THE TURN OF THE TIDE.
Every misfortune has its horizon, but as yet Maria was not able to lift
up her eyes and see any comfort coming from afar. It seemed to her that
all the joy and glory of living was over. It was not only that Harry was
taken out of her schemes of happiness for the future; the present, also,
was denuded of every hope and clouded by very real annoyances. She felt
bitterly the publicity given to her name, and she knew that this
publicity would supply those who disliked her with continual
opportunities for her humiliation.
"I shall have to stop at home," she thought; "and grandmother is sick
and grandfather fretful, and Neil's whole care is given to Agnes
Bradley. I think he might consider me a little; but nobody does; I am
only Maria. Yet my life is ruined, quite ruined;" and the unhappy child
wept over herself and wondered how she was to live through the long,
long years before her.
Very frequently, however, this tearful mood gave place to indignation
against her friends in general, and Agnes in particular. For she still
held steadily to the opinion that all the trouble had arisen from her
selfishness and inability to remember any one's desires but her own.
And so, in plaintive or passionate wandering from one wrong to another,
she passed some very miserable days. Finally, Neil persuaded her to go
and see Agnes. He said, "Even the walk may do you good; and Agnes is
certain to have some comforting words to say."
Maria doubted both assertions. She could not see what good it could do
her to go from one wretched house to another even more wretched, and
Neil's assurances that John Bradley was better and able to go to his
shop did not give her any more eager desire to try the suggested change.
Yet to please Neil she went, though very reluctantly; and Madame
sympathized with this reluctance. She thought it was Agnes Bradley's
place to come and make some acknowledgment of the sorrow and loss her
family had brought upon the Semples; and she recalled the innate
aversion the Elder had always felt for the Bradley family.
"The soul kens which way trouble can come," she said. "But what is the
good o' its warnings? Nobody heeds them."
"I never heard any warning, grandmother."
"There's nane so deaf as those who won't hear; but go your ways to your
friend Agnes! I'll warrant she would rather you would bide at hame."
The morning was cold and damp and inexpressibly depressing, but Maria
was in that mood which defies anything to be of consequence. She put on
her hat and cloak and walked silently by her uncle's side until they
came to the Bradley cottage. All the prettiness of its summer and autumn
surroundings was blighted or dead; the door shut, the window covered,
the whole place infected by the sorrow which had visited it. Agnes
opened the door. She was wan and looked physically ill and weary, but
she smiled brightly at her visitor, and kissed her as she crossed the
threshold.
"My father has been very ill, Maria, or I should have been to see you
before this," she said; "but he has gone to the shop this morning. I
fear he ought not."
"My grandfather has been very ill and is still unable to leave his
room," replied Maria. "My dear grandmother also! As for myself--but that
is of little importance, only I must say that it has been a dreadful
thing to happen to us, a cruel thing!"
"It was a wrong thing to begin with. That is where all the trouble
sprang from. I see it now Maria."
"Of course! You ought not to have deceived your father, Agnes."
"I was to blame in that, very much to blame. I have nearly broken my
heart over the sin and its consequences."
"Consequences! Yes, for they fell upon the innocent--that is what you
ought to be sorry for--my grandfather and grandmother, my Uncle Neil,
and even myself."
"But as for yourself, Maria, you also were to blame. If you would have
been content with seeing Harry here----"
"Oh, indeed! You did not permit me to see Harry here, or even to bid him
good-bye that night. If you had----"
"It would have made no difference. Harry as well as you seemed willing
to run all risks to meet--elsewhere."
"I never thought of meeting Harry elsewhere. I have told you this fact
before."
"If you had not done so, if Harry had not known you would do so again,
he would not have asked you."
"This is the last time I will condescend to tell you, Agnes, that I
never once met Harry by appointment; much less, at nine o'clock at
night. Please remember this!"
"It is, then, very strange, that Harry should have asked you that
night."
"Not only very strange, but very impertinent. Why should he suppose
Maria Semple would obey such a command? For it was a command. And it was
a further impertinence to send me this command on a bit of common paper,
wrapped around a stone and thrown at me through a window. It was a
vulgar thing to do, also, and I never gave Harry Bradley the smallest
right to order me to meet him anywhere."
"Oh, if you look at things that way! But why did he ask you? That is a
question hard to answer."
"Not at all. He was jealous of Macpherson and wished to show off his
familiarity with me and make Macpherson jealous. Under this distracting
passion he forgot, or he did not care, for the risk. It was your
selfishness put the idea into his head, and it was his selfishness that
carried it out, regardless of the consequences."
"And your selfishness, Maria, what of it?"
"I was not selfish at all. I knew nothing about it. If I had received
the note, I should not have answered it in any way."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Absolutely sure. It angered me, humiliated me, wronged me beyond words.
And to have it read in the Police Court! How would you feel, Agnes? It
has ruined my life."
"Poor Harry!"
"Oh, but poor Maria! All this misery was brought to me without my
knowledge and without any desert on my part. And don't you suppose I
love my grandparents and Uncle Neil? Think what I have suffered when I
saw them dragged to prison, tried, fined and disgraced, and all for a
scribble of presumptuous words that Harry Bradley ought to have been
ashamed to write. It was very thoughtless, it was very cruel."
"Harry suffered for his presumption; and as for the fine, my father will
repay it to your grandfather. He said so this morning; said it would
only be just; and I think so, too."
"The fine is the least part of the wrong. Who can repay grandfather and
uncle for the loss of their good name and their honorable record? Who
can give uncle his business back again? These are wrongs that cannot be
put right with money. You know that, Agnes."
"Do not quarrel with me, Maria. I am not able to bear your reproaches.
Let us at least be thankful that Harry's life is spared. When the war is
over you may yet be happy together."
Then Maria burst into passionate weeping. "You know nothing Agnes! You
know nothing!" she cried. "I can never see Harry again! Never, never!
Not even if he was in this house, _now_. How do you suppose he was
saved?"
"Father has a great deal of influence, and he used it." Her calm, sad
face, with its settled conviction of her father's power, irritated Maria
almost beyond endurance. For a moment she thought she would tell her the
truth, and then that proud, "not-caring," never far away from a noble
nature stayed such a petty retaliation. She dried her eyes, wrapped her
cloak around her, and said she "must not stop longer; there was trouble
and sorrow at home and she was needed."
Agnes did not urge her to remain, yet she could not bear her to leave in
a mood so unfriendly, and so despairing. "Forgive me, dear Maria," she
whispered. "I have been wrong and perhaps unkind. I fear you are right
in blaming me. Forgive me! I cannot part in such misunderstanding. If
you knew all----"
"Oh, yes! And if you knew all."
