LOVE AND VICTORY.
This event was in many ways favorable to Maria. She was put aside,
nearly forgotten for a month, in the more imminent danger to the
household. And by that time the almost brutal passion which in the first
hours of shame and distress could think of no equivalent but personal
punishment, had become more reasonable. For men and women, if worthy of
that name, do not tarry in the Valley of the Shadow of Death without
learning much they would learn nowhere else.
Still her position was painful enough. Her father did not speak unless
it was necessary to ask her a question, her stepmother for nearly eight
weeks remained in her room, and the once obsequious servants hardly
troubled themselves to attend to her wants or obey her requests. In the
cold isolation of her disgrace she often longed for a more active
displeasure. If only the anger against her would come to words she could
plead for herself, or at least she could ask to be forgiven.
But Mr. Semple, though ordinarily a passionate and hot-spoken man, was
afraid to say or do anything which would disturb the peace necessary for
his wife's restoration and his son's health. He felt that it was better
for Maria to suffer. She deserved punishment; they were innocent. Yet,
being naturally a just man, he had allowed her such excuse as reflection
brought. He had told himself that the girl had never had a mother's care
and guidance; that he himself had been too busy making money to instill
into her mind the great duty of obedience to his commands. He had
considered also that the very atmosphere in which she had lived and
moved nearly all the years of her life had been charged with assertion
and rebellion. It was the attitude of every one around her to resist
authority, even the authority of kings and governors. If she had been
brought up in the submissive, self-effacing manner proper to English
girls her offense would have been unnatural and unpardonable; but he
remembered with a sigh that American women, as a rule, arrogated to
themselves power and individuality, which American men, as a rule, did
not ask them to surrender. These things he accepted as some palliation
of Maria's abnormal misconduct; and also he was not oblivious to the
fact that her grandparents had for a year given her great freedom, and
that he, for his own convenience, had placed her with her grandparents.
Besides which, anger in a good heart burns itself out.
Very slowly, but yet surely, this process was going on, and Maria's
attitude was favorable to it, for she was heart-sorry for the
circumstances that had compelled her to assert the right of her
womanhood, and her pathetic self-effacement was sincere and without
reproach. By-the-by the babe came in as peacemaker. As soon as she was
permitted to see her stepmother she bent all the sweet magnetism of her
nature to winning, at least, her forgiveness. She carried the fretful
child in her arms and softly sung him to sleep, she praised his beauty,
she learned to love him, and she made the lonely hours when Mr. Semple
was at the office pass pleasantly to the sick woman. Finally one day
they came to tears and explanations; the dreadful affair was talked out,
Maria entreated forgiveness, and was not ungenerously pardoned.
This was at the close of August, and a few days afterward she received a
letter from Mrs. Gordon. "We are in London for the winter," she wrote.
"Come, child, and let me see how you look." Rather reluctantly Mrs.
Semple permitted her to make the visit. "She is the next thing to an
American," she thought, "and she will make Maria unreasonable and
disobedient again." But she need not so have feared; the primal
obligations of humanity are planted in childhood, and when we are old we
are apt to refer to them and judge accordingly.
Mrs. Gordon's first remark was not flattering, for as Maria entered her
room she cried out, "La, child! what is the matter with you? You look
ill, worried, older than you ought to look. Are you in trouble?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Stepmother?"
"Father."
"Ah! Stepmothers make stepfathers, every one knows that. We shall have a
dish of tea and you shall tell me about it. Then I will help you. But
one can't build without stone. What has the stepfather done?"
Then Maria told her friend all her trouble, and was rather chilled in
the telling by certain signs of qualified sympathy. And when the story
was finished Mrs. Gordon's first remark was yet more disheartening:
"'Tis a common calamity," she said, "and better people than you have
endured it."
"But, Madame----"
"Yes, I know what you are going to say. But you must consider first that
your father was acting quite within his authority. He had the right to
choose your husband."
"I had already chosen my husband."
"Then you ought, when you first came home, to have notified your
parents. Sure, you had so much responsibility to fulfill. Why did you
not do your duty in this matter?"
"I think I was afraid."
"To be sure you were. Little coward! Pray what did you fear? Ernest
Medway?"
