THE PRICE OF HARRY'S LIFE.
He heard Agnes calling him, and he resolved to go at once to her. And
never had he looked handsomer than at this hour, for he had clothed
himself with that rich and rigid propriety he understood so well while
the sense of injustice under which he so inwardly burned gave to him a
haughty dignity, suiting his grave face and lofty stature to admiration.
He went very softly along the upper corridor of his home, but Madame
heard his step, and opening her door, said in a whisper:
"Your father has fallen asleep, Neil, and much he needed sleep. Where
are you going?"
"I am going back to the court. I wish to know what has been done in
Bradley's case."
"Why trouble yourself with other people's business? The lad has surely
given us sorrow enough."
"He is her brother--I mean----"
"I know who you mean; weel, then, go your way; neither love nor wisdom
will win a hearing from you on that road."
"There is money to be found somewhere, mother. Until his fine is paid,
father will be miserable. I want to borrow the amount as soon as
possible."
_"Borrow!_ Has it come to that?"
"It has, for a short time. I think Captain DeVries will let me have it.
He ought to."
"He'll do naething o' the kind. I would ask any other body but him."
"There are few to ask. I must get it where I can. Curtis will advance
one hundred pounds for me."
"They who go borrowing go sorrowing. I'm vexed for you, my dear lad. It
is the first time I ever heard tell o' a Semple seeking money not their
ain."
"It is our own fault, mother. If father and I had taken your advice and
let confiscated property alone we should have had money to lend to-day;
certainly, we should have been able to help ourselves out of all
difficulties without asking the assistance of strangers."
The confession pleased her. "What you say is the truth," she answered;
"but everybody has a fool up their sleeve some time in their life. May
God send you help, Neil, for I'm thinking it will hae to come by His
hand; and somehow, I dinna believe He'll call on Batavius DeVries to gie
you it."
With these words she retreated into her room, closing the door
noiselessly, and Neil left the house. As soon as he was in the public
road he saw Batavius standing at his garden gate, smoking and talking
with Cornelius Haring and Adrian Rutgers. They were discussing Bradley's
trouble and the Semples's connection with it, and Neil felt the spirit
of their conversation. It was not kindly, and as he approached them
Haring and Rutgers walked away. For a moment Batavius seemed inclined to
do the same, but Neil was too near to be avoided without intentional
offense, and he said to himself, "I will stand still. Out of my own way
I will not move, because Neil Semple comes." So he stolidly continued to
smoke, staring idly before him with a gaze fixed and ruminating.
"Good afternoon, Captain. Are you at liberty for a few minutes?" asked
Neil.
"Yes. What then, Mr. Semple? I heard tell, from my friends, that you are
in trouble."
"We have been fined because Mr. Bradley's son used our landing. It is a
great injustice, for in this matter we were as innocent as yourself."
"That is not the truth, sir. If, like me, you had boarded in your house
a few soldiers, then the care and the watch would have been their
business, not yours. Those who don't act prudently must feel the
chastisement of the government; but so! I will have nothing to do with
the matter. It is a steady principle of mine never to interfere in other
people's affairs."
"There is no necessity for interference. The case is settled. My father
is fined two hundred pounds, a most outrageous wrong."
"Whoever is good and respectable is not fined by the government."
"In our case there was neither law nor justice. It was simple robbery."
"I know not what you mean. The government is the King, and I do not talk
against either King or government. The Van Emerlies, who are always
sneering at the King, have had to take twenty-seven per cent. out of the
estate of a bankrupt cousin; and the Remsens, who are discontented and
always full of complaints, have spoiled their business. God directs
things so that contentment leads to wealth."
"I was speaking of neither the King nor his government, but of the
Military Police Court."
"Oh! Well, then, I think all the stories I hear about its greediness and
tyranny are downright lies."
"I must, however, assert that this court has been unjust and tyrannical
both to my father and myself."
"That is your business, not mine."
"I was in hopes that you would feel differently. My father has often
helped you out of tight places. I thought at this time you would
remember that. There was that cargo at Perth Amboy, but for my father,
it had gone badly with you!"
"Yes, yes! I give good for good, but not to my own cost. People who go
against the government and are in trouble are not my friends. I do not
meddle with affairs that are against the government. It is dangerous,
and I am a husband and a father, not a fool."
"To assist my father for a few days, till I can turn property into
money, is not going against the government."
"You will not turn property into money these days; it is too late. I,
who am noted for my prudence, got rid of all my property at the
beginning of the war; you and your father bought other people's houses,
while I sold mine. So! I was right, as I always am."
"Then you had no faith in the King's cause, even at the beginning; and
I have heard it said you are not unfriendly now to the rebels."