"But forgive me! God knows I have suffered for my fault."
"And I also."
"Put your arms around my neck and kiss me. I cannot let you go feeling
so unkindly to me. Do you hear, little one? I am sorry, indeed I am.
Maria! Maria!"
Then they wept a little in each other's arms, and Maria, tear stained
and heavy hearted, left her friend. Was she happier? More satisfied?
More hopeful, for the interview? No. There had been no real confidence.
And what is forgiveness under any circumstances? Only incomplete
understanding; a resolution to be satisfied with the wrong acknowledged
and the pain suffered, and to let things go.
Certainly, nothing was changed by the apparent reconciliation; for as
Maria sat by the fire that night she said to herself, "It is her fault.
If she had given Harry five minutes, only five minutes, that night he
never would have written that shameful note. It came of her delay and
his hurry. I do not forgive her, and I will not forgive her! Besides, in
her heart I know she blames me; I, who am perfectly innocent! She has
ruined my life, and she looked as injured as if it was I who had ruined
her life. I was not to blame at all, and I will not take any blame, and
I will not forgive her!"
Maria's divination in the matter was clearly right. Agnes did blame her.
She was sure Harry would not have written the note he did write unless
he had received previous encouragement. "There must have been meetings
in the Semples's garden before," she mused. "Oh, there must have been,
or else Harry's note was inexcusable, it was impertinence, it was
vulgarity. All the same, she need not have said these words to me."
So the reconciliation was only a truce; the heart-wound in both girls
was unhealed; and if it were healed would not the scar remain forever?
Three or four days after this unsatisfactory meeting Neil came home in
the afternoon just as the family were sitting down to the tea-table. "It
is cruelly cold, mother," he said. "I will be grateful for a cup. I am
shivering at my very heart." Then he gave his father a business-like
paper, saying, "I found it at my office this morning, sir."
"What is it Neil? What is it? More trouble?"
"No, sir. It is a deed making over to you the property in which Mr.
Bradley has his shop and workrooms. He says in a letter to me that 'he
feels this deed to be your right and his duty.' You are to hold the
property as security until he pays you three hundred pounds with
interest; and if you are not paid within three years you are to sell the
property and satisfy yourself."
"You can give Mr. Bradley his deed back again, my lad. I can pay my own
fines; or if I can't, I can go to prison. I'll not be indebted to him."
"You mistake, sir. This is a moral obligation, and quite as binding as a
legal one to Mr. Bradley."
"Take the paper, Alexander," said Madame, "and be thankfu' to save so
much out o' the wreck o' things. We havena the means nor the right,
these days, to fling awa' siller in order to flatter our pride. In my
opinion, it was as little as Bradley could do."
"I went at once to his shop to see him," continued Neil, "but he was not
there. In the afternoon I called again, and found he had been absent all
day. Fearing he was sick, I stopped at his house on my way home. A
strange woman opened the door. She said Mr. Bradley and his daughter had
gone away."
"Gone away!" cried Maria. "Where have they gone? Agnes said nothing to
me about going away."
"The woman, Mrs. Hurd, she called herself, told me Agnes did not know
she was to leave New York until fifteen minutes before she started."
"When will they return?" asked Madame.
"God knows," answered Neil, going to the fire and stooping over it. "I
am cold and sick, mother," he said. "It was such a shock. No one at the
shop expected such an event; everything was as busy as possible there,
but the house! the house is desolate."
"When did they go, Neil?"
"Last night, mother, at eleven o'clock. Mr. Bradley came in about twenty
minutes before eleven, put Mr. and Mrs. Hurd in possession, and told
Agnes to pack a change of clothing for herself in a leather saddlebag he
gave her. There was a boat waiting for them, and they went away in the
darkness without a word. _O Agnes!"_
"What did the Hurds say?"
"They know nothing."
"Did Agnes leave no letter?" asked Maria, looking with pitying eyes at
her uncle.
"How could she? The poor child, how could she? She had no time. Some one
had taken away her pens and pencils. She left a message with Mrs. Hurd.
That was all."
That was all. The next day New York City knew that John Bradley had left
his business and his home and disappeared as completely as a stone
dropped into the river. No one had suspected his intention; not his
foreman, nor any of the fifteen men working in his shop; not his most
intimate friends, not even his daughter. But it was at once surmised
that he had gone to the rebel army. People began to murmur at the
clemency shown to his son, and to comment on the almost offensive
sympathy of the father for him. For a few days John Bradley was the
absorbing topic of conversation; then he was forgotten by every one but
Neil. His shop, indeed, was kept open by the foreman, under control of
the government, but the name of Bradley was removed from above its
entrance and the royal cipher G. R. put in its place. And in a few weeks
his home was known as Hurd's place, and had lost all its little
characteristics. Neil passed it every day with a heavy heart. There was
no sweet face at the window to smile him a greeting; no beautiful woman
to stand with him at the gate, or, hand in his hand, lead him into the
little parlor and with ten minutes' conversation make the whole day
bright and possible. The house looked forlorn; fire or candlelight were
never visible, and he could only think of Agnes as driven away in the
dark night by Destiny and wandering, he knew not where.
Maria, too, was unhappy. Her last visit to Agnes had been such a mockery
of their once loving companionship. Her last visit! That word "last"
took hold of her, reproached her, hurt her, made her sorry and anxious.
She felt also for her uncle, who looked old and gray in his silent
sorrow. Poor Neil! he had suffered so many losses lately; loss of money,
loss of business, loss of friends, and to crown all these bereavements,
the loss of the woman on whom he had fixed the love and light and hopes
of his life. No wonder he was so mournful and so quiet; he, who had just
begun to be really happy, to smile and be gracious and pleasant to every
one, yes, and even to sing! Madame could not help noticing the change.
"He is worse than ever he was before," she said with a weary pity. "Dear
me! what lots of sorrow women do manage to make!"
This remark Maria did not approve of, and she answered it with some
temper. "All this sorrow came from a man's hand, grandmother," she said,
"and no woman is to blame."
"Not even yoursel', Maria?"
"I, least of all. Do you think that I would have met any man by the
river side at nine o'clock at night?"
"I'll confess I have had my doubts."
"Then you ought to say, 'Maria, I am sorry I have had one doubt of you.'
When you were Janet Gordon, would you have done a thing like that?"
"Not a man in Scotland could have trysted me at an hour when all my folk
were in their rooms and maybe sleeping."
"Not a man in America could make such a tryst with me. I am your
granddaughter."