"Yes. I thought, perhaps--as I told you, we parted in anger, and I
thought perhaps he might not keep his word, there were so many reasons
why he might like to break it, and also, in war-time life is uncertain.
He has been wounded, sick; he might have died."
"So might you, or I, for that matter. A pretty account you give of
yourself. Lord, child! you surely had letters to show your father."
"I had a few, but they were only a line or two. I was sure they would be
made fun of, and I was angry, too. I thought if they would not take my
word, I would not give vouchers for it. Not I!"
"Don't dash at things in that way, child. Your father was not bound to
believe your story, especially as you did not tell it until he had made
all arrangements for your marriage with this Mr. Spencer. Your conduct
was too zigzaggery; you should have been straight."
"Father ought to have believed me."
"We have it on good authority that all men are liars, and I daresay that
your father has known better people than either you or I to tell lies.
Really, I ought to give you a scolding, and this is nothing like it."
"It was such an outrage to force me to the very altar. The consequences
were at my father's door."
"Custom, use and wont, take the outrage out of many things. Good
gracious, Maria, most of the women I know were in some way or other
forced to the altar; good for them, too, and generally they found that
out. My own cousin, Lady Clarisse Home, went weeping there; Miss Anne
Gordon, a cousin of my husband, refused to get up, said she was ill, and
her friends had the marriage at her bedside. 'Tis above or below reason,
but these same women adored their husbands within a week's time."
"Oh, dear! what shall I say? What shall I do?"
"Poor little Maria! You come to England, and then are astonished that a
girl of eighteen is not allowed to have her own way, even in a husband."
"I have heard that you took your own way in England, Madame."
"In Scotland, there was some difference, and I was twenty-three and had
a fortune of my own."
"Tell me then, Madame, what I ought to do."
"I think you ought to go back to New York. You are unhappy here, and
you must make your father's home unhappy. That is not fair. If you are
in New York, Ernest Medway will have no difficulty in keeping his
word--if he wishes to do so. If he does not keep his word, you will
escape the mortification you would certainly feel in your father's
house. Ask the stepmother for permission to go back; she will manage the
rest."
"Had I not better wait till the twenty-ninth of November has come and
gone?"
"If you are a fool, do so. If you are wise, do not give opportunity so
much scope. Go at once."
This advice was carried out with all the speed possible. That very night
Maria found a good time to ask her stepmother's influence, and in spite
of some affected reluctances, she understood that her proposal was one
that gave great and unexpected satisfaction. She felt almost that she
might begin to prepare for the voyage; nor were her premonitions false.
On the third evening after the request her father came to her room to
grant it. He said he was "sorry she wished to leave him, but that under
the circumstances it was better that she left England, at least for a
year. The war is practically over," he continued, "and New York will
speedily recover herself." Then he entered into some financial
explanations of a very generous character, and finally, taking a small
package from his pocket, said:
"Give this to your grandfather. It is a miniature of his grandson,
Alexander Semple the third. He will be much delighted to see that child,
for he has no other grandson. My brothers' children are only girls."
_"Only girls!"_ The two words cut like a two-edged blade, but they were
not said with any unkind intent, though he felt the unkind impression
they made, and rose and went slowly toward the door. His manner was
hesitating, as if he had forgotten something he wished to say, and the
momentary delay gave to Maria a good thought. She followed him quickly,
and while his hand was on the door laid hers upon it. "Father," she
said, "stay a little while. I want to ask you to forgive me. I have so
often been troublesome and self-willed, I have given you so much
annoyance, I feel it now. I am sorry for it. I cannot go back to America
until you forgive me. Father, will you forgive me? Indeed, I am sorry."
He hesitated a moment, looked into her white, upturned face, and then
answered, "I forgive you, Maria. You have caused me great shame and
disappointment, but I forgive you."
"Not in that way! Oh, not in that way, father! Kiss me as you used to
do. You have not kissed me for nearly a year. Dear father, do not be so
cold and so far-off. I am only a little girl, but I am _your_ little
girl. Perhaps I do not deserve to be forgiven, but for my mother's sake
be kind to me."
At these words he turned fully to her, took her hands, and in a low,
constrained voice said, "You are a very dear little girl, and we will
let all the trouble between us be as if it had never been. We will bury
it, forgive it, and forget it evermore. It is not to be spoken of again,
not as long as we live."
