make explanations to them? Oh, they are such courtiers, they will smile and do all you wish. You are above their rascally court; reverse their decision in this affair and show them your power. Believe me, it will be, politically, a wise step."
There was silence for a few moments, and then Clinton said: "I am sorry for the Semples. I like them both, and there is something about the saddler that sets him above other men. But it would not be right to let this young spy—for he is a spy—off, without some punishment."
"I think that is right."
"He must be told that he will be shot on sight if he enters New York again."
"He will deserve it."
"And I will have him drummed out of the city as a rogue and a suspect. We will make no hero of him—quite the contrary."
"I oppose nothing of that kind. I ask for his life and his freedom, because he stands between Maria Semple and myself. If I wanted any other reason, because I thoroughly respect his father, and am on excellent terms with his sister, who has been very hospitable to me and who is a remarkable girl. It has troubled me to-day to remember her lonely sorrow and anxiety."
"You have given me three good reasons for granting your request, and have omitted the strongest of all, Ernest."
"What is that, Henry?"
"That I love you."
"And I love you. You have always been like a big brother to me; always petted me and humored my desires."
"Well, then, I will see Matthews and DuBois in the morning."
"Send for them here to-night. If their court is a Military Police Court, you are Commander-in-Chief."
"Right! I will send for them. It is only about nine o'clock."
"And you will insist that the prisoner be given his life and freedom—nothing less?"
"I give you my word for it. But I will have him punished as I said. He must be prevented from coming to New York again. This kind of thing can not happen twice."
"I know. If words could thank you, Henry, I would say them."
"Nonsense, Ernest; what are words between us? We know each other's heart;" then he laid his arm across his friend's shoulder and their hands clasped; there was no need of words.
Very early in the morning Maria and Agnes received the good tidings. Maria was asleep when Medway's letter, with a basket of hot-house fruit was brought to her. Agnes was making her father's coffee, and they both looked at the unexpected letter with a fearful anticipation. But as soon as Agnes glanced at it, she perceived that it brought good news, and she gave it to her father. She could not speak, and for a few minutes Bradley was equally silent. Not that they were ungrateful, oh, no! They were only inarticulate. They had a gratitude so deep and holy that they had no words with which to express it; and when the happy father found speech, it was weak and tremulous as that of a man in the last extremity. "I was brought low, and He helped me!" That was all, but he stood up, steadying himself by his chair, and uttered the verse with a reverence and holy joy that no language can describe.
In a little while he began to talk to his daughter. "I knew God would not fail me," he said. "Yesterday afternoon I did all I could, and then I left the rest with Him. I saw General Clinton and said a few words which he could not gainsay. I saw Smith, and told him plainly if Harry died, he should translate that cypher message to the Commander-in-Chief. I saw Powell, and many others, whom I hold at my mercy, and they know that now, if they never knew it before. Andrews left New York an hour after I saw him; he is a fearful creature and he believed I would speak, though Harry had been silent; well, I must see the boy as soon as possible, there is certain to be some difficulty that only gold can overcome. I hope they will not imprison him."
"Lord Medway says, he will be set free."
"Thank God!"
He rose with the words and Agnes brought him his top-coat. Then, as they stood face to face, she was shocked at the ravage thirty hours of travail in the shadow of death had made on him. "Father," she said, "oh, father, forgive me! I did wrong to deceive you! I did wrong!"
"Yes, my girl, you did wrong; and nothing right can come from wrong; but Agnes, I have been worse than you. I, also, have been living a deceitful life, thinking that the end justified the means. I set you the example. Your fault is my fault. We have both been trying to do the right thing in our own way. We have been patriots, as Nicodemus was a Christian—by night. That is wrong. We must do right first hand, not second hand. From this hour that kind of thing will be sinning with our eyes open; it will be looking God's Commandments in the face, and then breaking them. Do you understand, Agnes?"
Then he went away, and Agnes tried to turn to her household duties. She wondered if Maria would come and see her or if she ought to go to Maria, and while she was debating the question Neil called. He was much depressed. The good news about Harry only affected him through Agnes, and he was very anxious about his father, who was in a high fever and was constantly talking of his fine and his inability to pay it. "Maybe I'll hae to go to prison for the debt," was his constant cry, and Neil felt that his father's fine must be satisfied, no matter at what cost. So it was a troubled little visit; the day before each was so uncertain, so full of probabilities which the slightest momentum might divert to either joy or sorrow. They could not feel that their congratulations were full ripe; something might yet happen to destroy their hopes.
