CHAPTER X.
MARIA GOES TO LONDON.
As the days lengthened, the cold strengthened, and New York experienceda winter of unparallelled severity. Food could only be procured withhard money, and at exorbitant prices, and the scarcity of fuel addedgreatly to the general distress. Wall Street surrendered most of itsbeautiful century-old shade trees, to warm the family of the GermanGeneral Riederel, and before Spring, the streets and lanes of the city,the gardens and pleasure grounds of the burghers, were shorn of theirfinest fruit and shade trees. The aged, the very young, the men in theprisons and hospitals perished in great numbers, and the deathly cold ofthe atmosphere was full of the unspeakable misery everywhere present.
These distressing conditions were intensified by the fear of an attackfrom Washington. The waters around New York were for several weeks sohard frozen that the heaviest artillery could easily have crossed onthem; and the city in losing its insular position, lost its chiefadvantage for defense. Knyphausen constantly expected Washington tocross the ice, and refugees and citizens alike, were formed intocompanies and subjected to garrison duty. During the dark, bitterwatches, men sometimes froze at their posts, and women in theirunheated rooms, knelt listening to the children's breathing, for theatmosphere was so deadly cold that the babes shivered, even in thecovert of their mothers' breasts.
Yet, in this city of frost, and famine, and suffering, a hectic and mostunnatural gaiety was kept up. Maria would have little part in it. Shecould find no pleasure in listening to comedies and songs, in a freezingtemperature, and the warmth induced by dancing was generally followed bya most uncomfortable and dangerous chill. Her status in society also ledher to feel more content in withdrawing from it a little. She was notyet to be classed among the married belles, nor was she quite at onewith the girlhood that surrounded her. Her engagement to Lord Medway hadset her a little apart; it was understood that she could not be inperfect sympathy with the plans and hopes of either maids or wives.
Yet her life was far from unhappy. She visited Mrs. Gordon and Mrs.Jacobus a great deal; and the latter delighted in making little lunchesand dinners, where the three ladies were joined by Lord Medway, and NeilSemple, and very often also by Major Andre, whose versatile gifts andcheerful temperament were the necessary and delightful antitheses toNeil's natural gravity and Medway's cultivated restraint. The splendidrooms of Madame Jacobus were warm, her dinners well cooked, her wines ofthe finest quality, her good nature never failing. She made a pet ofMaria, and Lord Medway--reclining with half-closed eyes in someluxurious chair--watched his betrothed managing this clever woman, somuch older than herself, with infinite satisfaction and amusement. Heforesaw that she would be equal to any social position, and it neveroccurred to him that it was likely she would manage Lord Medway quite asthoroughly as she managed Madame Jacobus. Occasionally, Medway gavereturn dinners, at which Madame Semple presided, and then Maria sat athis right hand, and he proved himself to be the most charming of hosts,and the most devoted and respectful of lovers.
Conversation was never to make, every one spoke as they listed, and astheir prejudices or convictions led them. There was no QuentinMacpherson present, and opinions were as much individual property aspurses. One day, toward the end of January, when the temperature was solow that the dining-table had been drawn close to the hearth, the usualparty were sitting in the warmth and glow of its roaring fire. Thedinner was over, the servants had left the room, Medway and Maria werepicking their walnuts out together, and Major Andre and Neil Sempletalking of a game of chess. Then Madame Jacobus drawing her gay Indianshawl closer around her, said suddenly, "Pray what is the news? Hasnobody a mouthful of intelligence? Are we to wait for the Americans tomake us something to talk about?"
"Indeed Madame," answered Maria, "we have not yet exhausted their nightattack on the British troops encamped on Staten Island."
"They got nothing but five hundred sets of frozen hands and ears," saidMajor Andre.
"Oh, yes, they did, sir; blankets and food count for something thesedays," said Madame, "not to speak of the nine vessels destroyed atDecker's Ferry--and the prisoners."
"It was a dashing absurdity, Madame."
"With all my soul; yet I am glad, it was an American dashing absurdity."
"You should have seen Knyphausen when he heard of it," continued Andre.He pulled his whiskers savagely and said 'Egad! Damn! These Americanshave the come-back-again, come-back-again, of the flies; to drive themoff--it is impossible--they come-back-again.' We have, however, had ourturn. Four nights ago, our troops entered Newark and Elizabeth and madea few reprisals, and then he began to hum:
"The New York rebs are fat, But the Jersey rebs are fatter; So we made an expedition, And carried off the latter."
Medway laughed. "Madame," he said, "the Major was desperately dull lastnight, and I wondered at it. But, this morning, as you hear, he isdelivered of his verse, and he is cheerful."