Then she leaned her head against his breast and he kissed her as those
who love and forgive kiss, and the joy of reconciliation was between
them.
"Good night, Maria;" and as he held her close within his arm he added
with a laugh, "What a little bit of a woman! How high are you? Maria?"
"Just as high as your heart, father. I don't want to be any higher."
"That is a very pretty speech," and this time he kissed her voluntarily,
and with a most tender affection.
Five days after this interview Maria sailed for America. Her father had
carefully attended to all things necessary for her safety and comfort,
and her stepmother had tried to atone by profuse and handsome gifts for
the apparent unkindness which had hastened her departure. But Maria knew
herself much to blame, and she was too happy to bear ill will. She was
going to see her lover. She was going to give him the assurances which
she had so long withheld. She was now impatient to give voice to all the
tenderness in her heart.
It was the nineteenth day of September when she sailed, and on the
following day, as Mr. Semple was sitting in his office, one of the
messengers brought him a card. The light was dim and he looked intently
at it, appeared startled, rose and took it to the window for further
inspection. "Lord Medway" was certainly the name it bore, and ere he
could give any order concerning it the door opened and Lord Medway
entered.
Mr. Semple advanced to meet him, and the nobleman took the chair he
offered. "Sir," he said, hardly waiting for the preliminary courtesies,
"Sir, I cannot believe myself quite unknown to you. And I hope that you
have already some anticipation of the purport of my visit. I come to ask
the hand of your daughter Maria in marriage. I have been her devoted
lover for more than three years, and now I would make her my wife. I beg
you, sir, to examine these papers. They will give you a generally
correct idea of my wealth and of the settlement I propose to make in
favor of my wife."
Mr. Semple looked at the eager young man with a face so troubled that he
was instantly alarmed.
"What is it?" he cried. "Is Maria sick? Married? Sir, do not keep me in
suspense."
"Maria must be very near to New York. She sailed three weeks ago."
"Oh, how unfortunate I am! I am indeed distracted at this
disappointment."
"Will you come with me to my home? Mrs. Semple will tell you all that
you desire to know about Maria."
"I am obliged for your kindness, sir, but there is only one thing for me
to do. I must go back to New York by the first opportunity. I have your
permission, I trust."
"I have nothing to oppose to your wishes, Lord Medway. Maria has been
faithful to your memory, and I have every reason to know that you are
dear to her. I wish you both to be happy."
"Then, sir, farewell for the present. If Fate be not most unkind to me,
I will return with Lady Medway before the year be fully out."
He seemed to gather hope from his own prophecy, and with the charming
manner he knew well how to assume he left Mr. Semple penetrated with his
importance and dignity, and exceedingly exalted in the prospect of his
daughter's great fortune.
"I do not wonder that Maria would accept no lover in his place," he said
to Mrs. Semple. "I think, Elizabeth, he is the handsomest man I ever
saw. And I glanced at the total of his rent-roll; it is close on forty
thousand pounds a year, and likely to increase as his mining property is
opened up. Maria has done very well for herself."
"Then we have good authority for saying all men will praise her.
Nevertheless, Cousin Richard was a handsome man and an excellent match,"
said Mrs. Semple. "You had better tell Richard. It will close that
affair forever."
She was vexed, but not insensible to the social glory of the match. And
there was also the precious boy in the cradle. A relative among the
nobility would be a good thing for him; and, indeed, the subject opened
up on all sides in a manner flattering both to the pride and the
interest of the Semples.
They could not cease talking of it until sleep put an end to their hopes
and speculations. And in the morning they were so readily excited that
Mrs. Semple felt impelled to make a confidante of her nursery maid; and
Mr. Semple, being under the same necessity of conversation, was pleased
to remember that his wife had advised him to inform Richard Spencer. He
told himself that she was right, and that Richard ought to know the
reason of his rejection. It would only be proper kindness to let him
understand that Maria's reluctance was not a dislike for him
personally, but was consequent upon her love for one who had won her
heart previous to their acquaintance. That fact altered Richard's
position and made it much less humiliating.
So he went to the offices of the Spencer Company, and after some tedious
talk on the Zante currant question, he told the rejected man of Lord
Medway's visit, described his appearance, and revealed, under a promise
of secrecy, the amount of his rent-roll and the settlement proposed for
his wife.