"But that letter, Maria."
"It was a shame! A wrong I cannot forgive. I called it an impertinence
to Agnes, and I feel it so. He had no reason to suppose I would answer
such a request, such an order, I may say. I am telling you the truth,
grandmother."
"I believe you, Maria; but the pity of it is that you canna advertise
that fact."
"I know that. I know that everyone will doubt me or shun me. I shall be
made to suffer, of course. Well, I can suffer and smile as well as any
woman,--we all have that experience at some time or other."
"Men have it, too. Look at your uncle."
"Men don't smile when they suffer; they don't even try to. Uncle
suffers, any one can see that, but he does not dress up in velvet and
silk, and laugh, and dance, and talk nonsense merrily over the grave
where all his hopes are buried. No, indeed! He looks as if he had lost
the world. And he shuts himself in his room and swears at something or
somebody; he does not cry like a woman and get a headache, as well as a
heartache; he swears at his trouble and at everything connected with it.
That is the way with men, grandmother, you know it is. I have heard both
my grandfather and my uncle comforting themselves after this fashion.
Grandfather, I thought, even seemed to enjoy it."
Madame smiled and then admitted "men had their ain ways, and so couldna
be judged by woman's ways." Moreover, she told Maria in regard to Agnes
that a friendship which had begun to decay was best cut off at once. And
Maria, in spite of certain regrets, felt this to be a truth. Things were
not the same between Agnes and herself; it was, then, more comfortable
that they should not be at all.
Only, as day after day went by and no one took the place of Agnes or
showed the slightest desire to do so, her life became very monotonous.
This was specially remarkable, because New York was at a feverish point
of excitement. General Clinton was hurrying his preparations for the
reduction of the South. Any hour the troops might get marching orders,
and every entertainment had the gaiety and the melancholy of a farewell
feast. All day long troops were moving hither and thither, and orderlies
galloping in every direction. There was a constant rumble of army wagons
in motion; trumpets were calling men together, drums beating them to
their stations; and through all the blare and movement of a great
military town in motion there was the tinkling of sleigh-bells and the
glancing of splendidly caparisoned sleighs, full of women brilliantly
dressed.
Now, although the Semple house was beyond the actual throng and tumult
of these things, Maria heard the confused murmur of their activity; and
Neil told her bare facts, which she easily clothed with all the
accessories of their existence and movement. But although there were
dinner parties and sleighing parties, nightly dances, and the promise of
a fine theatrical season, with the officers of the army as actors, no
one remembered her. She was shocked when she realized that she had been
cut off from all social recognition. Setting aside the fact that Harry
Bradley was a rebel, she had done nothing to deserve such ostracism;
but, though conscious of her innocence, she did not find this inner
approval as satisfying a compensation for outward respect and pleasant
company as it is supposed to be.
As the days went on, she began to wonder at Lord Medway's absence. At
least, if she was to be his wife he ought to show her some care and
attention. She remembered that in their last important interview she had
told him not to trouble her; but he ought to have understood that a
woman's words, in such trying circumstances, meant much less or much
more than their face value.
Household anxieties of all kinds were added to these personal ones.
Madame Semple was sick and full of domestic cares. Never had there been
known in New York such bitter frost, such paralyzing cold. Snow lay four
to six feet deep; loaded teams or galloping cavalry crossed the river
safely on its solid ice. Neil had made arrangements for wood in the
summer months, but only part of it had been delivered; the rest, though
felled, could not be extricated from the frozen snowdrifts. The sale of
the Mill Street property had left them a margin of ready money, but
provisions had risen to fabulous prices and were not always procurable
at any price. New York was experiencing, this cruel winter, all the
calamities of a great city beleaguered both by its enemies and the
elements.
Yet the incessant social gaiety never ceased. Thousands were preparing
for the battlefield; thousands were dying in a virulent smallpox
epidemic; thousands were half-frozen and half-fed; the prisons were
crowded hells of unspeakable agonies; yet the officers in command of the
city, and the citizens in office, the rich, the young and the beautiful,
made themselves merry in the midst of all this death and famine, and
found very good recreation in driving their jingling sleighs over the
solid waters of the river and the bay.
In these bad times Neil was the stay and comfort of the Semple
household. He catered for their necessities cheerfully, but his heart
was heavy with anxious fear; and when he saw those he loved deprived of
any comfort, he reproached himself for the pride which had made him
resign offices so necessary for their welfare. This pinch of poverty,
which he must conceal, made his whole being shrink with suffering he
never named to any one. And besides, there was always that desolate
house to pass and repass. How was it that its shut door affected him so
painfully? He could only feel this question; he could not answer it.
But, though he was not conscious of the fact, never had Neil Semple in
all his life been at once so great and so wretched: great because he was
able to put his own misery under the feet of those he loved; to forget
it in noble smiles that might cheer them and in hopeful words, often
invented for their comfort.
One day as he was walking down Broadway he saw a sleigh coming toward
him. It was drawn by four black horses blanketed in scarlet, glittering
with silver harness and tossing their plumed heads to the music of a
thousand bells. As it drew nearer a faint smile came to his lips. He saw
the fantastically-dressed driver and footman, and the brilliant mass of
color surrounded by minever furs, and he knew it was Madame Jacobus, out
to defy any other sleigh to approach her.
He expected only a swift, bright smile in passing, but she stopped,
called him imperatively, and then insisted that he should take a seat
beside her. "I have caught you at last," she said with a laugh. "It is
high time. I asked you to come soon and see me, and you said you would.
You have broken your word, sir. But nothing is binding where a woman is
concerned; we have to live on broken scraps of all kinds, or perish.
You are going to dine with me. I shall take it very ill if you refuse;"
then, more soberly, "I have some important things to say to you."
"It will be a great pleasure to dine with you," answered Neil.
"First, however, we will gallop a mile or two, just to show ourselves
and get an appetite;" and the grave smile of pleasurable assent which
accepted this proposition delighted her. In and out of the city ways
they flew, until they reached the Bowery road; there they met the
sleighs of generals and governors, dandy officers and wealthy
commissioners, and passed them all. And Neil shared the thrill of her
triumph and the physical delight of a pace no one could approach.
Something like his old expression of satisfied consideration came into
his face, and he was alive from head to feet when he reached Madame's
fine house in lower Broadway,--a handsome, luxurious house, filled with
treasures from every part of the world; no shadow of limitation in
anything within it. The lunch, elaborately laid for Madame, was
instantly extended for the guest, and Neil marvelled at the dainty
liberality of all its arrangements. It was, indeed, well known that the
Jacobus wealth was enormous, but here was a room warmed as if wood was
of no great value; broiled birds, the finest of wheat bread, the oldest
and best of wines.
