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"I wish to speak to Agnes," she said, "will you permit me a moment?"
"Certainly," he answered with an air of offense. "I fear I am in the way of some one or something."
"Oh, no, no!" cried Maria, decisively. "I only want to make her come in. She says the night air is so unhealthy, and yet there she stands in it--bareheaded, too."
"It is an unusually warm evening."
"Yes, but you know there is the malaria. I shall bring her in a moment, you shall see how quickly I am obeyed."
In unison with these words, she rose in a hurry, and as she did so there came through the open window a little stone wrapped in white paper. If she had not moved, it would have fallen into her lap; as it was, it fell on the floor and almost at the feet of Macpherson. He lifted it, and went to the candle. It was a message, as he expected, and read thus:
"Keep that Scot amused for an hour, and meet me at Semple's landing at nine o'clock. Harry."
"Oh! Oh!" he said with an intense inward passion. "I am to be amused! I am to be cajoled! deceived! that Scot is to be used for some purpose, and by St. Andrew, I'll wager it is treason. This affair must be looked into--quick, too." With this thought he put the paper in his pocket, and followed Maria to the gate where she stood talking with Agnes.
"I will bid you good-night," he said with a purposed air of offense. "I am sure that I am an intruder on more welcome company."
He would listen to no explanations or requests. Maria became suddenly kind, and assumed the prettiest of her coaxing ways, but he knew she was only "amusing" him, and he would not respond to what he considered her base, alluring treachery.
"There, now, Maria! You have been very foolish," said Agnes. "Captain Macpherson is angry. You ought to have been particularly kind to him to-night--after Harry."
"You were so selfish, Agnes--so unreasonably selfish! You might have let me go to the gate with Harry. I never had a chance to say 'good-bye' to him; there you stood, watching for Uncle Neil, and I was on pins and needles of anxiety. Why didn't you stay with the man, and let me go to the gate?"
"If you must know why; I had some money to give Harry. Could I do that before Captain Macpherson?"
"I hate the man! I am glad he has gone! I hope he will never come again!"
"I do not think he will, Maria."
They went into the house thoroughly vexed with each other, and Maria said in a tone of pique or offense, "I wonder what delays my uncle! I wish he would come!"
In reality Neil was no later than usual, but Maria was quivering with disappointment and annoyance, and when he did arrive it was not possible for any one to escape the influence of an atmosphere charged with the miserable elements of frustrated happiness. Maria was not a girl to bear disagreeable things alone or in silence. She would talk only of Macpherson and his unwelcome visit; "but he always did come when he was not wanted," she said angrily. "Last Sunday when grandmother was sick, and I was writing a long letter to CHAPTER V.
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father, and nobody cared to see him at all, enter Captain Macpherson with his satisfied smile, and his clattering sword, and his provoking air of conferring a favor on us by his company. I hate the creature! And I think it is a dreadful thing to make set days for people's visits; we have all got to dislike Sunday afternoons, just for his sake!" and so on, with constant variations.
Fortunately Mr. Bradley came home soon after eight o'clock, and Maria would not make any further delay.
She had many reasons for her hurry, but undoubtedly the chief one, was a feeling that Agnes ought not to have the pleasure of a conversation between her father and her lover, and probably a walk home with her, and then a walk back with Neil alone. She would go at once, and she would not ask Agnes to go with her. If she was disappointed, it was only a just retribution for her selfishness about Harry. And though she noticed Agnes was depressed and cast down, she was not appeased; "However, I will come in the morning and make all right,"
she thought; "to-night Agnes may suffer a little. I will come in the morning and make all right."
Yes, she would come in the morning, but little she dreamed on what errand she would come. Still, Maria is not to be blamed over much; there is some truth in every reproach that is made.
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CHAPTER VI.
THE INTERCEPTED MESSAGE.