Neil went first to his office. He found Mr. Curtis preparing for the court, and as yet unaware of the decision in Harry's case; "but it is a great piece of good luck for the young scamp," he said, when Neil told him, "for he's a spy, if ever there was one. I have no doubt he deserves death, fifty times over."
"I have no doubt there are fifty men in New York who deserve it more than he does—men of power and prominence."
"I would keep such observations to myself, Neil. Your father is far too outspoken and he is paying for it now."
"I hope my father will never be less outspoken."
"Well, as I say, he has to pay for his opinions. He has two hundred pounds to pay, but then he had his two hundred pounds worth of fault-finding."
"What do you mean, Curtis?"
"Don't you remember how imprudently he spoke about Mr. Hulen's imprisonment?"
"He said nothing but the truth. Mr. Hulens is the most loyal of gentlemen, but because he was not sufficiently polite to a town major, he was imprisoned with felons and vagabonds and afterward compelled to publicly apologize. It was an infamous wrong."
"Precisely what the Elder said. It has not been forgotten."
"There were the two De Lanceys——"
"Yes, to be sure! And why did he trouble himself about them? There are enough of De Lanceys to look after De Lanceys."
"The injustice of the affair was every man's business. These two De Lanceys were private gentlemen, who, because they had some words with a German chasseur, were seized in their homes and tried by court-martial—though they had no connection whatever with the army: at the worst it was a simple assault, the most trifling offense the civil law notices, yet the De Lanceys were degraded and imprisoned for two months, and then compelled to beg this German mercenary's pardon before all the troops at Kingsbridge. Remember Mr. Hicks, turned out of his hotel by General Patterson at the request of that unmentionable creature Loring—because Loring wanted it for one of his parasites. Remember poor Amberman, the miller at Hempstead, who, because he asked Major Stockton for payment for the flour he had bought, was nearly flogged to death, and then run through with Major Crew's sword, and kicked out of the way—dead. Nothing was done to Stockton; I met him on the street an hour ago, still an officer in His Majesty's service. I could add one hundred examples to these—but what is the use? And why are we lawyers? There is no law. The will of any military officer is the law."
"Still we are lawyers, Neil; and special counselors to three of the commissaries."
"I shall not be counselor much longer. I am going to write my resignation now."
"Are you mad? These fees are about all the ready money we make."
"I should deserve to be called mad, or worse, if I continued to serve a government which had just fined me for not being careful of its interests."
"For Heaven's sake, don't throw hundreds a year away for a figment!"
"Honor is something more than a figment. But you had better go to court early this morning. When you come back, I want you to let me have two hundred pounds until I can sell some property."
Curtis burst into a loud laugh: "I could not let you have two hundred shillings," he said. "Good gracious, Neil, how can you suppose I have money to spare?"
"I know you have money, but if you are averse to lending it, that is a different thing. I thought you might have some memory of all I have done for you."
"I have. Of course I have. You have put thousands of pounds in my way; I don't deny or forget it, but I have a family——"
"I understand. I wish you would hasten about Bradley's case. His father will be expected to pay for their service."
"I suppose his case is settled. I am sorry he has got off—deuced sorry! A saucy youth who looked defiance at his betters all the time."
"Were they his betters?"
"He ought to be hung!" And he went on talking rapidly about Bradley's deserts. Neil knew the bluster was affected in order to prevent recurrence to the subject of money, and with a heart hot and wounded he sat down to write his resignation of the offices which were his principal support. Curtis was disconcerted and uneasy, and his last words on leaving the office were an entreaty to Neil to do "nothing foolish and hasty." But the papers were written, and then he took himself to the proper departments.
He was woefully unhappy. His father's and mother's condition made his strong heart tremble, and though no one could have supposed from his appearance that he had a single care, the sudden falling away of his friends and acquaintances wounded him like a sword.
As he walked the streets, so gravely erect, so haughtily apart, he was made to feel, in many ways, that he had lost in public estimation. No one took the trouble to ask him a favor or stopped to seek his opinion, or told him bits of gossip about events transpiring. He was classed with the Bradleys. The Misses Robertson passed him with the most formal of recognitions; Miss Smith did not notice him at all, while Joris Van Emerslie, who had taken his advice the previous week about the sale of his business, crossed the street to avoid him.