"You see, I take good care of myself, Neil," said Madame. "I don't wish
to die till the war is over. I am resolved to see Troy taken."
"You mean New York."
"I mean New York, of course."
"Do you really think the rebels will take New York?"
"The Greeks got into Troy by trying. I think others can do the same."
This was the only allusion made to public events during the meal; but
when it was over and the servants had disappeared she set her chair
before the roaring fire, spread out her splendid scarlet skirt, and,
holding a gemmed fan between her face and the blaze, said:
"Now we will talk. You must tell me everything, Neil, without holdbacks.
You are a lawyer and know that everything must be told or nothing. Do
you feel that you can trust me?"
Then Neil looked into the dark, speaking face, bending slightly toward
him. Kindness lighted its eyes and parted its lips, but, above all, it
was a countenance whose truth was beyond question. "Madame," he
answered, "I believe you are my friend."
"In plain truth, I am your friend. I am also your mother's friend. She
is the best of women. I love her, and there's an end of it. When I came
to New York first I was a stranger and people looked curiously, even
doubtfully, at me. Janet Semple stood by me like a mother just as long
as I needed her care. Do I forget? That is far from Angelica Jacobus. I
never forget a kindness. Now, Neil, I have known you more than twenty
years. What can I do for you?"
"O Madame, what can you not do? Your sympathy has put new life into me.
I feel as if, perhaps, even yet there may be happy days in store."
"Plenty of them. I hear you paid the fines immediately. Did they pinch
you much?"
"No. Jacob Cohen bought a piece of land from me. I do believe he bought
it out of pure kindness."
"Pure kindness and good business. He knows how to mingle things. But
that Jew has a great soul. Jacobus has said so often, and no one can
deceive Jacobus. But what are these stories I hear about your lovely
niece? Is there any truth in them?"
"None, I'll warrant," answered Neil warmly. "But I will tell you the
exact truth, and then you may judge if little Maria deserves to be
treated as people are now treating her."
Then Neil succinctly, and with clearness and feeling, told the story of
Maria's entanglement with Harry Bradley, laying particular stress on the
fact that she never had met him clandestinely, and that his note had
been a great offense and astonishment to her. "I was present," he said,
"when my father told her of the note, and of its being read in the
Police Court, and I shall never forget her face. It is an easy thing to
say that a person was shocked, but Maria's very soul was so dismayed and
shocked that I seemed to see it fly from her face. She would have fallen
had I not caught her. Why was that note written? I cannot understand
it."
"It was never intended for Maria. It was written to wound the vanity and
fire the jealousy of that Scot. As soon as Maria left the room the
opportunity was seized. Can you not see that? And Harry Bradley never
dreamed that the kilted fool would turn an apparent love-tryst into a
political event. He wished to make trouble between Macpherson and Maria,
but he had no intention of making the trouble he did make. He also was
jealous, and when two jealous men are playing with fire the consequences
are sure to be calamitous. But Macpherson is sorry enough now for his
zeal in His Majesty's affairs. He is thoroughly despised by both men and
women of the first class. I, myself, have made a few drawing-rooms
places of extreme humiliation to him."
"Still, others think the man simply did his duty. A Scotsman has very
strong ideas about military honor and duty."
"Fiddlesticks! Honor and duty! Nothing of the kind. It was a dirty deed,
and he is a dirty fellow to have done it. There was some decent way out
of the dilemma without going through the Police Court to find it. Grant
me patience with such bouncing, swaggering, selfish patriotism! A
penny's worth of common-sense and good feeling would have been better;
but it was his humor to be revengeful and ill-natured, and he is, of
course, swayed by his inclinations. Let us forget the creature."
"With all my soul."
"The stories are various about Maria going to General Clinton and
begging her lover's life with such distraction that he could not refuse
it to her. Which story is the true one?"
"They are all lies, I assure you, Madame. It was Lord Medway who begged
Harry Bradley's life."
"But why?"
Neil paused a minute, and then answered softly, "For Maria's sake."
"Oh, I begin to understand."
"She has promised to marry him when she is of age--then, or before."
"I am very glad. Medway is a man full of queer kinds of goodness. When
the Robinsons and Blundells, when Joan Attwood and Kitty Errol and all
the rest of the beauties, hear the news, may I be there to see? Is it
talkable yet?"
"No, not yet. Maria has told no one but me, and I have told no one but
you. Medway is to see my father and mother; after that--perhaps. He has
not called since the arrangement; he told me 'he was doing the best
thing under the circumstances.'"
"Of course he is. Medway understands women. He knows that he is making
more progress absent than he would present. Come, now, things are not so
bad, socially. Mrs. Gordon and Angelica Jacobus will look after Maria;
and, though women can always be abominable enough to their own sex, I
think Maria will soon be beyond their shafts. Now, it is business I must
speak of. Patrick Huges, my agent, is robbing me without rhyme or
reason. I had just sent him packing when I met you. The position is
vacant. Will you manage my affairs for me? The salary is two hundred
pounds a year."
"Madame, the offer is a great piece of good fortune. From this hour, if
you wish it, I will do your business as if it were my own."
"Thank you, Neil. In plain truth, it will be a great kindness to me. We
will go over the rascal's accounts to-morrow, and he will cross the
river to-night if he hears that Neil Semple is to prosecute the
examination."
Then Neil rose to leave. Madame's sympathy and help had made a new man
of him; he felt able to meet and master his fate, whatever it might be.
At the last moment she laid her hand upon his arm. "Neil," she asked,
"Has not this great outrage opened your eyes a little. Do you still
believe in the justice or clemency of the King?"
"It was not the King."
"It was the King's representatives. If such indignity is possible when
we are still fighting, what kind of justice should we get if we were
conquered?"
"I know, I know. But there is my father. It would break his heart if I
deserted the royal party now. They do not know in England----"
"Then they ought to know; but for many years I have been saying,
'England was mad'; and she grows no wiser."
"Englishmen move so slowly."
"Of course. All the able Englishmen are on this side of the Atlantic.
Lord! how many from the other side could be changed for the one Great
One on this side. What do you think? It was my silk, lace, ribbons and
fallals Harry Bradley was taking across the river. The little vanities
were for my old friend Martha. I am sorry she missed them."
Neil looked at her with an admiring smile. "How do you manage?" he
asked.
"I have arranged my politics long since, and quite to my satisfaction.