"Oh, if the war is degenerating into midnight robberies!" cried Madame,"why does not Washington come? What hinders him from at least trying toget into New York? I do believe if he simply stood on Broadway, he woulddraw three-fourths of the men in the city to him; why does he not try?It might end this dreadful war one way or the other, and people arebeginning to be indifferent, which way. Why, in the name of wonder, doeshe not try?"
"It would be a desperate 'try,'" answered Andre.
"Yes, but when ordinary means fail, desperate remedies should be tried."
"I saw the exact copy of a letter written by General Washington on theeighth of this month," said Lord Medway, "and in it he declares that histroops, both officers and men, are almost perishing for food; that theyhave been alternately without bread and meat for two weeks, a veryscanty allowance of either, and frequently destitute of both.Furthermore, he describes his troops as almost naked, riotous, androbbing the people from sheer necessity. Can you expect a general tolead men in such a condition to battle? He performs a miracle in simplyholding them together."
"The poor fellows! And we are warm and comfortable. It seems almostwrong."
"Oh, no!" said Andre. "It is the rebels who are wrong; they are likerunaway horses, and, as I said to one who talked to me, 'my lad, arunaway horse punishes himself.'"
In such freedom of conversation, without a moment's doubt of each other,they passed the hours, and about four o'clock the party usually brokeup, and Lord Medway wrapped Maria in her furs, and drove her home.
However, the weariest road sometimes comes to an end, and the longdreadful winter wore itself away, the ice broke up, and the sun shonewarmly out of the blue skies, and the trees put forth their young,tender, little leaves. Every one was ready to cry with joy, the simpleendurance of misery was over, men could now work and fight, and somemovement and change would be possible. Coming home from a delightfuldrive in the sweet Spring evening, Medway told Maria this, and addedthat his furlough, so long extended by General Clinton's love, wouldprobably terminate as soon as active hostilities began. But it was notyet a present case, and Maria did not take the supposition to heart.Besides, there had been frequent talk of her lover's departure, andsomehow or other, he had never gone. At the Semple gate they stood awhile. There were some lilies growing near it, and their fairy-likebells shook in the fresh wind and scattered incense all around. Mariastooped, gathered a handful, and offered them to her lover.
"Kiss them first, for me, Maria," he said, and she buried her lovelyface in the fragrant posy, and then lifted it full of delight andperfume. He thought he had never before seen her so purely exquisite, sofreshly adorable. His love was a great longing, he could hardly bear toleave her. So he stood holding her hands and the lilies, and lookinginto her face, but saying nothing, till Maria herself spoke the partingwords: "I see grandmother at the door, Ernest, she is calling me; now wemust say good-bye!" He could not answer her, he only kissed the lilies,leaped into the carriage, and went speechlessly away.
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sp; Maria watched him a few moments, and then hastened into the house.Madame met her at the door. "There is a letter from your father, Maria,"she said; "I thought you might want to tell Ernest what news itcontained, so I called you, but you didna answer me."
"Yes, I answered, 'coming, grandmother,' and here I am. What a thickletter! Have you one also?"
"Aye, there was one for your grandfather. Better take yours to yourroom. When you have read it, and changed your dress, tea will bewaiting."
"Is grandfather at home?"
"He is; so do not stay up stairs too long."
She nodded a bright assent, and holding the letter in her hand wentswiftly up the stairway. In half an hour she came back to the parlor,but her face was then troubled and even angry, and her eyes full oftears. She held out the letter to her grandmother, and asked, "Do youknow what father has written to me about?"
"I have a very sure suspect," answered Madame; but she went on settingout her china, and did not lift her face, or offer any further opinion.
"It is a shame! I ought to have been told before."
Then the Elder rose, and came toward the tea-table, "Maria," he said,"you will not use such like words, whatever your father pleases to do. Ihae nae doubt at all that he has chosen a good wife for himsel' and agood mother for you. You had a long letter; what does he say anent her?"
"She is a nonesuch, of course. No woman in England, or out of Englandlike her."
"I expect as much; my son Alexander has my ain perception concerningwomen-folk. He would hae the best, or nane at a'. Wha was she? He saidin my letter you would gie us a' the particulars."
"He has filled six pages about her. She was Miss Elizabeth Spencer.Father says her family is one of the best and oldest in England. TheReverend Oswald Spencer married them; he is rector of St. Margaret'sChurch in London, and a distant relative."
"A very fashionable congregation, and nae doubt the living isaccording."
"Father has become a member of St. Margaret's, and he has a largemansion in the wealthy Bloomsbury district. He tells me that I must comehome, the first opportunity that gives me a respectable companion."
"And it is just destiny, Maria, and not to be," said her grandmother;"for Mrs. Gordon was here this afternoon to bid me farewell. ColonelGordon has been exchanged, and has reached New York, and they sail inSaturday's packet for London. She will be delighted to hae your company,and a mair proper person to travel wi' you couldna find in America; forit isna only hersel', you will hae the Colonel also, to watch o'er youbaith."