While this unhappy interlude was passing, a far greater sorrow was preparing. Captain Macpherson went at once to his colonel with the pebble-sent note. He told himself that his duty to his King and his colors demanded it, and that no harm could come to the two women except such as was reflected from the trouble that saucy young man might be entitled to. He had no objections to giving him trouble; he felt that he ought to be made to understand a little better what was due to an officer of the King. "That Scot!" He flung his plaid passionately over his shoulder and stamped his foot with the offended temper of centuries of Macphersons. As for Maria, he would not think of her. He could not know what the consequences of the interrupted tryst would be, but let her take them! A girl who could prefer quite a common-looking young man to himself needed a lesson. He said over and over that he had only done a duty he would have performed under any circumstances; and he kept reiterating the word "duty,"--still he knew right well that duty in this case had been powerfully seconded by jealousy and by his personal offense.
What action his colonel would take he knew not. He desired to be excused from any part in it, because of the Semple's hospitality to him. His request was granted; and then he went to his rooms hot with uncertain excitement. The colonel had no sentimental reasons for ignoring what might prove a valuable arrest. Nothing had provoked General Clinton more than the ubiquitous nature of Washington's spies. They were everywhere; they were untiring, unceasing and undaunted. The late reverses, which had mortified every English soldier, had been undoubtedly brought about by the false reports they spread,--no one knew by whose assistance,--and this night might be a turning-point in affairs.
He ordered ten picked men to wait for the boat at Semple's landing. The place was easily reached; they had but to walk to the bottom of the fence, climb over it, and secrete themselves in the little boathouse, or among the shrubbery, if it had yet foliage enough to screen them. He looked over his roll of suspects and found Madame Semple's name among them. Likely enough, her family sympathized with her. It would at least be prudent to secure the husband and son. If they were good royalists, they could easily prove it. Then he sat down to smoke and to drink brandy; he, too, had done his duty, and was not troubled at all about results. The Semples, to him, were only two or three out of sixty thousand reputed royalists in the city. If they were honest, they had little to fear; if they were traitors, they deserved all they would certainly get from Clinton in his present surly mood.
Quite unconscious of what was transpiring, John Bradley was eating a frugal supper of oatmeal and bread and cheese, and telling his daughter about a handsome saddle that was going up the river to "the man in all the world most worthy of it." Elder Semple was asleep, and Madame, lying in the darkness, was softly praying away her physical pain and her mental anxieties. Suddenly she heard an unusual stir and the prompt, harsh voices of men either quarreling or giving orders.
"It is on our ain place!" and a sick terror assailing her, she cried: "Wake up! Wake up, Alexander! There's men at the door, and angry men, and they're calling you!"
Neil, who was sitting dressed in his room, instantly answered the summons, and was instantly under arrest; and as no effort was made to prevent noise or confusion, the tumult and panic soon reached Maria. She was combing her hair to fretful thoughts, and a keen sense of disappointment; but when Madame entered the room wringing her hands and lamenting loudly, she let the comb fall and stood up trembling with apprehension.
"Maria! Maria! They are taking your grandfather and uncle to prison! Oh, God, my dear auld man! My dear auld man!"
"Grandmother! What are you saying? You must be mistaken--you must be!"
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"Come, and see for yoursel';" and Madame flung open the window and with a shriek of futile distress cried,
"Alexander, look at me! Speak to me."
At these words the Elder, who was standing with a soldier, lifted his face to the distracted woman, in her white gown at the open window, and cried to her:
"Janet, my dearie, you'll get your death o' cold. It is a' a mistake. Go to your bed, dear woman. I'll be hame in the morning."
Neil repeated this advice, and then there was a sharp order and a small body of men marched forward, and in their midst Harry walked bareheaded and manacled. He tried to look up, for he had heard the colloquy between the Elder and his wife, and understood Maria might be also at the window; but as he turned his head a gigantic Highlander struck him with the flat of his sword, and as the blow fell rattling on the youth's shoulder Maria threw up her hands with a shriek and fell into a chair sobbing.
"Dinna cry that way, Maria, my dearie; they'll be hame in the morning."