The effect of this story was precisely in the line of what Mr. Semple
had supposed. The weakness of Richard Spencer's nature was a slavish
adoration of the nobility. To have had Lord Medway for a rival was an
honor to be fully appreciated; and to the end of his life it supplied
him, in all his hours of after-dinner confidences, with a sentimental
story he delighted to tell. "Yes, gentlemen," he would say, even when an
old man, "Yes, gentlemen, I was once in love, madly in love, with as
beautiful a creature as ever trod this earth. And she led me a pretty
dance right to the altar steps, and then deserted me. But I cannot blame
her. No, by St. George, I cannot! I had a rival, gentlemen, the young,
handsome, rich and powerful Lord Medway, a nobleman that sits in the
house of Lords and may be of the Privy Council. What hope for poor Dick
Spencer against such a rival? None at all, gentlemen, and so you see,
for Lord Medway's sake I am a bachelor, and always shall be one. No girl
for me, after the divine Maria was lost. I saw her going to the last
drawing-room and she smiled at me. I live for such little favors, and I
have reason to know my great rival does not grudge them to me."
And in this way Richard Spencer consoled himself, and was perhaps more
reasonably happy than if he had married a reluctant woman and been
grieved all the years of his life by her contradictions.
The unexpected return of Maria to her grandparents quite overthrew Lord
Medway's plans for a few hours. He had hoped to marry her in London, and
take her at once to his town house, which was even then being prepared
and adorned for her. And affairs in New York were in such a state of
chaos that he was even anxious for her personal safety. He had left
everything and every one in a state of miserable transition and
uncertainty, and he was sure things were growing worse and would
continue to do so until the departure of the hostile army and the return
of the patriotic citizens. For it was they, and they only, who had any
interest in the preservation of their beautiful city from plunder and
destruction.
And as he thought on these things, he reflected that it would be an
impossibility to secure for Maria and himself any comfortable passage
home, in the ordinary shipping, or even in the ships of war. He was sure
every available inch of room would be filled with royalist refugees, and
he knew well the likely results of men and women and children crowded
together, without sufficient food and water, and exposed to the winter's
cold and storm without any preparation for it.
"It will not do, it will not do!" he ejaculated, "whatever it costs, I
must charter a vessel for our own use."
In pursuance of this decision, he was in the largest shipping-house very
early the next morning, and with its aid, speedily secured a swift
sailing clipper. Her long, sharp bow and raking masts, pleased his
nautical sense; she was staunchly built, fit to buffet wind and waves,
and had a well-seasoned captain, who feared nothing, and was pleased at
the terms Lord Medway offered him.
Nearly two weeks were spent in victualing and fitting her for the dainty
lady she was to carry. The softest pillows and rugs and carpets, made
her small space luxuriously sufficient. Silver and china and fine linen
were provided for her table, and when all her lockers had been filled
and all her sailing wants provided for, Lord Medway brought on board a
good cook, a maid for Maria, and a valet for himself. Then he set sail
joyously; surely, at last, he was on the right road to his bridal.
Overtaking Maria was of course beyond a possibility, but he desired to
reach New York before its evacuation. He had many reasons for this, but
the chief one was a fear that unless he did so, there might be no
clergyman in New York to perform the marriage ceremony. Lovers have a
thousand anxieties, and if they do not have them, make them; and as the
"Dolphin" flew before the wind, Medway walked her deck, wondering if
Maria had arrived safely in New York, if her ship had been delayed, if
it had been taken by a privateer, if there had been any shipwreck, or
even great storms; if by any cruel chance he should reach New York, and
not find Maria there. How could he endure the consequent disappointment
and anxiety? He trembled, he turned heartsick, at any such possibility,
and when the green shores of the new world appeared, he almost wished
for a little longer suspense; he thought a certainty of Maria's absence
would kill him.
As they came nearer to the city it was found impossible to approach any
of the usual wharfs. The river was crowded with men-of-war, transports,
and vessels of every kind, and after some consideration they took to the
North River, and finally anchored in midstream, nearly opposite the
house of Madame Jacobus.