"Destiny or not, I won't go, grandmother."
"Dinna sow sorrow to yoursel'. They who cross destiny, make a cross forthemsel's."
"I will hear what Ernest says about it."
"You arena your ain mistress yet, and God and man, baith, expect you toput your father's commands before all others," said the Elder.
"I think grandmother and you wish to get rid of me," and the tearssprang to her eyes, and she set her cup down with a noisy petulance.
There was a moment's silence and then the Elder continued, "Youreducation isna finished yet, as your father says; it was broken up bythe war."
"And the lessons at Bradley's house were worse than nane at all,"interrupted Madame.
"You are to have masters of a' kinds; and your stepmother is a grandmusician, I hear, and willing to teach you hersel'."
"I will not go to school again. I know all I want to know."
"You will hae to be schooled for the station you are to fit; your fatherhas turned his loyalty into gold, for he has got it noticed by HisMajesty, and been appointed to a rich place in the government offices.Forbye, he tells me, his new wife has a fortune in her ain right, andsae the world stands straight with him and his. You'll hae society o'the best sort, and I hope you'll do your part, to show all and sundry,that a little Colonial maid isna' behind English girls, in any usefu' orornamental particular."
But Maria was indignant and unhappy, and the thought of going to Londonand of being under authority again was very distasteful to her. TheElder went early upstairs, in order to escape her complaining, andMadame after his departure, was a little more sympathetic. She pettedher grandchild, and tried to make her see the bright side of the newlife before her.
"You'll be taken to Court, doubtless, Maria, and there is the grandopera you have heard so much about, and lords and ladies forcompany----"
"I have had enough of lords and ladies, grandmother."
"And fine houses, and nae cold rooms in them; and plenty o' food andclothing at Christian prices, and a rich, powerfu' father, and a musicalmother----"
"Stepmother you mean. Nobody can have more than one mother. My mother isdead, and no other woman can take her place."
"Ay, weel, I suppose you are nearby right. And I hae seen--mair thanonce or twice--that the bairn who gets a stepmother gets a stepfather,also. Sae mind your ways and your words, and give nae occasion tofriend, or foe, for complaint."
As they were talking thus, they heard the garden gate open, and Madamesaid, "That is your Uncle Neil at last;" but Maria, with an eager,listening face, knew better. "It is not Uncle Neil," she said, "it isErnest. Why does he come to-night? He told me he was going to a militarydinner, given in honor of Colonel Gordon's return."
"If it is Lord Medway, bring him in here," said Madame. "Yourgrandfather is needing me, and doubtless wondering and fretting alreadyat my delaying." She left the room with these words, and Lord Medwayimmediately joined Maria. He appeared hurried and annoyed, and withoutany preliminaries said:
"I must leave New York immediately, my dear Maria; sit down here, closebeside me, my sweet one, and comfort me. I have worn out the patience ofLord Clinton, and now I must obey orders, not desires."
"I, also, am in the same predicament, Ernest. I am ordered to London,and must go by the first opportunity," said Maria; and then she toldher lover the fear and trouble that was in her heart, and found plentyof sympathy in all that either wounded or angered her.
"But there is a remedy, my darling," said Medway. "Marry me to-morrowmorning. I will make all the arrangements to-night--see theclergyman--see Mrs. Gordon, and your uncle Neil----"
"Stop, Ernest. It is useless to talk of such a thing as that. It isbeyond our compact, too."
"The compact is idle wind before our love--you do love me, Maria?" andhe slipped down to his knees beside the little maid, and putting his armaround her waist, drew her face within the shining influence, the tendereagerness, of his entreating eyes.
Then a strange, wilful contradictious spirit took possession of her.This very outlet to her position had been in her mind--thoughunacknowledged--from the first presentment of the journey, and the newmother, and the resumed lessons; but now, that the gate was opened toher desire, something within her obstinately refused to move a step.Half the accidents in the hunting-field arise from arresting the horsein the leap, and half the disappointments of life may be laid to thathesitation, or stubbornness of will, which permits happiness--comingwithout notice, and demanding a confiding and instantaneous decision--togo past, and be probably lost for ever.
"You do love me, Maria? Oh, yes! you must have caught love from me. Atthis hour, say one word to assure me--will you not? Maria! Queen of mysoul, say you love me--Speak--only yes----Maria!"
He waited, he watched her lovely face for some tender change, her eyesfor some assuring glance, her lips for the one little word that wouldmake the hour heaven to him, and she was still and speechless as someexquisite picture.