"Yes, yes, grandmother! It was the blow on that last prisoner. Did you see it? Did you hear it? Oh, what a shame!"
"Poor lad! I know naething about him; but he is in a terrible sair strait."
"What is he doing here in our house? Surely you know, grandmother?"
"I know naething about him. He is doubtless one o' Washington's messengers--there's plenty o' them round.
Why he came near us is mair than I can say." Then a sudden fear made her look intently at Maria, and she asked, "Do you think your Uncle Neil has turned to the American cause?"
"Oh, grandmother, how can you?"
"He has been so much wi' that Agnes Bradley. My heart misgave me at the first about her. Neil is in love, and men in love do anything."
"Uncle Neil is as true a royalist as grandfather."
"See, then, what they have, baith o' them, got for standing by King George. It serves them right! It serves them right! O dear, dear me! What shall we do?"
Two weary hours were spent in such useless conversation; then Madame, being perfectly exhausted, was compelled to go to bed. "We can do naething till morning," she said; "and Neil will hae his plans laid by that time. They will be to bail, doubtless; and God knows where the friends and the money are to come from. But there's plenty o' time for grief to-morrow; go and sleep an hour or two now."
"And you, grandmother? What will you do?"
"He who never fails will strengthen me. When the morn comes I shall be able for all it can bring. This was such a sudden blow I lost my grip."
Alone in her room, Maria felt the full force of the sudden blow. Although Harry's note had missed her, she understood that he had been waiting for a few words with her. Twice before she had been in the garden when he passed up the river, and he had landed and spent a delicious half-hour with her. She was sure now that he had been as much disappointed as herself, and had hoped she would come and say good-bye as soon as she CHAPTER VI.
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reached home. But who had betrayed him? And why was her grandfather and uncle included in his arrest?
For some time she could think of nothing but her lover walking so proudly in the midst of his enemies; reviled by them, struck by them, yet holding his head as authoritatively as if he was their captain, rather than their prisoner. Then she remembered Agnes, and at first it was with anger. "If she had not been so selfish, Harry would not have needed to take such a risk!" she cried. "It is dreadful! dreadful! And just as soon as it is light I must go and tell her. Her father must now know all; he ought to have been told long ago. I shall insist on her telling now, for Harry's life is first of all, and his father has power some way or other."
Thus through the long hours she wept and complained and blamed Agnes and even herself, and perhaps most of all was angry with the intrusive Macpherson, whose unwelcome presence had been the cause of the trouble.
And, oh! what arid torturing vigils are those where God is not! Madame lying on her bed with her hands folded over her breast and thoughts heavenward, was at peace compared with this tumultuous little heart in the midst of doubt, darkness, and the terror of dreadful death for one dear to her. She knew not what to abandon, nor what to defend; her brain seemed stupefied by calamity so inevitable. And yet, it was not inevitable; it had depended for many minutes on herself. A word, a look, and Agnes would have understood her desire; and half a dozen times before she had made the movement which was just too late; her heart had urged her to call her friend. But she had doubted, wavered, and delayed, and so given to Destiny the very weapons that were used against her.
As soon as the morning dawned she dressed herself. Before her grandmother came down stairs it was imperative on her to see Agnes and tell her what had happened. A dismal, anxious stillness had succeeded the storm of her terror and grief; a feeling of outrage, of resentment against events, and an agony of love and pity, as she remembered Harry smitten and helpless in the power of a merciless foe. She had now one driving thought and purpose--the release of her lover. She must save the life he had risked for her sake, though she gave her own for it.
As she went through the gray dawning she was sensitive to some antagonism, even in Nature. The unseasonable warmth of the previous evening had been followed by a frost. The faded grass snapped under her fleet steps, the last foliage had withered during the night, and was black and yellow as death, and everything seemed to shiver in the pale light. And though the waning moon yet hung low in the west, and all the mystery and majesty of earth was round her, Maria was only conscious of the chill terror in her heart, and of the chill, damp mist from the river which enfolded her like a cloak, and was the very atmosphere of sorrow.