The sight of her residence inspired him with something like hope, and he
caused the small boat by which he landed to put him on shore as far
north of the heart of the city as possible. But even so, he could
distinctly hear, and still more distinctly _feel_ the sorrowful tumult
of the chaotic, almost frantic town. With swift steps and beating heart
he reached the Semple house. He stood still a moment and looked at it.
In the morning sunshine it had its usual, peaceful, orderly aspect, and
as he reached the gate, he saw the Elder open the door, and, oh, sight
of heaven! Maria stepped into the garden with him.
[Illustration: HE CAUSED THE SMALL BOAT TO PUT HIM ON SHORE.]
What happened then? Let each heart tell itself. We have many words to
express grief, none that translate the transports of love that has
conquered all the accidents of a contrary fortune. Such joy speaks
like a child, two or three words at a time, "My Darling--Oh,
Beloved--Sweetest Maria--Ernest--Ernest--At last--At last!"
But gradually they came back to the sense of those proprieties that very
wisely invade the selfishness of human beings. They remembered there
were others in the world besides themselves, and broke their bliss in
two, that they might share it. And as conversation became more general
Medway perceived that haste was an imperative necessity, and that even
haste might be too late. It was now exceedingly doubtful if a clergyman
could be procured. Trinity had no authorized rector, the Reverend Mr.
Inglis having resigned the charge on the first of November, just three
weeks previously, and the appointment of the Reverend Mr. Moore,
selected by the corporation of Trinity, not being yet approved by the
Governor of the State of New York. To an Englishman of that day, there
was no marriage legally performed but by an accredited Episcopal
minister, and this was the obstacle Lord Medway had now to face.
If General Clinton had been still in New York, the chaplain attached to
his staff would have been easily available; but Lord Medway knew little
of Sir Guy Carleton, then in command, and could only suppose his staff
would be similarly provided. As this difficulty demanded instant
attention, Medway went immediately about it. He was but barely in time.
Sir Guy thought the chaplain had already embarked, but fortunately, he
was found in his rooms, in the midst of his packing, and the offer of a
large fee made a short delay possible to him. It was then the twentieth
of November, and the evacuation of the British troops and refugees was
to be completed on the twenty-fifth. There was no time to be lost, for
an almost insane terror pervaded the minds of the royalists, and Medway
hastened back to Maria to expedite her preparations.
"Only one day, my dear one," he said, "can be allowed you. You must
pack immediately. If your trunks can be sent to Madame Jacobus to-night,
I will have the captain of the 'Dolphin' get them on board as early as
possible to-morrow. During to-day you must make all your arrangements.
The clergyman will be waiting for us in St. Paul's Chapel at nine
o'clock in the morning. Will your grandparents go with us to the
church?"
"I think not, Ernest. They would rather bid me good-bye in their own
home, and it will be better so. Uncle Neil has begged grandfather not to
go into the city; he says it would be both dangerous and heart-breaking
to him--yet we will ask them."
It was as Maria had supposed; the Elder and Madame preferred to part
with their little girl in private. With smiles and tears and blessings,
they gave her into Lord Medway's care and then sat down on their lonely
hearth to rejoice in her joy and good fortune. They did not, however,
talk much; a few words now and then, and long pauses between, in which
they wandered back to their own bridal, and the happy, busy days that
were gone forever.
"It will be Neil next," said the Elder sadly.
"Yes. The Bradleys will be home on the twenty-seventh. He is set on
Agnes Bradley."
"I'm sorry for it."
"She suits him. I know you never liked the family."
"Far awa' from it."
"Neil says the son is to marry Mary Wakefield. Agnes has been with the
Wakefields; Mary is the youngest daughter."
"And the saddler will open his shop again?"
"Yes. His son is to be his partner. John Bradley thinks he has a 'call'
to preach. He has got the habit of wandering about, working and
preaching. Agnes says he will never give it up."
After a long pause the Elder spoke again: "Maria is sure to be happy;
she has done well."
"No woman could be happier. Has Neil told you what he is going to do?"
"He canna stay here, Janet. That is beyond thinking of. Any bill of
attainder would include him. He is going to Boston to pick up the lines
o' his brother's business. Alexander made a fortune there; the name o'
Semple is known and respected, and John Curwen, who has plenty o' money,
will be in the business with him. He'll do well, no fear o' Neil."