Friends were not far behind enemies. As he stood a moment on the steps of the barracks commissary, Judge Lawson, an old man and an intimate acquaintance of the Semples, stopped and said, "Good-morning, Neil. I am glad to see you here. I heard Cornelius Bloch had asked for your position and was likely to get it."
"I did not resign my position, Judge, until five minutes ago. The commissioners have not yet received it."
"Very true, but every one knew you must resign—the servants of the King must be above suspicion, eh?"
"Suspicion, sir!"
"Now, now, Neil! You must keep your temper for younger men; I am too old to be bluffed."
Then Neil walked silently away, and the old friend of the family watched him with a queer mingling of pity and satisfaction. "Proud creatures, them Semples, old and young," he muttered; "but good, true hearts in them, I'm half sorry for Neil, he was always ready to do me a kindness; but a little pull-down won't hurt him, he carries his head too high for anything."
But high as Neil carried his head, his heart was in the depths. It seemed to him that all the fair, honorable life he had built was falling into ruin. He needed now both help and sympathy, and his friends looked coldly upon him, or took the same reproving tone as the self-righteous comforters of the man of Uz. Full of bitter thoughts he was walking down Queen Street, when he heard a soft, familiar voice, almost at his ear, say, "Mr. Semple! Honored sir, will you speak to me for a few minutes?" He looked up quickly, and saw that he was close to the doorstep of Jacob Cohen, the Jewish dealer in fine furniture, china, jewelry, etc.
"Certainly, Mr. Cohen," he answered, as he stepped inside the gloomy warehouse, crowded with articles of great beauty and astonishing value.
"Will you sit here, if you please, sir," and Cohen drew a large stool forward for Neil; "I must not detain you, your time is worth much money, many people wish to buy it, but it is land I would buy, if you will sell it to me."
"Land, Mr. Cohen! Perhaps a house——"
"No, it is the land you own next to our synagogue. If you will remember, I had it in my heart to buy this plot of ground six years ago. I thought then we could build a larger temple, one more worthy for our worship; but we did not reach agreement at that time and then came the war. I offered you then, four hundred pounds for the land; to-day I make you the same offer if you will take it."
Neil's emotion was almost beyond his control. For a few minutes he could not answer the proposition, but Cohen had the patience of the Jew, and he divined the young man's agitation and mental tremor. Silent and motionless he waited for Neil's reply. It came strained and hesitating, as if speech was an effort.
"Mr. Cohen—I will sell you the land—yes, indeed! As you say, for four hundred pounds."
"To-morrow? Can the sale be completed to-morrow?"
"I will prepare the papers to-day."
"I am well pleased."
"Mr. Cohen, this is a great surprise—a good surprise—you do not understand how good. I believe it is something more than business you intend; it is sympathy, kindness, friendship."
"It is business, but it is kindness also, if you will accept it. Your house have ever done me good, and not evil. I and mine prayed for you—yes, the Jew knows the pang of injustice that must be borne without protest and without redress."
"You have done my family and myself an unspeakable kindness. I were the worst of ingrates not to acknowledge it," and Neil rose and offered his hand. And when Cohen took it, and held it for a few moments within his own, a marvellous change passed over the old man. The timid attitude, the almost servile respect, vanished; his face beamed with a lofty expression, his eyes met Neil's frankly; in the prosaic surroundings of the dark, crowded shop he looked, for a few moments, like an Eastern prince.
As they stood thus together, Neil longing to say something that should show his deep gratitude and friendship, and forgetting that Israel in America at that day still preserved much of their Oriental seclusion in household matters, asked after his daughter, Mrs. Belasco. "I have not seen her since her marriage," he said; "but I can never forget her. It was her promptitude in the duel between Captain Hyde and myself that saved my life."
"She has a good heart;" then suddenly, "come, come into my home, yes, come in and see her."
He walked toward the back of the shop and Neil followed him into a large, low room, where there was a table covered with a white cloth. Another white cloth, folded lengthwise, shielded the bread and the china laid ready for the noonday meal. Cohen stood at the entrance and permitted Neil to pass in. As he did so, a small, dark Jew rose and bringing forward a chair, said, "Welcome be the guest."