When she reached the Bradley home all was shut and still; the very house seemed to be asleep, but why did its closed door affect her so painfully? She went round to the kitchen and found the slave woman Mosella bending over a few blazing chips, making herself a cup of tea. The woman looked at her wonderingly, and when Maria said, "Mosella, I must see Miss Agnes at once," she rose without a word and opened the garden door of the house. The shutters were all closed, the stairway dim, and the creaking of the steps under her feet made her quiver. It was an hour too early for light and life, and a noiseless noise around her seemed to protest against this premature invasion of the day.
She entered the room of her friend very softly. It was breathless, shadowy, and on the white bed Agnes was lying, asleep. For a moment Maria stood looking at the orderly place and the unconscious woman. The pure pallor of her cheeks had the flush of healthy sleep; her brown hair, braided, lay loose upon her pillow, her white hands upon the white coverlet. She was the image of deep, dreamless, peaceful oblivion. It seemed a kind of wrong to awaken her; but though the eyes of Agnes were closed, Maria's gaze called to the soul on guard behind them, and without one premonitory movement she opened them wide and saw Maria at her bedside. A quick fear leaped into her heart. She was momentarily speechless. She laid her hand on Maria's arm, and looked at her with apprehending inquiry.
"Harry!" said Maria, and then she sat down and covered her face and began to cry softly. There was no CHAPTER VI.
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necessity to say more. Agnes understood. She rose and began to dress herself, and in a few minutes asked, though almost in a whisper:
"Is he taken?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"At our landing."
"When?"
"Last night."
"Why did you not send me word last night? Neil would have come."
"Neil was arrested, and also my dear old grandfather. It is shameful! shameful!"
"What was Harry doing at your landing?"
"I don't know. I was in my room. I was half-undressed, combing my hair out, when grandmother rushed to me with the news. It is not my fault, Agnes."
"Did you ever meet Harry at your landing, Maria?"
"Only twice, both times in the daylight. He was passing and happened to see me. There was no tryst between us; and I know nothing about last night, except----"
"Except what?"
"That if you had given him a chance to say 'Good-bye' to me here, he would not have thought of stopping at our landing; but," she added in a weary voice, "you were watching for Uncle Neil, and so, of course, you forgot other people."
"Don't be cruel, Maria, as well as unjust."
"All the same, it is the truth."
"How was he discovered? You surely know that?"
"No, I do not. There were at least ten or twelve soldiers--Highlanders. One of them struck Harry."
"Oh, why do you tell me? Who could have betrayed him? Macpherson? You know you offended him."
"It could not be Macpherson. He never saw Harry before. He knew nothing about him. He thought his name was Deane. If it had been Macpherson, your landing, not ours, would have been watched."
"No; for he saw you and Harry coming through the garden hand-in-hand. I am sure he did. He went away in a fit of jealousy, and he would think of your landing as well as ours. But all that is nothing. We have but a few hours in which to try and save his life. I must awake father and tell him. It will break his heart."
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"You ought to have told him----"
"I know."
"What can I do?"
"Women can do nothing but suffer. I am sorry with all my soul for you, Maria, and I will let you know what father does. Go home to your poor grandmother; she will need all the comfort you can give her."
"I am sorry for you, Agnes; yes, I am! I will do anything I can. There is Lord Medway, he loves me; and General Clinton loves him, I know he does; I have seen them together."
"Father is first. I must awaken him. Leave me now, Maria, dear. None but God can stand by me in this hour."
Then Maria kissed her, and Agnes fell upon her knees, her arms spread out on her bed and her face buried in them. There were no words given her; she could not pray; but when the Gate of Prayer is closed the Gate of Tears is still open. She wept and was somewhat helped, though it was only by that intense longing after God which made her cry out, "O that I knew where to find Him, that I might come into His presence!"