"Then he'll get married."
"To be sure; men are aye eager to meet that trouble."
"Alexander!"
"And speaking o' bills o' attainder, I'll like enough hae my name on
one."
"No, you won't. If you'll only bide at hame and keep your whist anent a'
public matters, you'll be left alane. If you have enemies, I hae
friends--great and powerful friends--and there's our two sons to stand
on your right hand and your left. Robert and Allen left a' and followed
the American cause from the first. They are good sureties for you. And
what of your friend, Joris Van Heemskirk?"
"We'll see, we'll see. He may have changed a deal; he was always fond o'
authority, and for eight years he has been giving orders and saying 'go'
and 'come' and 'do this.' I took a bit walk down the road yestreen, and
I saw that creature Batavius polishing up the brass knocker o' his
father-in-law's front door. He had raked the littered garden, and Joanna
was putting up clean curtains. And he came waddling down to the gate and
said, 'Good-morning, Elder,' and I could but say the same to him. And
then he said, 'We are all getting ready for the coming home o' our brave
soldiers, and I am satisfied; it is a steady principle of mine to be
satisfied with the government. Governor Clinton bowed to me yesterday,
and he is the friend of General Washington. I notice these things, for
it is my way to notice everything.' And I interrupted him and said,
'Your principles change with your interests, sir,' and he fired up and
asked: 'Why not, then? It is a principle of mine to go with the times,
for I will not be left behind. I am a sailor, and I know that it is a
fool that does not turn his sail with the wind. When the wind blows west
I will not sail east;' and I said, 'you will do very well in these
times,' and he laughed and answered, '_Ja!_ I always do very well. I am
known for that everywhere.' So I left him, but the world seems slipping
awa' from me, Janet."
"I am at your side, and there's nae bride nor bridegroom o' a day half
as much to each other as you are to me and I to you. And if this warld
fails, it is not the only warld." And they looked lovingly at each other
and were silent and satisfied.
In the meantime the little wedding party had gathered at the altar of
St. Paul's Chapel: Neil, who gave away Maria, Madame Jacobus and her
friend Counselor Van Ahrens; Lord Medway with Sir Francis Lauve and his
sister Miss Estelle Lauve, members of an English family with whom he had
been familiar. The chaplain was waiting when the bride arrived, and the
words that made her Lord Medway's wife were solemnly said. There was no
music, no flowers, no bells, no theatrical effects of any kind, but the
simple, grand words of resignation and consecration had all the serious
joy and sacred character of a happy religious rite, and every heart felt
that nothing could have been more satisfactory. Maria wore the dark
cloth dress and long coat she intended to travel in, and as she knelt
bareheaded at the altar, Madame Jacobus held the pretty head-covering
that matched it. So that as soon as the registry had been made in the
vestry, she bid farewell to all her friends, and with a look of adorable
love and confidence placed her hand in her husband's.
He was so happy that he was speechless, and he feared a moment's delay.
Until he had Maria safely on board the "Dolphin," he could not feel
certain of her possession. The suspense made him silent and nervous; he
could only look at his bride and clasp her hands, until she had passed
safely through the crowded streets and was securely in the cabin of the
waiting ship. Then, with the wind in her sails and the sunshine on her
white deck, the "Dolphin" went swiftly out to sea.
But not until the low-lying land was quite lost to sight was Lord Medway
completely satisfied. Then he suffered the rapture in his heart to find
words. He folded Maria in her furs, and clasped her close to his side,
and as the daylight faded and the stars shone out upon her lovely face,
he told her a thousand times over, how dear, how sweet, how beautiful
she was!
Ah! Youth is sweet! and Life is dear to Love and Youth; and these two
were supremely happy while whole days long they talked of their past and
their future. And though the journey lasted their honeymoon out, they
were not sorry. They were going to be in London for the Christmas feast,
and Medway remembered that he had promised Mr. Semple to "bring Lady
Medway home before the New Year," and he was pleased to redeem his word.
"For I liked your father, Maria," he said. "He seemed to me one of the
finest gentlemen I ever met, and----"
"My stepmother is a lady also," Maria answered, "one of the Norfolk
Spencers; and many women would have been worse to me than she was.