"After all these happy weeks, will you send me away without one word? Itis incredible--impossible! Why are you so cold?--now--when we mustpart--or be always together? Are you afraid to be with me always? Youhave promised to marry me----"
"Yes--when the time comes."
"Cannot love put the time forward?"
"I don't know."
"We could then go South together."
"I do not want to go South."
"With me, Maria?"
"No."
"Then you will go to London, and your father will have complete controlof you, he may make you marry some other man."
"No one can make me break my word of honor--you have my promise."
"I am wretched. I am broken-hearted. I have failed in making you loveme. I will go to the front--what does it matter if I am killed? You willnot care."
"Of course I shall care, Ernest."
"Say that a little differently, then I shall be satisfied. Put your armsround my neck; kiss me, if only once, you never have kissed me yet,say, 'I love you, Ernest'; come, my dear one, comfort me a little!"
Her heart was on fire, it throbbed and struggled like a bound creature.She looked sadly, even tenderly at her lover, but she could not breakthe thrall of careless impassiveness that bound her, as streams arebound in ice. Medway wearied himself with entreaty. She trembled to itspassion, but remained inarticulate. He was at first disappointed, thenastonished, then, weary with his own emotion, wounded and sorrowful. Herose, put on his hat and gloves, and prepared to leave her. It was likethe nailing of the coffin lid over a sensitive form; but still thatstrange, insuperable apathy was not broken.
"Good-bye, Maria! My life, my love, good-bye! and if forever,still----_Maria! Maria!"_ and those two last words were not only speech,they were a cry from a heart hurt beyond hoping, a cry full ofdespairing affection. The door closed to them, and its clash broke theicy bounds of that soul stupor which had held her like a spell.
"Ernest! Ernest!" she called passionately, but he was beyond hearing,and ere she reached the parlor door, she heard the entrance door clashin the same fatal, final manner. Yet, walking as if in some evil dreamshe reached it, and with a great effort threw it wide open. Her loverwas just beyond the garden gate. Would he not turn his head? Oh, wouldhe not look round and see her! No. He caught no sound of her sorrowfulentreaty; he cast no backward glance to the distracted girl, whoreached the outer gate, only to see his tall, soldierly figure blenditself with the misty night shadows, and then vanish entirely.
Never, never in all her life had Maria been so wretched. In the Bradleyaffair, she had at least the consciousness that it was not her doing;she was the victim of circumstances she could not control; but this cupof sorrow she had stubbornly mixed for herself. And that was thesmallest part of her remorse; she had made the man who loved her sodearly, drink of it also. And it had all happened in such a tragicallyshort time. Oh, to call back the last hour! only five minutes of it,that she might see again the handsome face that had never turned to herexcept with love and tender kindness! Alas, alas, there is no return toour lost Edens! Whatever gardens of pleasure we may find in the future,our past Edens are closed. The cherubim are at the gate, and the flamingsword.
She went despairingly to her room, and sat for two bitter hoursspeechless, astonished at her own folly and wilfulness. She could blameno one. Destiny in this case had used only the weapons she herself putinto her hand. She did not complain, nor even weep, her grief found nopassage to her eyes, it sank inward and seemed for the first hour or twoto drown her heart in a dismal, sullen stillness, which made her feelthe most forlorn and abandoned of creatures.
But even in these dark hours she was trying the wings that should takeher out of them. As she sat musing the inner woman returned to the postshe had so criminally deserted, and at once began to suggest remedies."Nothing is desperate," she whispered; "in every loss, but the loss ofdeath, there is room for hope; write a letter, Neil will take it, he mayyet be detained."
She took out pen and paper, and wrote the words Medway had begged her tosay; wrote, indeed, far more than the one tender "yes" he had asked for.Then she sealed the letter and sat with it in her hand, waiting forNeil. He was so late that she thought he must have reached his roomunheard, and toward midnight she tip-toed along the corridor to hisdoor. There was no light, no sound, and when she knocked, no response.Anxiously she resumed her watch, and soon after twelve o'clock heard himenter the house. She went noiselessly down stairs to meet him. "Neil,"she said, "can you find Ernest? Oh, if you can, you must carry thisletter to him! Neil, it is the very greatest favor I can ever ask ofyou. Do not speak, if you are going to refuse me."
"My dear Maria, I know not where to find Lord Medway. He ought to havebeen at the dinner given to Colonel Gordon, and he was not there."
"He was here," she said wearily; "he is going South at once; he must, hemust have this letter first. Neil, good, kind Uncle Neil, try and findhim!"
"Be reasonable, Maria. If he is paying farewell calls--which islikely--how can I tell at whose house he may be; at any rate it is toolate now for him to be out, the city is practically closed; any onewandering about it after midnight is liable to arrest, and if Ernest isnot visiting, he is in his rooms, and likely to be there till near noonto-morrow. I will carry this letter before breakfast, if you say so,but----"
"I tell you he is going to General Clinton at once. He told me so."