When she went to her father's door he was already awake. She heard him moving about his room, washing and dressing, and humming to himself in strong snatches a favorite hymn tune; no words seemed to have come to him, for the melody was kept by a single syllable that served to connect the notes. Nevertheless, the tone was triumphant and the singer full of energy. It made Agnes shiver and sicken to listen to him. She sat down on the topmost stair and waited. It could not be many minutes, and nothing for or against Harry could be done till the world awoke and went to business. Very soon the hymn tune ceased, and there was a few minutes of a silence that could be felt, for it was threaded through by a low, solemn murmur easy to translate,--the man was praying. When he came out of his room he saw Agnes sitting on the stair, and as soon as she lifted her face to him he was frightened and asked sharply:
"What are you doing there, Agnes? What has happened?"
She spoke one word only, but that word went like a sword to the father's heart,-- "Harry!"
He repeated the word after her: "Harry! Is he ill? Let me see the letter, where is he? With Doctor Brudenel?
Can't you speak, girl?"
"Harry is here, in New York, in prison?"
The words fell shivering from her lips; she raised herself, watching her father's face the while, for she thought he was going to fall. He shook like a great tree in a storm, and then retreated to the door of his room and stood with his back against it. He could not speak, and Agnes was afraid.
"Father," she said in a low, passionate voice of entreaty, "we have the boy to save. Do not lose yourself. You have your Father to lean upon."
"I know! I feel! Go and make me a cup of coffee. I will be ready when you call me."
Then he went back into his room and shut the door, and Agnes, with a sick, heavy heart, prepared the necessary meal. For though danger, sorrow and death press on every side, the body must have sustenance; and every-day meals, that look so tragically common and out of place must go on as usual. But it was a little respite and she was grateful, because in it her father would talk the trouble over with God before she had to explain it to him. The interval was a short one, but during it John Bradley found Him who is "a very present CHAPTER VI.
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help in every hour of need." He came down to his coffee in full possession of himself and ready for the fight before him. But he had also realized the disobedience which had brought on this sorrow, and the deception which had sanctioned the boy in his disobedience. Therefore Agnes was afraid when she saw his severe eyes, and shrank from them as from a blow, and large tears filled her own and rolled down her white cheeks unchecked.
"Agnes," he said, "tell me the whole truth. I must know everything, or you may add your brother's murder to the other wrongdoing. When did he come back to America?"
"Six months after you sent him to England. He said he could not, durst not, stay there. He thought that God might have some work that needed just him to do it. I think Harry found that work."
"Why did you not tell me at the time?"
"I was in Boston, at school, when Harry first came to me, and we talked together then about telling you. But at that time both of us supposed you to be a King's man, and the party feeling was then riotously cruel. Harry had been three months with Washington, and his peculiar fitness for the New York Secret Service had been found out. Still, Washington took no unfair advantage of his youth and enthusiasm. He told him he would be one of a band of young men who lived with their lives in their hands. And when Harry answered, 'General, if I can bring you information that will help Freedom forward one step, my life gladly for it,' Washington's eyes shone, and he gave Harry his hand and said, 'Brave boy! Your father must be a happy man.'"
She paused here and looked at the father, and saw that his face was lifted and that a noble pride strove with a noble pain for the mastery. So she continued: "Harry has helped Freedom forward. He found out, while pretending to fish for the garrison at Stony Point, the best way across the marsh and up the rocks. He helped to set afloat the reports that brought Tryon back from Connecticut, and the garrison from Rhode Island. He has prepared the way for many a brave deed, taken all the danger and the labor, getting no fame and wanting none, his only aim to serve his country and to be loved and trusted by Washington. If we erred in keeping these things from you, it has been an error of love. And when we knew you also were serving your country in your own way, Harry was sure you would do it better and safer if you were not always looking for him--fearing for him. Oh, father! surely you see how his presence would have embarrassed you and led to suspicion."
"I would like to have seen the boy," he said, softly, as if he were thinking the words to himself.
"He saw you often, never came to the city without passing the shop to see you; and it made both of us happy to believe that very soon now he would dare to speak to you and to say, 'Father, forgive me.'"