Sometimes I was in the wrong too."
"They must keep Christmas with us. _Christmas in our own home!_ Maria,
you hold me by my heart. Sweet, say what you wish, and you shall have
it." And indeed it would be impossible to express in written words a
tithe of the great content they had. For all their hopes and plans and
dreams of future happiness were
"but Ministers of Love
And fed his sacred flame,"
and the bliss so long afar, at length so nigh, rested in the great peace
of its attainment.
In leaving New York immediately after their marriage, Lord and Lady
Medway escaped the misery of seeing the last agony of the royalist
inhabitants of that city. For six months Sir Guy Carleton had been
sending them to Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, Canada, to the Bahamas and
the West India Islands, and yet the condition of the city in these last
days is indescribable. To remove a large household is no easy matter,
but the whole city had practically to be moved, and at the same time at
least two thousand families driven from their homes at the occupation of
New York, had returned and were gradually taking possession of their
deserted dwellings. The confusion was intensified at the last by the
distraction of those who had hesitated until delay was no longer
possible, by the sick and the helpless, and the remnant who had been
striving to procure money, or were waiting for relatives and friends.
Such a scene as New York presented on the morning of the final
evacuation on the twenty-fifth of November, 1783, has no parallel in
modern history.
It was followed by a scene not only as intensely dramatic, but also as
exhilarating and joyful as the former was distracting and
despairing--the entry of the triumphant Army of Freedom. As the
rearguard of the British army left the Battery, it came marching down
the Bowery--picked heroes of a score of battlefields--led by General
Knox. It passed by Chatham Street and Pearl Street to Wall Street and so
to Broadway, where it waited for the procession headed by General
Washington and Governor Clinton, the officers of the army, citizens on
horseback, and citizens on foot. A salute of thirteen guns greeted the
columns as they met, arms were presented and the drums beat. As a
military procession, it was without impressiveness, as a moral
procession, it was without equal in the annals of the world. No bells
chimed congratulations, no bands of music stirred popular enthusiasm; it
notably lacked all the usual pomp of military display, but no grander
army of self-wrought freemen ever greeted their chief, their homes, and
their native city.
Madame Jacobus, weeping tears of joy, viewed it from her window. Early
in the morning she had sent a closed carriage for her friend Madame
Semple; but it had returned empty.
"Janet Semple kept herself alive for this day," she said. "I wonder why
she did not come. She prayed that her eyes might see this salvation, and
then she has not come to see it. What is the matter, I wonder?"
A very simple and yet a very great thing was the matter. When Madame had
put on her best gown, some little necessity took her back to the parlor.
The Elder was crouching over the fire and down his white face tears were
unconsciously streaming. She could not bear it; she could not leave him.
"The joy is there, the victory is won, and the blessing is for a'
generations," she said. "I'll never be missed in the crowd, and I can
sing 'Glory be to God' in my ain house. So I'll stay where I'm needed,
by my dear auld man; it was for better or for worse, for richer or
poorer, in joy, or in sorrow, while baith our lives lasted," she mused,
"and Janet Semple isna one to forget that bargain." She went quickly
back to her room, spoke only into the ear of God her joy and her
thanksgiving, and then taking off her festival garments, knocked at
Neil's door as she went down stairs.
"Are you going out, Neil?"
"No; I shall stay with father. I am just going to him."
They went together, and as they entered the room, the Elder looked up:
"Aren't you going to see the show, Neil?" he asked.
"I prefer to stay with you, sir," was the answer. The old man looked
from his son to his wife gratefully, and murmuring, "Thank you baith,"
he fainted away.
Tenderly they lifted him to a couch, and he soon responded to the
remedies applied; but Janet gave him a soothing draught, and they sat
the afternoon through, watching him. They could hear the joyful
acclaims--the shouts and songs of a redeemed people--the noise of a
multitude giving itself to a tumultuous joy; but the real gladness of
grateful hearts was by the rekindled hearth fires. Fathers and mothers
at home again! After seven years' wandering, they knew what Home meant.