"He cannot go until the _Arethusa_ sails. She leaves to-morrow, but thetide will not serve before two o'clock. Give me the letter; I will seehe gets it very early in the morning."
With a sigh she assented to this promise, and then slipped back into thesorrowful solitude of her room. But the talk with Neil had slightlysteadied her. Nothing more was possible; she had done all she could toatone for her unkindness, and after a little remorseful wanderingoutside the Eden she had herself closed, she fell asleep and forgot allher anxiety.
And it is this breaking up of our troubles by bars of sleep that enablesus to bear them and even grow strong in conquering them. When the daybroke Maria was more alert, more full of purpose, and ready for what themorning would bring her. Neil was missing at breakfast and she found outthat he had left the house soon after seven o'clock. So she dressedherself carefully and took her sewing to the front window. When she sawher lover at the gate, she intended to go and meet him, and her heartwas warm and eager with the kind words that she would at last comforthim with.
It was half-past eight; by nine o'clock--at the very latest by half-pastnine--he would surely answer that loving letter. Nine o'clock struck,and the hands on the dial moved forward inexorably to ten o'clock--toeleven--to noon. But long before that hour Maria had ceased to sew,ceased to watch, ceased to hope. Soon after twelve she saw Neil comingand her heart turned sick within her. She could hardly walk into thehall to meet him. She found it difficult to articulate the questioningword "Well?"
He gave her the letter back. "Ernest sailed this morning at twoo'clock," he said.
She looked at him with angry despair. "You might have taken that letterlast night. You have ruined my life. I will never forgive you."
"Maria, listen to me. Ernest went on board an hour before you asked me.The ship dropped down the river to catch the early tide; he was on herat half-past ten. I could not have given him the letter, even if I hadtried to."
"No; of all the nights in the year, you must stop out last night untiltwelve o'clock! I never knew you do such a thing before; well, asgrandmother says, it is destiny; I am going to my room. I want nodinner; don't let them worry me, or worry about me."
Sitting alone she faced the circumstances she had evoked, consideredthem in every light, and came to a conclusion as to her future:
"I will go to London, and make no fuss about it," she decided; "here Ishould miss Ernest wherever I went; miss him in every way, and peoplewould make me feel he was absent. I have been a great trouble andexpense to grandfather and grandmother. I dare say they will be glad tobe quiet and alone again. I don't know much about father--he has alwaysbeen generous with money--but I wonder if he cared much for me! He sentme away, first to nurses, then to school; I saw little of him, but I canmake him care. As for Madame, my stepmother, I shall not let her annoyme. And there will be Mrs. Gordon for a refuge, if I need one. She hasalways been good to me, and I will see her at once. I cannot helpunderstanding that I am come to the end of this road; but there are manyroads in life, and from this moment, I am on the way to London."
Evidently it was destiny, for there was never a let or hinderance in allher preparations. The Gordons took her as a godsend, and all herarrangements went without a hitch. And when it was known she wasabsolutely going away from New York there was a great access of kindnesstoward her. The young women she had known--and not alwayspleasantly--brought her good-bye mementoes; books to read on the voyage,book-marks of their own working, little bags and cases of various kindsfor toilet needs, and needlework; and all were given with a conspicuousintention of apology for past offense and conciliation for any futureintercourse.
Maria valued it pretty accurately. "It is far better than ill-will," shesaid to her grandmother; "but I dare say they think I am going home tobe married, and as they all look forward to England eventually, theyfeel that Lady Medway may not be unserviceable in the future."
"Dinna look a gift-horse in the mouth, Maria. Few folks give awayanything of real value to themselves. You needna feel under any specialobligation for aught but the good will, and that's aye worth having. Asfor being Lady Medway, there is many a slip between cup and lip, andoceans between you and a' the accidents o' war, and love notunchangeable in this warld o' change; and there's your father's willthat may stand in your road like a wall you can neither win round norover. I'm real glad at this hour that your grandfather was wise enoughto write naething about Lord Medway. You can now tell your ain news, orkeep it, whichever seems best to you."
"Do you mean to say, grandmother, that my father has not been told aboutmy engagement to Lord Medway?"
"Just so. At first your grandfather was too ill to write one thing oranother; and by the time he was able to hold a pen, we had, baith o' us,come to the conclusion that silence anent the matter was wisdom. Itwould hae been a hard matter to tell, without telling the whole story,Police Court and young Bradley included, and then there was aye theuncertainty of a man's love and liking to be reckoned with; none o' uscould be sure Lord Medway would hold to his promise; he might meet otherwomen to take his heart from you; he might be killed in battle, or in aduel, for it is said he has fought three already; the chances o' theengagement coming to naething were so many on every side we came to theconclusion to leave a' to the future, and I'm sure we did the best thingwe could do."