_"Ja!_ I give the Americans a little, quietly. One must sail as the wind
serves; and who can tell which way it will blow to-morrow? I am a good
sailor; never shall I row against wind and tide. Who am I, Batavius
DeVries, to oppose the government? It is one of my most sacred
principles to obey the government."
"Then if the Americans succeed, you will obey their government? Your
principles are changeable, Captain."
"It is a bad principle not to be able to change your principles. The
world is always changing. I change with it. That is prudent, for I will
not stand alone, or be left behind. That is my way; your ways do not
suit me."
"This talk comes to nothing. To be plain with you, I want to borrow two
hundred pounds for a month. I hope you will lend it. In the Perth Amboy
matter my father stood for you in a thousand pounds."
"That is eaten bread, and your father knew I could secure the money. I
wish I could help Elder Semple, but it would not be prudent."
"Good gracious, sir!"
"Oh, then, you must keep such words to yourself! I say it would not be
prudent. He has swamped himself with other men's houses, his business is
decayed, he is old; and you are also in a bad way and cannot help him,
or why do you come to me?"
"I can give you good security, good land----"
"Land! What is good land to me? It will not be useful in my business.
And there is another thing, you are not particular in your company. I
have heard about your Methodist friends; there is Vestryman William
Ustick, he was a Methodist servant, and he has become bankrupt; so,
then----"
"You will not repay my father's frequent loans to you. If your
father-in-law, Joris Van Heemskirk, was here----"
"I am not Joris Van Heemskirk. He is a rebel. I, who have always been
loyal, have made twelve thousand dollars this last year. Is not that a
hint for me to go on in the right way?"
Without waiting for the end of this self-complacent tirade, Neil went
forward. Batavius was only a broken reed in his hand. Never before in
all his life had he felt such humiliating anxiety. Even the slipping
away of Haring and Rutgers, and the uncivil refusal of Batavius, were
distinctly new and painful experiences. He felt, through Haring and
Rutgers, the public withdrawal of sympathy and respect; and through
Batavius, the coming bitterness of the want of ready money. The Semples
had been fined; they were suspects; their names would now be on the roll
of the doubtful, and it would be bad policy for the generality of
citizens to be friendly with them. And the necessity for borrowing money
revealed poverty, which otherwise they would have been able to conceal.
He knew, also, that he would have to meet many such rebuffs, and he was
well aware that his own proud temper would make them a pleasant payment
to many whom he had offended by his exclusiveness.
As he approached the Bradley house he put all these bitter thoughts
aside. What were they in comparison with the sorrow Agnes was compelled
to endure? His whole soul went out to the suffering girl, and he blamed
himself for allowing any hope of Batavius to delay him. The very house
had taken on an air of loneliness and calamity. The door was closed, the
blinds down, and the wintry frost that had blackened the garden seemed
in some inscrutable way to have touched the dwelling also. He saw the
slave woman belonging to the Bradleys talking to a group of negroes down
the road, and he did not call her. If Agnes was within, he would see
her; and if her father had returned, they would probably be together.
Thinking thus, he knocked loudly, and then entered the little hall. All
was silent as the grave. "Agnes! Agnes!" he cried; and the next moment
she appeared at the head of the stairs. "Agnes!" he cried again, and the
word was full of love and sorrow, as he stretched out his arms to the
descending girl. She was whiter than snow, her eyes were heavy and dark
with weeping, her hair had fallen down, and she still wore the plain,
blue gingham dress she had put on while Maria was telling her tragical
tale. Yet in spite of these tokens of mental disturbance, she was
encompassed by the serene stillness of a spirit which had reached the
height of "Thy will be done."
When her father left her, smitten afresh by his anger she had fled to
her room, and locking the door of this sanctuary, she had sat for two
hours astonished, stupefied by the inevitable, speechless and
prayerless. Yet while she was musing the fire burned; she became
conscious of that secret voice in her soul which is the spirit that
helpeth our infirmities, and ere she was aware she began to pray. It was
as if she stood alone in some great hall of the universe, with an
infinite, invisible audience of spirits watching her. Then the miracle
of the ladder between heaven and earth was renewed, and angels of help
and blessing once more ascended and descended. An inward, deep,
untroubled peace calmed the struggle of her soul; one by one the clouds
departed and the light steadily grew until fears were slain, and doubts
had become a sure confidence that
Naught should prevail against her or disturb
Her cheerful faith that all which looked so dark
Was full of blessing.
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 _negligee_ 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.
Alas, God Christ! along the weary lands,
What lone, invisible Calvaries are set!
What drooping brows with dews of anguish wet,
What faint outspreading of unwilling hands
Bound to a viewless cross, with viewless bands.