"This is Mr. Belasco," said Cohen, and then Neil knew the woman who was standing behind Mr. Belasco's chair. It was the still beautiful Miriam. The happiness of perfect love lighted the dusky white of her complexion and filled her glorious eyes. A brilliant silk kerchief was thrown over her black hair, and she wore a rich, flowing garment of many colors. There were gems in her ears and around her neck, and her slim, brown fingers sparkled with sapphires and diamonds. Behind her was the whitewashed wall of a room on which was traced some black Hebrew characters—wise or comforting passages from the Psalms or the Prophets; and on shelves of ordinary wood, a quantity of beautiful china, some silver vessels, and a copper lamp with seven beaks, brightly polished. Before her sat Belasco, his swarthy face revealing both power and intellect, purposely veiled beneath a manner of almost obsequious deference. But his voice, like Cohen's, was full of those vague tones of softness and melody, of which Orientals preserve the eternal poetry, with the eternal secret. Outside, but within sight and hearing, was the vibrant, noisy, military life of New York—western turmoil—hurry of business—existence without pause; but here, in this grave, unornamented room, with its domestic simplicity and biblical air, was the very atmosphere of the East.
Neil, who really possessed the heart and the imagination of a poet, felt the vibration of the far-off life, and even while addressing Mr. Belasco, had visions of palm-trees and of deserts and of long, long journeys with the caravans of camels, from oasis to oasis. He was standing amid the children of the patriarchs. These souls were of older race than himself; they had the noblest of kindreds, a country that was the mother of nations.
With the ideal respect born of such thoughts he offered his hand to Mrs. Belasco. Then she called her children and proudly exhibited them to Neil, and in a few moments a slave brought in a dish of lamb stewed with rice and herbs, some dates, a plate of little cakes strewed with caraway seeds, and some strong coffee. A roll of bread was at each plate, and Cohen broke his with Neil. Miriam did not eat with them; she waited silently on their wants, her face beaming with pleasure and goodwill. And Neil felt as if he had suddenly passed through a little wooden door into the life of the far East.
He said something like this, and Cohen answered, "God has said to us, as to His servant Abraham, Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred. We are the wayfarers of the Eternal, confessing still, as Moses in the Law taught us—'a Syrian ready to perish was my father.'" Deut. 26:5.
It was an unlooked-for and wonderful hour, and Neil left the shop of Jacob Cohen a very different being from the depressed, anxious man who had entered it an hour previously. His first thought was his father and mother, and he went to his office, wrote the following note, and sent a messenger with it to them:
My Honored and Beloved Parents:
I have sold a plot of land in Mill Street for four hundred pounds, and the fines will be paid to-morrow. We shall not require to borrow a farthing from any one. Be at ease. I will come to you as soon as I have written the necessary transfer papers.
Your affectionate son,
Neil.
Then an unconquerable desire to see Agnes, or at least to do something for her, took entire possession of him; and he laid aside his business, and went as rapidly as possible to the Bradley house. But Agnes would not see him. She asked to be left alone, and Neil understood her need of solitude, and respected it. In Maiden Lane he met Lord Medway, who said, "I have been at your office seeking you, Mr. Semple. Young Bradley is to be put outside the city at two o'clock to-day."
"He is pardoned then, on what conditions?"
"He will be shot on sight if he comes within five miles of New York; and I fear he will not have a pleasant escort to the barricade."
"You mean that he will be drummed out by the military and assaulted by the mob?"
"Yes, the court said, as a vagabond and spy and common rogue against His Majesty's government and interests."
"Oh! I suppose the court is right; there is nothing to be done."
"His father has sent a number of men with some message to all the respectable burghers he can influence; and I think Bradley can influence a great many, either through their fear of him, or their respect for him."
"What does he propose to do? He can not prevent this public demonstration, and he ought not to try to do so. His son has got off miraculously well. It is his place to submit and be grateful."
"He tells me the last man drummed out of town was nearly killed by the missiles thrown at him, and did lose the sight of one eye. He proposes to prevent the mob's playfulness, if he can."
"But how?"
"He has asked a number of the tradesmen and merchants in the city to send their apprentices and clerks, and thus, by influence and example, keep the unruly element in check. No one can prevent their presence. In fact, good citizens are expected to countenance the rogue's punishment. I may show myself at some point of the route," he added, with a laugh; "I have a little friend who may ask me about it," and he looked curiously at Neil, wondering if Maria had told him how the miracle had been performed which saved Harry's life.