So has Jacobus. He left New York flying the English flag, but the ocean
has a wonderful influence on him; his political ideas grow large and
free there; he becomes--a different man. Society has the same effect on
me. When I see American women put below that vulgar Mrs. Reidesel----"
"Oh, no, Madame!"
"Oh, yes, sir. In the fashionable world we are all naught unless Mrs.
General Reidesel figures before us; then, perhaps, we may acquire a kind
of value. See how she is queening it in General Tryron's fine mansion.
And then, this foreign mercenary, Knyphausen, put over American officers
and American citizens! It is monstrous! Not to be endured! I only bear
it by casting my heart and eyes to the Jersey Highlands. There our
natural ruler waits and watches; here, we wait and watch, and some hour,
it must be, our hopes shall touch God's purposes for us. For that hour
we secretly pray. It is not far off." And Neil understood, as he met her
shining eyes and radiant smile, that there are times when faith may
indeed have all the dignity of works.
Then the young man, inexpressibly cheered and strengthened, went rapidly
home; and when Madame heard her son's steps on the garden walk she knew
that something pleasant had happened to him. And it is so often that
fortune, as well as misfortune, goes where there is more of it that Neil
was hardly surprised to see an extraordinarily cheerful group around an
unusually cheerful fireside when he opened the parlor door. The Elder,
smiling and serene, sat in his arm-chair, with his finger-tips placidly
touching each other. Madame's voice had something of its old confident
ring in it, and Maria, with heightened color and visible excitement,
sat between her grandparents, an unmistakable air of triumph on her
face.
"Come to the fire, Neil," said his mother, making a place for his chair.
"Come and warm yoursel'; and we'll hae a cup o' tea in ten or fifteen
minutes."
"How cheerful the blazing logs are," he answered. "Is it some festival?
You are as delightfully extravagant as Madame Jacobus. Oh, if the old
days were back again, mother!"
"They will come, Neil. But wha or what will bring us back the good days
we hae lost forever out o' our little lives while we tholed this weary
war? However, there is good news, or at least your father thinks so.
Maria has had an offer o' marriage, and her not long turned eighteen
years auld, and from an English lord, and your father has made a bonfire
o'er the matter, and I've nae doubt he would have likit to illuminate
the house as weel."
The Elder smiled tolerantly. "Janet," he answered, "a handsome young
man, without mair than his share o' faults and forty thousand pounds a
year, is what I call a godsend to any girl. And I'm glad it has come to
our little Maria. I like the lad. I like him weel. He spoke out like a
man. He told me o' his castle and estate in Lancashire, and o' the great
coal mines on it; the lands he owned in Cumberland and Kent, his town
house in Belgrave Square, and forbye showed me his last year's rental,
and stated in so many words what settlement he would make on Maria. And
I'm proud and pleased wi' my new English grandson that is to be. I shall
hold my head higher than ever before; and as for Matthews and Peter
DuBois, they and their dirty Police Court may go to----, where they
ought to have been years syne, but for God Almighty's patience; and I'll
say nae worse o' them than that. It's a great day for the Semples, Neil,
and I am wonderfully happy o'er it."
"It's a great day for the Medways," answered Madame. "I could see fine
how pleased he was at the Gordon connection, for when I told him Colonel
William Gordon, son o' the Earl o' Aberdeen--him wha raised the Gordon
Highlanders a matter o' three years syne--was my ain first cousin, he
rose and kissed my hand and said he was proud to call Colonel Gordon his
friend. And he knew a' about the Gordons and the warlike Huntleys, and
could even tell me that the fighting force o' the clan was a thousand
claymores; a most intelligent young man! And though I dinna like the
thought o' an Englishman among the Gordons, there's a differ even in
Englishmen; some are less almighty and mair sensible than others."
"He spoke very highly o' the Americans," answered the Elder. "He said
'we were all o' one race, the children o' the same grand old mother.'"
"The Americans are obligated for his recognition," replied Madame a
trifle scornfully. "To be sure, it's a big feather in our caps when Lord
Medway calls cousins with us."
"What does Maria say?" asked Neil. And Maria raised her eyes to his with
a look in them of which he only had the key. So to spare her talking on
the subject, he continued: "I also have had a piece of good fortune
to-day. I met Madame Jacobus, went home with her to dinner, and she has
offered me the position of her business agent, with a salary of two
hundred pounds a year."
"It's a vera springtide o' good fortune," said the Elder, "and I am a
grateful auld man."
"Weel, then," cried Madame, "here comes the tea and the hot scones; and
I ken they are as good as a feast. It's a thanksgiving meal and no less;
come to the table wi' grateful hearts, children. I'm thinking the tide
has turned for the Semples; and when the tide turns, wha is able to stop
it?"
The turn of the tide! How full of hope it is! Not even Maria was
inclined to shadow the cheerful atmosphere. Indeed, she was grateful to
Lord Medway for the fresh, living element he had brought into the house.
Life had been gloomy and full of small mortifications to her since the
unfortunate Bradley affair. Her friends appeared to have forgotten her,
and the dancing and feasting and sleighing went on without her presence.
Even her home had been darkened by the same event; her grandfather had
not quite recovered the shock of his arrest; her grandmother had made
less effort to hide her own failing health. Neil had a heartache about
Agnes that nothing eased, and the whole household felt the fear and
pinch of poverty and the miserable uncertainty about the future.
Maria bore her share in these conditions, and she had also began to
wonder and to worry a little over Lord Medway's apparent indifference.
If he really loved her, why did he not give her the recognition of his
obvious friendship? His presence and attentions would at least place her
beyond the spite and envy of her feminine rivals. Why did he let them
have one opportunity after another to smile disdain on her presence, or
to pointedly relegate her to the outer darkness of non-recognition? When
she had examined all her slights and sorrows, Lord Medway's neglect was
the most cutting thong in the social scourge.
Madame Jacobus, however, was correct in her opinion. Medway was making
in these days of lonely neglect a progress which would have been
impossible had he spent them at the girl's side. And if he had been
aware of every feeling and event in the lives of the Semples, he could
not have timed his hour of reappearance more fortunately, for not only
was Maria in the depths of despondency, but the Elder had also begun to
believe his position and credit much impaired. He had been passed,
avoided, curtly answered by men accustomed to defer to him; and he did
not take into consideration the personal pressure on these very men from
lack of money, or work, or favor; nor yet those accidental offenses
which have no connection with the people who receive them. In the days
of his prosperity he would have found or made excuses in every case, but
a failing or losing man is always suspicious, and ready to anticipate
wrong.