"I am so glad you did it, grandmother. I shall now go home on my ownmerits. If I win love, it will be because I am Maria Semple, not becauseI am going to be Lady Medway. And if my engagement was known I shouldnever hear the last of it. I should be questioned about letters--whetherthey came or not; my stepmother might talk about the matter; my fatherinsists on a public recognition of my position, and so on. There wouldbe such endless discussions about Lord Medway that I should get weary toeven hear his name. And I must bear my fate, whatever it is."
"Nonsense! Parfect nonsense! There is nae such thing as fate. You're inthe care and guidance of a wise and loving Creator, and not in thrall tosome vague, wandering creature, that you ca' _Fate_. Your ain will isyour Fate. Commit your will and way to God, and He will direct yourpath; and you may snap your thumb and finger at that will o' thewisp--Fate!"
In such conversation over their duties together the three last days werespent, and the girl caught hope and strength from the feeble old womanas they mended and brushed clothing and put it into the trunks standingopen in the hall. The Elder wandered silently about. The packing was amournful thing to him; for, with all her impetuosities and littletroublesome ways, Maria was close to his heart, and he feared he hadgiven her the impression that she was in some way a burden. Indeed, hehad not felt this, and had only been solicitous that she should obey herfather's wishes, and obey them in a loving and dutiful spirit. On thelast morning, however, as they rose from the breakfast table, he puteven this wise intention behind his anxious love, and drawing her asidehe said:
"Maria, my dearie, you will heed your father, of course, in a' thingsthat are your duty--but--but--my dear bairn! I ken my son Alexander is amasterfu' man, and perhaps, it may be, that he might go beyond hisright and your duty. I hae told you to obey him as your father, that'sright, but if he is your father, he is my son, and so speaking in thatrelation, I may say, if my son doesna treat you right, or if he letsthat strange English woman treat you wrong, then you are to come back tome--to your auld grandfather--to sort matters between you. And I'll seeno one do you wrong, Maria, no one, though it be my auldest sonAlexander. You are in my heart, child, and there is always room in myheart for you; and I speak for your grandmother and uncle as well as formysel'." His voice was low and broken at this point, tears rolled slowlydown his cheeks, and he clasped her tenderly in his arms: "God bless youmy little lassie! Be strong and of a good courage. Act for the best, andhope for the best, and take bravely whatever comes."
To such wise, tender words she set her face eastward, and the Elder andNeil watched the vessel far down the river, while in her silent homeMadame slowly and tearfully put her household in order. Fortunately, theday was sunny and the Spring air full of life and hope, and as soon asthey turned homeward, the Elder began to talk of the possibility ofMaria's return:
"If she isna happy, I hae told her to come back to us," he said to Neil,and then added: "Your brother is sometimes gey ill to live wi', and thebit lassie has had, maybe, too much o' her ain way here," and Neilwondered at the brave old man; he spoke as if his love would always bepresent and always sufficient. He spoke like a young man, and yet he wasso visibly aging. But Neil had forgotten at the moment that the moralnature is inaccessible to Time; that though the physical man grows old,the moral man is eternally young.
Not long after the departure of Maria, Neil was one morning sorting andauditing some papers regarding the affairs of Madame Jacobus. Suddenlythe thought of Agnes Bradley came to him with such intense clarity andsweetness that his hands dropped the paper they held; he remainedmotionless, and in that pause had a mental vision of the girl, while hersweet voice filled the chambers of his spiritual ears with melody. As hesat still, seeing and listening, a faint, dreamy smile brightened hisface, and Madame softly opening the door, stood a moment and looked athim. Then advancing, the sound of her rustling silk garments broughtNeil out of his happy trance, and he turned toward her.
"Dreaming of St. Agnes?" she asked, and he answered, "I believe I wasMadame."
"Sometimes dreams come true," she continued. "Can you go to Philadelphiafor me? Here is an offer from Gouverneur Morris for my property onMarket Street. He proposes to turn the first floor into storage room. Atpresent it is a rather handsome residence, and I am not sure the pricehe offers will warrant me making the change."
Neil was "ready to leave at any time," he said, and Madame added, "Thengo at once. If it is a good offer, it will not wait on our leisure."
He began to lock away the papers under his hands, and Madame watched himwith a pleasant smile. As he rose she asked, "Have you heard anythingyet from Miss Bradley?"
"Not a word."
"Do you know where she is?"
"I have not the least idea. I think the Hurds know, but they will nottell me."
"I will tell you then. Agnes is in Philadelphia."