"I must go to him, Agnes. Harry's life must be saved, or I, John Bradley, will know the reason why. Yes, and if he has to die there are some big men here, playing double-face, that will die with him. I know them----"
"Oh, father! father! What are you saying? Vengeance is not ours. Would it bring Harry back to us?"
"It is more than I can bear. Who was the informer? Tell me that. And where was he taken?"
"I cannot tell who informed. He was taken with his little boat at Elder Semple's landing by a party of Scotch Highlanders."
"What on earth was he doing at Semple's? Do you think the Elder, or that fine gentleman Neil, gave information?"
"They were both arrested with Harry. They also are in prison."
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"Am I losing my senses? The Semples! They are royalists, known royalists, bitter as gall. What was Harry doing at their place? Tell me."
"I do not certainly know, father. I think he may have gone there hoping that Maria would come down to the river to say a good-bye to him."
"Maria! That is it, of course. If a man is to be led to destruction and death, it is some woman who will do the business for him. I warned you about that Maria. My heart misgave me about the whole family. So Harry is in love with her! That is your doing, girl. What business had you to let them meet at all? If Harry perishes, I shall find it hard to forgive you; hard to ever see you again. All this sorrow for your sentimental nonsense about Maria. If she had been kept out of Harry's life, he would have gone safely and triumphantly on to victory with the rest of us. But you must have your friend and your friend's brother, and your own brother must pay the price of it."
"Oh, father, be just! Even if you cannot pity me, be just. I am suffering as much as I can bear."
Then he rose and put on his hat and coat. "Stay where you are," he said. "I will not have women meddling with what I have now to do. Don't leave the house for anyone or anything."
"You will send me some word, father. I shall be in an agony of suspense."
"If there is any word to send, I will send it." Then he went away without kissing her, without one of his ordinary tender words; he left her alone with her crushing sorrow, and the consciousness that upon her he would lay the blame of whatever disaster came to Harry. She had no heart for her household duties, and she left the unwashed china and went back to her room. She was yet in a state of pitiful bewilderment; her grief was so certain, its need was so urgent, and at that hour Heaven seemed so far off; and yet she questioned her soul so eagerly for the watchword that should give her that stress of spirit which would connect her with the Unseen World and permit her to claim its invincible help.
Agnes had told her father that it was Highlanders who arrested Harry, and Bradley went first to their quarters.
There he learned that the young man had disclaimed connection with any regiment whatever; and, being in citizen's clothes and wearing no arms, his claim had been allowed and his case turned over to the Military Court of Police. So far it was favorable; the cruel haste of a court martial shut the door of hope; but John Bradley knew the Court of Police was composed of men who put financial arguments before all others. He was, however, too early, an hour too early, to see any one; and the prisoner was under watch in one of the guard-houses and could not be approached.
He wandered back to his shop utterly miserable and restless and wrote a letter to Thomas Curtis, a clever lawyer, and a partner of Neil Semple, explaining the position of his son and begging him to be at the Court of Police when it opened. This letter he carried to the lawyer's office and paid the boy in attendance to deliver it immediately on the arrival of his master. Then he went back to his shop for money, and as he was slowly leaving the place Lord Medway spoke to him. He had his rifle over his shoulder and was going with a friend to Long Island to shoot birds. The sight of the man made John Bradley's heart leap and burn. He had been waiting for some leading as to the way he ought to take, and he felt that it had been given him.
"Good morning, Mr. Bradley," said the nobleman.
"My lord, turn back with me to my shop. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you."
Medway smiled: "My hunting is of the greatest importance at present, Mr. Bradley, for my friend, Colonel Pennington, is waiting for me; but if I can be of service----"
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"I think you can; at least, listen to me."
Medway bent his head in acquiescence, and Bradley led the way to the small room behind his shop, which had been his sitting and dining room while his daughter was at school. He plunged at once into the subject of his anxieties.
"There was a prisoner taken last night."
"A young man in a boat; I heard of it. General Clinton thinks they may have made an important arrest."
"He is my s