But Neil made no sign, and Medway continued: "I wish you would dine with me this evening, Mr. Semple. I have something of importance to tell you. I dine at five, shall we say at The King's Arms. Afterward I will walk home with you, if I may."
"I will join you at five o'clock. What time does the young man begin his march, and from what point?"
"From Whitehall Slip to Dock Street, Hanover Square, Queen Street, Crown Street, William Street, King George Street to the Boston Road, and so to the eastern gate of the barrier. I rather think the companions of the journey will be few in number ere they reach the barrier. They start about two o'clock I believe. You will not forget dinner at five?"
Then the young men parted and Neil went to his office to consider his movements. Events had happened with a celerity that made him nervous and uncertain. He was used to method and plenty of time. Hurry, under any circumstances, destroyed his balance. Between his father and mother, Agnes, Maria, John Bradley and his son, Jacob Cohen and Lord Medway, he felt as if in a whirlwind. He wanted an hour of solitude in which to collect himself. But his office, that usually quiet, methodical place, was this day full of unrest. His partner was fuming at Harry Bradley's release, and wondering "what on earth was the use of the law, or the necessity for lawyers to interpret it?"
"There is now no necessity for either law or lawyers," answered Neil; "we may pack our books and lock our door."
"Neil, I have been thinking how I could manage to get two hundred for you."
"It is not necessary. I am sorry I spoke to you on the subject."
"I hope you have reconsidered the question of resignation."
"I sent in my resignation this morning."
"Of course the commissioners will include me with you."
"Not necessarily."
"Yes, necessarily; and I think you have been very selfish and unkind."
"My honor."
"My wife and children! They are of as much account as your honor."
Then Neil rose and went out again; there seemed no peace anywhere, he had scarcely reached the street when he heard in the distance the mocking strains of the drums and the fifes. They sounded so intolerable that he fled to his home to escape their cruel clamor. His mother saw his approach and was at the door to meet him. Her face looked strangely grey and thin, but it had something too of its old spirit and cheerfulness as she said:
"Neil, my dear lad, your letter set our old hearts singing. How did you manage it? Who helped you?"
"God and Jacob Cohen helped me," he answered. "The Jew has bought my land in Mill Street, and the strange thing is that he bought it out of respect and sympathy for my father. I am as sure of that as I am that Jacob Cohen is the only Christian in New York who remembered us for past kindness or cared for us in present trouble. I want to rest an hour, mother; I have an appointment with Lord Medway at five o'clock, and I feel like a leaf that has been blown hither and thither by the wind for two days. You might tell Maria that Agnes Bradley's brother will be outside of New York, a free man, in an hour."
"I am glad he is out o' our life, anyway. Much sorrow and loss he has brought us, and you will see that Maria's good name will be none the better for being mixed up with the affair."
"That is Macpherson's fault. For her sake, and for your sake, he might have held his tongue. I will not forgive him."
"His duty, Neil——"
"Nonsense! He could have given the information without bringing in Maria's name. He was mad with wounded vanity, it was a miserable, cowardly bit of revenge."
"I don't think he is a coward."
"He is; any man is a coward who takes his spite out on a woman, and you have been so kind, so motherly to him. He is a disgrace to the tartan: but I want an hour's rest, and tell father to be perfectly easy about the money. I shall have it in the morning. It rests on Cohen's word; I know no better human security."
"Are you not hungry?"
"I had dinner with the Cohens, a simple, excellent meal."
"The world is tapsalterie; I wonder at nothing that happens. Did you see the young man? I mean Bradley's son?"
"Not I. I did not want to see him. I heard the drums and got out of sight and hearing as quickly as possible. I believe his father has managed the affair very wisely; I should not wonder if the rogue's march turns out more of a triumph than an ignominy."
In a measure Neil's judgment proved to be correct. Respectable young men, charged to discountenance riotous abuse, began to join the procession at its outset, and this element was continually augmented. As they passed Bradley's shop, Bradley himself stepped out of it and walking at the head of the line, took his place at Harry's right hand. No one interfered. The drummers and fifers in front did not see him, and the stupid Waldeckers, ignorant of English and of everything but the routine of their regiment, took him as a part of the event. He was dressed in black cloth, with a white lawn band around his neck, and if they speculated about him at all, they thought he was a clergyman, and concluded the prisoner was to be hung at the barrier.