"Madame! Madame! I----"
"I am sure of it. On this slip of paper you will find her address. Sheboards with a Quaker family called Wakefield--a mother and fourdaughters; the father and brothers are with the American army. I supposeyou can leave to-day?"
"In two hours I will be on the road. I need but a change of clothing anda good horse."
"The horse is waiting you in my stables. Choose which animal you wish,and have it saddled: and better mount here; you can ride to Semple housequicker than you can walk."
Neil's face spoke his thanks. He waited for no explanations, he wasgoing to see Agnes; Madame had given him her address, it was not worthwhile asking how she had procured it. But as he left the room he liftedMadame's hand and kissed it, and in that act imparted so much of hisfeeling and his gratitude that there was no necessity for words.
"Poor fellow!" sighed Madame, and then she walked to the window andlo
oked sadly into Broadway. "Soldiers instead of citizens," shemurmured, "war horses instead of wagon horses; that screaming fife! thatbraying, blustering drum! Oh, how I wish the kings of earth would fighttheir own battles! Wouldn't the duello between George of England andGeorge of America be worth seeing? Lord! I would give ten years of mylife for the sight."
With the smile of triumph on her face she turned to see Neil re-enteringthe room. "Madame," he said, "I must have appeared selfishly ungrateful.My heart was too full for speech."
"I know, I know, Neil. I have been suffering lately the same cruel painas yourself. I have not heard from Captain Jacobus for nearly a year.Something, I fear, is wrong; he takes so many risks."
"He is sailing as an American privateer. If he had been captured by theEnglish, we should have heard of the capture."
"That is not all. I will tell you just what Jacobus would do, as soon ashe was fairly out at sea, he would call his men together on deck, andpointing to the British colors, would say something like this: 'Men, Idon't like that bunting, and I'm going to change it for the flag of ourown country. If there is any one here that doesn't like the Americanflag, he can leave the ship in any way he chooses,' then down would gothe British flag, and up, with rattling cheers, the American. So far hewould be only in ordinary danger, but that is never enough for Jacobus;he would continue after this extraordinary fashion: 'Men, you have allheard of these French and Spanish alliances. As the son of a hundredthousand Dutchmen, I hate the Spaniards, and I'm going to fight and sinkevery Spanish ship I meet. _Allies!_ To the deep sea with such allies!We want no Spanish allies; we want their ships though, and we'll takethem wherever on the wide ocean we can find them.' Then he would put hishand on his first mate's shoulder and continue, 'Here's Jack Tyler, anEnglishman from beard to boots, born in the city of London, and there'smore on board like him. What does an Englishman want with Frenchmen?Nothing, only to fight them, and that we'll do wherever we meet them!And as for English ships coming our way, they're out of their course,and we'll have to give them a lesson they'll remember. So then, all ofyou, keep your eyes open for English, French, or Spanish sails. Nothingbut American colors in American waters, and American water rolls roundthe world, as I take it.' So you see, Neil, Jacobus would always have athreefold enemy to fight, and I have not a doubt that was his firstthought when he heard of our alliance with France and Spain. And thoughwe might hear of his capture by a British vessel, it is not likely weshould do so if he fell into the hands of a French or Spanish privateer.When you come from Philadelphia we will consider this circumstance; butnow, good-bye, and good fortune go with you."
It did not take Neil long to go to the Semple house and obtain a changeof clothing, and after this short delay nothing interfered with theprosperous course of his journey. The weather was delightful, and hisheart so full of hope that he felt no fatigue. And he had suchconfidence in all Madame Jacobus said, or did, that no doubts as tofinding Agnes troubled him. It was, however, too late in the evening ofthe day on which he reached Philadelphia, to make a call, and hecontented himself with locating the house to which he had beendirected. He found it in a quiet street, a small brick house, with whitewooden shutters, and a tiny plot of garden in front. No sign of light orlife appeared, and after walking a while in front of it, he returned tohis inn and tried to sleep.
But he was not very successful. His hopes and his fears kept him waking.He fancied the house he had been directed to looked too silent and darkto be occupied; he longed for the daylight to come that he might settlethis fear; and then the possibility of its reality made him sick withanxiety and suspense, holding a measure of hope, seemed better thancertain disappointment. In the morning his rigid, upright businessinstinct asserted itself, and he felt that he must first attend to thoseaffairs which were the ostensible reason of his journey. So it was theearly afternoon before he was at liberty to gratify the hunger of hisheart.
Happily, when he reached the house indicated, there were many signs ofits occupancy; the windows were open, and he saw a young woman sittingnear one of them, knitting. His knock was answered by her. He heard hermove her chair and come leisurely toward the door, which she opened withthe knitting in her hand, and a smile on her face.
"Does Mr. Wakefield live here?" he asked.
"This is his house, but he is not at home now."
"I was told that Miss Bradley of New York was staying here."