But now! Now it would be different. As he drank his tea and ate his
buttered scone he thought so. "It will be good-morning, Elder. How's all
with you? Have you heard the news? and the like of that. It will be a
different call now." And he looked at Maria happily, and began to
forgive her for the calamity she had brought upon them. For it was
undeniable that even in her home she had been made to feel her
responsibility, although the blame had never been voiced.
She understood the change, and was both happy and angry. She did not
feel as if any one--grandfather, grandmother, Lord Medway, or Uncle
Neil--had stood by her with the loyal faith they ought to have shown.
All of them had, more or less, suspected her of imprudence and reckless
disregard of their welfare. All of them had thought her capable of
ruining her family for a flirtation. Even Agnes, the beginning and end
of all the trouble, had been cold and indifferent, and blamed, and left
her without a word. And as she did not believe herself to have done
anything very wrong, the injustice of the situation filled her with
angry pain and dumb reproach.
Lord Medway's straightforward proposal cleared all the clouds away. It
gave her a position at once that even her grandfather respected. She was
no longer a selfish child, whose vanity and folly had nearly ruined her
family. She was the betrothed wife of a rich and powerful nobleman, and
she knew that even socially reprisals of a satisfactory kind would soon
be open to her. The dejected, self-effacing manner induced by her
culpable position dropped from her like a useless garment; she lifted
her handsome face with confident smiles; she was going, not only to be
exonerated, but to be set far above the envy and jealousy of her
enemies. For Medway had asked her to go sleighing with him on the
following day, and she expected that ride to atone for many small
insults and offenses.
Twice during the night she got up in the cruel cold to peep at the stars
and the skies. She wanted a clear, sunny day, such a day as would bring
out every sleigh in the fashionable world; and she got her desire. The
sun rose brilliantly, and the cold had abated to just the desirable
point; the roads, also, were in perfect condition for rapid sleighing,
and at half-past eleven Medway entered the parlor, aglow with the frost
and the rapid motion.
His fine presence, his hearty laugh, his genial manners, were
irresistible. He bowed over Madame's hand, and then drew Maria within
his embrace. "Is she not a darling? and may I take her for an hour or
two, grandmother?" he asked. And Madame felt his address to be beyond
opposition. He had claimed her kinship; he had called her "grandmother,"
and she gave him at once the key of her heart.
As they stood all three together before the fire, a servant man entered
and threw upon the sofa an armful of furs. "I have had these made for
you, Maria," said Medway. "Look here, my little one! Their equals do not
exist outside of Russia." And he wrapped her in a cloak of the finest
black fox lined with scarlet satin, and put on her head a hood of
scarlet satin and black fox, and slipped her hands into a muff of the
same fur lined with scarlet satin; and when they reached the waiting
sleigh he lifted her as easily as a baby into it, and seating himself
beside her, off they went to the music in their hearts and the music in
the bells; and the pace of the four horses was so great that Madame
declared "all she could see was a bundle of black fur and flying
scarlet ribbons."
That day Maria's cup of triumph was full and running over. Before they
had reached the half-way house they had met the entire fashionable world
of New York, and every member of it had understood that Maria Semple and
Lord Medway would now have to be reckoned with together. For Medway
spoke to no one and returned no greeting that did not include Maria in
it. Indeed, his neglect of those who made this omission was so pointed
that none could misconstrue it. Maria was, therefore, very happy. She
had found a friend and a defender in her trouble, and she was, at least,
warmly grateful to him. He could see it in her shining eyes, and feel
it, oh, so delightfully! in her unconscious drawing closer and closer to
him, so that finally his hands were clasping hers within the muff of
black fox, and his face was bending to her with that lover-like,
protecting poise there was no mistaking.
"Are you satisfied, Maria? Are you happy?" he asked, when the pace
slackened and they could talk a little.
"Oh, yes!" she answered. "But why did you wait so long? I was suffering.
I needed a friend; did you not understand?"
"But you had a sorrow I could not share. I did not blame you for it. It
was but natural you should weep a little, for the young man had
doubtless made some impression. He was a gallant fellow, and between
life and death carried himself like a prince. I am glad I was able to
save his life; but I did not wish to see you fretting about him; that
was also natural."
She did not answer, nor did he seem to expect an answer. But she was
pleased he did not speak slightingly of Harry. Had he done so, she felt
that she would have defended him; and yet, in her deepest consciousness
she knew this defense would have been forced and uncertain. The
circumstances were too painful to be called from the abyss of past
calamity. It was better everything should be forgotten. And with the
unerring instinct of a lover, Medway quickly put a stop to her painful
reverie by words that seldom miss a woman's appreciation. He told her
how much he had longed to be with her; how tardily the weeks had flown;
how happy it made him to see her face again. He called her beautiful,
bewitching, the loveliest creature the sun shone on, and he said these
things with that air of devoted respect which was doubly sweet to the
girl, after the social neglect of the past weeks. Finally he asked her
if she was cold, and she answered:
"How can I be cold? These exquisite furs are cold-proof. Where did you
get them? I have never seen any like them before."
"I got them in St. Petersburg. I was there two years ago on a political
embassy, and while I was waiting until you partly recovered yourself I
had my long coat cut up and made for you. I am delighted I did it. You
never looked so lovely in anything I have seen you wear. Do you like
them, Maria, sweet Maria?"
She looked at him with a smile so ravishing that he had there and then
no words to answer it. He spoke to the driver instead, and the horses
bounded forward, and so rapid was the pace that the city was soon
reached, and then her home. Neil was at the gate to meet them, and
Medway lifted Maria out of the sleigh and gave her into his care. "I
will not keep the horses standing now;" he said, "but shall I call
to-morrow, Maria, at the same time?" And she said, "Yes," and "I have
had a happy drive." So he bowed and went away in a dash of trampling
horses and jingling bells, and Maria watched him a moment or two, being
greatly impressed by his languid, yet masterful, air and manner, the
result of wealth long inherited and of social station beyond question.
With a sigh--and she knew not why she sighed--Maria went into the house.
She was now quite forgiven; she could feel that she was once more loved
without reservation, and also that she had become a person of
importance. It was a happy change, and she did not inquire about it, or
dampen the pleasure by asking for reasons. She took off her beautiful
furs, showed them to her grandmother and grandfather, and told at what
personal sacrifice Lord Medway had given them to her. And then, drawing
close to the hearth, she described the people they had met, and the
snubs and recognitions given and received. It was all interesting to
Madame, and even to the Elder; the latter, indeed, was in extraordinary
high spirits, and added quite as much salt and vinegar to the dish of
gossip as either of the women.
In spite, therefore, of the bitter weather and the scarcity of all the
necessaries of life, the world went very well again for the Semples;
and though at the end of December, Clinton sailed southward, Lord Medway
had a furlough for some weeks, so that in this respect the military
movement did not interfere with Maria's social pleasures. Two days
before the embarkment of the troops Colonel DeLancey called one morning
on the Elder. He had sold a piece of property to the government, and in
making out the title information was wanted that only Elder Semple, who
was the original proprietor, could give. DeLancey asked him, therefore,
to drive back with him to the King's Arms and settle the matter, and the
Elder was pleased to do so. Anything that took him among his old
associates and gave him a little importance was particularly agreeable,
and in spite of the cold he went off in the highest spirits.
The King's Arms was soon reached, and he found in its comfortable parlor
General Ludlow, Recorder John Watts, Jr., Treasurer Cruger,
Commissioners DeGeist and Housewert, and Lawyer Spiegel. After Semple's
arrival the business which had called them together was soon settled,
and it being near noon, Ludlow called for a bottle of old port and some
beef sandwiches. The room was warm and bright, the company friendly and
well informed on political matters, and a second bottle was drunk ere
they made a movement to break up the pleasant meeting. Then Ludlow
arose, and for a few minutes they stood around the blazing fire, the
Elder very happy in the exercise of his old influence and authority. But
just as they were going to shake hands the door was flung open and
Captain Macpherson appeared. For a moment he stood irresolute, then he
suddenly made up his mind that he had chanced upon a great opportunity
for placing himself right with the public, and so, advancing toward
Elder Semple, who had pointedly turned his back upon him, he said:
"Elder, I am grateful for this fortunate occasion. I wish before these
gentlemen to assure you that I did my duty with the most painful
reluctance. I beg you to forgive the loss and annoyance this duty has
caused you."
Then Semple turned to him. His eyes were flashing, his face red and
furious. He looked thirty years younger than usual, as with withering
scorn he answered:
_"Caitiff!_ Out of my sight!"
"No, sir," continued the foolish young man, "not until you listen to me.
As a soldier and a gentleman, I had a duty to perform."
"You hae covered the names o' 'soldier' and 'gentleman' wi' infamy.
Duty, indeed! What duty o' yours was it to examine a letter that came to
a house where you were making an evening call? No matter how the letter
came--through the window or by the door--you had nae duty in the matter.
It was your cursed, curious, spying impertinence. No gentleman would hae
opened it. The letter was not directed to you,--you admitted that in
court. God in Heaven! What right had you to open it?"
"Allow me to ask, Elder, what you would have done if you had been an
officer in His Majesty's service and had been placed in the same
circumstances?"
"Done? Why, you villain, there was only _one_ _thing to do_, and an
officer, if he was a gentleman, would have done it,--given the letter to
Miss Bradley unopened. She was the mistress of the house, and entitled
to see the letters coming to it. What had you to do wi' her letters? If
you had kept your fingers frae picking and your e'en frae spying, you
would not have put yoursel' in an utterly shamefu' dilemma."
"In these times, sir----"
"In this case the times are nae excuse. Mr. Bradley was believed by
everybody to be a friend of His Majesty. You had nae reason whatever to
suppose a treasonable note would come to his house. You did not suppose
it. My God, sir! if our letters are to be examined by His Majesty's
officers, wha is safe? An enemy might throw a note full o' treason
through a window, and if _you_ happened to be calling there----"
"Mr. Semple, you are insulting."
"I mean to be insulting. What right had you to speak to me? You Judas!
who could eat my bread, and borrow my siller, and pretend to love my
granddaughter. You have smirched your colors and dishonored your sword,
and you deserve to be drummed out o' your regiment; you do that, you
eternal scoundrel, you!"
By this time the Elder's voice filled the room, and he brought his cane
down as if it were twenty. "Out o' my sight," he shouted, "or I'll lay
it o'er your shoulders, you blackguard aboon ten thousand."
"Your age, sir! your age!" screamed the enraged young fellow; but his
words almost choked him, and de Geist and Cruger took him forcibly out
of the room.
Then DeLancey filled a glass with wine. "Sit down and drink it, Elder,"
he said. "Afterward I shall have the great honor and pleasure of driving
you home." And the approval of every one present was too marked to be
misunderstood. Semple felt it in every handclasp, and saw it in every
face.
Also, Semple had his own approval, and the result of it in his voice and
manner troubled Janet. She was ignorant of its cause, and the Elder was
not prepared to tell her. "The fool may think himself bound to challenge
me," he thought, "and I'll e'en wait till he does it, or else till
Clinton carries him awa' to fight rebels."
But he was nearly betrayed by Neil, who entered the parlor in an almost
buoyant manner for one so naturally grave. "Why, father," he said, "what
is this I hear?" and then he suddenly stopped, having caught his
father's warning glance.
"You hae heard many things doubtless, Neil," answered the Elder, "and
among them that I and DeLancey were driving together. We had a rather
cheerful time at the King's Arms o'er a bit of transferring business.
The government must hae clear titles, you ken, to the property it buys."
"A clear title is beyond the government," interrupted Madame, "and the
government needna' fash itsel' about titles. Nane that can be made will
hold good much longer for the government. Sit down, Neil, and see if you
can steady your father a bit; he's as much excited about a ride wi' auld
DeLancey as if King George himsel' had gien him a ride in his chariot;"
and she flipped her dress scornfully to the words as she left the room
to give some household order.
"You vera near told tales on me, Neil," said the old man gleefully; "and
there's nae need to mention the bit o' scrimmage till we see if it's
finished. The lad might send me a challenge," he added with a little
mirthful laugh.
"Not he, father! If he did, I should quickly answer it."
"You would mind your ain business, sir. As long as I bide in this warld
I'll do my ain fighting, if I die for it."
"There's none can do it better, father. Errol told me your scorn
overwhelmed Macpherson; and he said, moreover, that if the quarrel had
come to blows he had no doubt you would have caned the scoundrel
consumedly. They are talking of the affair all over town, and DeLancey
is quite beyond himself about it. I heard him say that, though your
hands quivered with passion, you stood firm as a rock, and that there
were a few minutes at the last when no man could have tackled you
safely." Then there was a sudden pause, for Madame reentered, and the
Elder looked at her in a way so full of triumph and self-satisfaction
that he troubled her. "To think o' Alexander Semple being sae set up wi'
DeLancey's nod and smile," she thought.