"She is here. Does thee want to see her?"
A great weight rolled from Neil's heart. "Yes," he answered, "will youtell her that Mr. Neil Semple of New York desires to speak with her."
She bowed her head, and then took him into a small darkened parlor. Hewas glad the light was dim; he had a feeling that he looked worse thanhe had ever looked in all his life. He knew that he was pale andtrembling with a score of fears and doubts, and the short five minutesof suspense seemed to him a long hour of uncertain apprehensions. Yet itwas barely five minutes ere he heard Agnes coming down the stairs, andher steps were quick and eager; and he took courage from the welcomingsound in them, and as the door opened, went with open arms to meet her.He held her in his embrace, her cheek was against his cheek--what needwas there for speech? Both indeed felt what they had no power toexpress, for as all know who have lived and loved, there is in the heartfeelings yet dumb; chambers of thought which need the key of new wordsto unlock them. Still, in that heavenly silence all was said that eachheart longed for, and when at length they sat down hand in hand andbegan to talk, it was of the ordinary affairs of the individual livesdear to them.
Neil's first inquiry concerned John Bradley and his son, and he was gladto notice the proud pleasure with which Agnes answered him. "My fatheris now in his proper place," she said, "and I have never seen him sowell and so happy."
"Is he under arms?"
"Not unless there is fighting on hand; but he is in camp, and all day heis busy mending the accoutrements of the soldiers. At night he sings tothem as they sit round the camp fires, or he holds a prayer meeting, orhe reads the Bible; and every Sunday he preaches twice. St. Paul madetents, and as he stitched found time to preach Jesus Christ crucified;my father mends saddles and bridles, and does the same thing, and he ishappy, oh, so happy! What is better still, he makes the men around himhappy and hopeful, and that is a great thing to do, when they arehungry, and naked, and without pay. Sometimes, when the camp is verybare and hungry, he takes his implements and goes to the outlying farms,mends all their leather, and begs in return corn, and flour, and meatfor the men. He never fails in getting some relief; and often he has somoved the poor farmers that they have filled a wagon with food anddriven it to the perishing soldiers."
"And Harry? Where is he?"
"With the greatest and best of men. He is now a regular soldier inWashington's own regiment."
"I am glad, and my dear one, are you happy here?"
"As I can be, out of my own home. There are six women in this house; allthe men are at the war; some at Morristown; some are gone South. Wespend our time in knitting stockings for the soldiers, or in anyneedlework likely to be of service. But how is Maria? Tell me about her.I thought you might have brought me a letter."
"Maria is on her way to England. Her father has married again. He hasobtained an excellent place in the government and furnished a home inLondon. Naturally, he desired Maria to join him at once. You know thatshe is engaged to Lord Medway?"
"No. Poor Harry! He still dreams that Maria is faithful to him. I thinkshe might have given Harry one year's remembrance."
"What did she tell you about Harry in your last interview?"
"Nothing. She was more fretful and unreasonable than I ever before sawher. She could only cry and make reproaches; we parted in sorrow, and Ifear in misunderstanding."
"Yes, if you do not know the price paid for your brother's life."
"The price paid! What do you mean, Neil?"
"The night Harry was condemned to death Lord Medway came to see Maria.He told her he would save Harry's life, if
she would marry him. He wouldlisten to no compromise, and she accepted the terms. It was a decisionbitter as death at the time, but she has learned to love Medway."
Agnes did not appear to listen, she was occupied with the one thoughtthat Maria had been the saviour of her brother.
"It seems incredible," she said at length; "why did she not tell me thatlast--last time I saw her. It would have changed everything. Oh, Maria!Maria! how I have misjudged you!"
"You had better tell Harry, and be very positive, there is really not ashadow of hope for him. Maria _had_ to forget; it was her first duty."
Neil spent nearly three days with his beloved, and then they had topart. But this parting was full of hope, full of happy plans for thefuture, full of promises in all directions. In those three days Neilforgot all the sorrowful weeks of his despairing love. As a dream whenone awaketh, they slipped even from his memory. For Agnes was loving andfaithful, a steady hand to hold, and a steady heart to trust. And oh,she was so lovely and desirable! As he rode joyfully home, he couldthink of nothing but Agnes; of her eyes, gray as mountain lakes and fullof light and shadow; of her smile, that filled even silence withcontent; her white arms, her brown hair, the warm pallor of her cheekscatching a rosy glow from the pink dimity she wore! Oh, how perfect shewas! Beauty! Love! Fidelity! all in one exquisite woman, and that onewoman loved him!
Ah, well! Love wakes men once in a lifetime, and some give thanks andrejoice, and some neglect and betray; but either way, love, and theirchildhood's unheeded dream
Is all the light, of all their day.