Then Neil turned the conversation on the social events of the day, and
the topic allowed Madame some scope for the relief of her annoyance. Yet
her anxiety about her husband continued, for the Elder was in
extraordinarily high spirits. His piquant, pawkie humor finally alarmed
Madame. "Alexander," she said, "you had better go awa' to your bed. I
dinna like to hear you joking out o' season, as it were. What has come
o'er you, man?"
"Hear to your mother, Neil!" he answered. "When I sit still and silent,
she asks, 'Have you naething to say, auld man?' and when I say something
she doesna' like my way o' joking, and is for sending me awa' to bed for
it, as if I was a bairn. However, the day is o'er, and we hae had the
glory o' it, and may as weel get rested for the day to come."
He left the room in his old sober fashion, with a blessing and a
"Good-night, children," and Madame followed him. Maria rose with her;
she was anxious to carry her thoughts into solitude. But Neil sat still
by the fireside, dreaming of Agnes Bradley, and yet finding the dream
often invaded by the thought of the retributive scene in the parlor of
the King's Arms. And perhaps never in all his life had Neil loved and
honored his father more sincerely.
When Madame returned to the room he came suddenly out of his reverie. He
saw at once that his mother was strangely troubled. She sat down and
covered her face with her thin, trembling hands, and when Neil bent over
her with a few soothing words she sobbed:
"Oh, my dear lad, I'm feared your father is _fey_, or else he has been
drinking beyond his reason; and goodness knows what nonsense he has been
saying. The men who brought sae much wine out may have done it to set
him talking; and anyway, it shames me, it pains me, to think o'
Alexander Semple being the butt o' a lot o' fellows not worthy to latch
his shoe buckles. But he's getting auld, Neil, he's getting auld; and
he's always been at the top o' the tree in every one's respect, and I
canna bear it."
"Dear mother, never has father stood so high in all good men's opinion
as he stands this night. He has a little secret from you, and, I dare
say, it is the first in his life, and it is more than wine to him. It is
the secret, not the wine."
"What is it, Neil? What is it?"
Then Neil sat down by his mother's side, and looking into her face with
his own smiling and beaming, he told her with dramatic power and passion
the story of "the bit scrimmage," as the Elder defined the wordy battle,
adding, "There is not a man, young or old, in New York, that this night
is more praised and respected for his righteous wrath than Alexander
Semple. As for Quentin Macpherson, he may go hang!"
And long before the story was finished Madame was bridling and blushing
with pride and pleasure. "The dear auld man! The brave auld man!" she
kept ejaculating; and her almost uncontrollable impulse was to go to him
and give him the kiss and the few applauding words which she knew would
crown his satisfaction. But Neil persuaded her to dissemble her delight,
and then turned the conversation on the condition of the city.
"It is bad enough," he said. "Famine and freezing will soon be here, and
the town is left under the orders of a hired mercenary--a German, a
foreigner, who neither understands us nor our lives or language. It is
a shameful thing. Was there no Englishman to defend New York? Every
citizen, no matter what his politics, is insulted and sulky, and if
Washington attacks the city in Clinton's absence, which he will surely
do, they won't fight under Knyphausen as they would under a countryman.
Even DeLancey would have been better. I, myself, would fight with a
DeLancey leading, where I would be cold as ice behind Knyphausen."
"When men are left to themselves what fools they are," said Madame.
"They don't think so. You should hear the talk about what Clinton is
going to do in the South, and he will find Cornwallis too much for him."
"How is that? Cornwallis?"
"Cornwallis hates Clinton passionately; he will sacrifice everything
rather than cooperate with him. Clinton successful would be worse than
his own disgrace. Yet Clinton is sure he will succeed in subduing the
whole South."
"And Knyphausen?"
"Is sure he will capture General Washington, though Clinton failed in
his alert for that purpose. The four hundred light horsemen he
despatched came back as they went twenty-four hours after they started
full of confidence."
"What frightened them?" asked Madame with a scornful laugh.
"The guides. They lost the road,--rebels at heart, doubtless,--the cold
was intense, the snow deep, and the four hundred came home all. The
wretched rebel army must have had a hearty laugh at Clinton's
'alert'--the alert which was to end the war by the capture of
Washington."
"How could they expect such a thing?"
"Well, Washington was living in a house at Morristown, some distance
from the huts occupied by the army. The army were in the greatest
distress, nearly naked, hungry and cold, and the snow was deep around
them. There was every reason to hope four hundred men on swift horses
might be alert enough to surprise and capture the man they wanted."
"Nae! nae!" cried Madame. "The tree God plants no wind hurts; and George
Washington is set for the defense and freedom o' these colonies. Cold
and hungry men, snow-strangled roads, and four hundred alerts! What are
they against the tree God plants? Only a bit wind that shook the
branches and made the roots strike deeper and wider. And sae Clinton's
alert having failed, Knyphausen is trying for another; is that it,
Neil?"
"Yes. He considers Washington's capture his commission."
"And if he should capture him, what then?"
"If he is taken alive he will die the death of a traitor."
"And then?"
"Then the war would be over, the idea of independence would be buried,
and we should be English subjects forever."
"And after that comes a cow to be shod. One thing is as likely as the
other. The idea of independence will never be buried; we shall never
again be subjects of the King o' England. In spite of all the elements
can do, in spite of what seems to us impossibilities, the tree God has
planted no wind shall hurt. Many a day, Neil, I have steadied my soul
and my heart as I went to and fro in my house singing or saying this bit
verse, and I wrote it my ain sel':
No wind that blows can ever kill
The tree God plants;
It bloweth east; it bloweth west;
The tender leaves have little rest,
But any wind that blows is best.
The tree God plants
Strikes deeper root, grows higher still,
Spreads wider boughs for God's good will,
Meets all its wants."
Neil sighed, and rising suddenly, said, "Let us go upstairs; the room is
growing very cold. And, mother, do not let father know I have told you
about his 'bit scrimmage.' It would rob him of the triumph of his own
recital."
"I'll not say a word, Neil; you may be sure o' that."
And she did not say a word. Nevertheless, the Elder looked queerly at
Neil the following evening, and when he found an opportunity, said,
"You've been telling tales on me, lad. Your mother hasna petted me a'
the day lang for naething. Some one has whispered a word in her ear. I
can see it in her e'en and hear it in her voice, and feel it in the
stroke o' her hand. I wonder who it was."
"A bird of the air often carries such matters, sir. It would be but the
generality; the particulars can come from yourself only."
"Aye, to be sure!" And he smiled and seated himself comfortably in his
chair before the blaze, adding, "It was a wonderfu' bit o' comfort,
Neil, and you'll stand by me if your mother thinks wrong o' it?"
"Shoulder to shoulder, sir. You did quite right."