Their houses were dismantled, but they had Liberty! Their gardens were
destroyed, their shade trees burnt, but they had Liberty! Their churches
were desecrated, but they had Liberty! Their trade was gone, their fair
city mutilated and blackened with fire, her streets torn up, and her
wharfs decayed, but thank God, they had Liberty! Never again would they
be the subjects of any king, or the victims of any imposed tyranny. They
were free men. They had won their freedom, and they who have once tasted
of the sharp, strong wine of Freedom will drink thereof forever.
* * * * *
These events occurred exactly one hundred and eighteen years ago, but
those who happen to be in that lovely country which lies between
Yorkshire and Lancashire can find in Medway Castle one frail memento of
them. A little diplomacy and a little coin of the realm dropped into the
keeper's hand will procure them admittance. And after viewing its rooms
of state, its splendid library, and its picture gallery, they may seek a
little room toward the sunrising, called "the Lady Maria's parlor." Its
furniture of crimson satin is faded now, but it doubtless suited well
the dark beauty so well depicted in a large portrait of her, that is one
of the ornaments of the east wall. The portrait of her husband, Lord
Ernest Medway, is near to it, but between them is a sheet of ordinary
writing paper, yellow with age, but still keeping a legible copy of
three verses and the pretty, simple, old tune to which they were sung.
It is the original copy of _"The Song of a Single Note,"_ the song they
sang together at Nicholas Bayard's summer entertainment one hundred and
twenty-one years ago. Lord Medway always said it was an enchanted song,
and that, as its melodious tones fell from his lady's lips, they charmed
his heart away and gave it to her forever.
And if other lovers would learn this fateful melody, why here is a copy
of it. If they sing it but once together, it may be that they will sing
it as long as they live:
"For through the sense, the song shall fit
The soul to understand."
A SONG OF A SINGLE NOTE.
[Illustration: A song of a sin-gle note.
But it soars and swells a-bove
The trum-pet's call and clash of arms,
For the name of the song is Love,
Love, Love, The name of the song is Love.]
Mortals may sing it here below,
The angels sing it above;
For all of heaven that earth can know
Is set to the Song of Love,
Love, love, love, is set to the Song of Love.
Then bid the trumpet and drum be still,
And battle flags idly float;
Better by far that men should sing
The Song of a Single Note.
Love, love, love, the Song of a Single Note.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Some of the illustrations have been moved so that they correspond to
the text and do not break up paragraphs. The biggest change was the
movement of the illustration "Maria lay dressed upon her bed" from
facing page 100 to page 305, near the corresponding text. Because of
these changes, the page numbers of the illustrations no longer match
the page numbers in the List of Illustrations.
Throughout the book, the name of one of the characters was "DuBois",
but four times the name was given as "Du Bois". In each of those four,
instances, "Du Bois" was replaced with "DuBois". Likewise, another
character was sometimes named "Andre" and sometimes named "Andre". In
this case, "Andre" was replaced with "Andre".
Thoughout the book, quotation mark usage is different than current
usage. Quotation mark usage was "corrected" only where the printed
usage would be confusing to the reader. In some cases a single set of
quotation marks was used for multiple paragraphs, in those caes the
quotation marks were not changed.
Throughout the dialogues, there were words and punctuation used to
mimic accents of the speakers. Those words and punctuation were
retained.
In the Contents, a period was placed after "V".
In the Prologue, a quotation mark was placed at the end of the poem.
On page 2, a period was placed after "easily go further".
On page 7, a period was placed after "by a meadow", and a period was
placed after "I should say".
On page 14, a quotation mark was removed after the phrase "called for
a fresh pipe.".
On page 17, "to speak them" was replaced with "to speak to them".
On page 27, the double quotation marks around the poem has been
replaced with single quotation marks, as the poem is part of a larger
quote.
On page 38, "He eat of all" was replaced with "He ate of all".
On page 48, a period was placed after "he is her lover".
On page 49, "doubt and fear and love's first food" was replaced with
"doubt and fear are love's first food".
On page 55, a double quotation mark before "Mr. Bradley, it is the
King's birthday" was replaced with a single quotation mark.
On page 65, "she asked" was replaced with "She asked".
On page 74, the double quotation mark was removed after "Wonderful!".
On page 79, the single quotation mark after "They, too, have saved
us." was replased with a double quotation mark.
On page 84, a double quotation mark was placed before "Oh, you must
be".
On page 86, the quotation mark was removed after "though we may not
admit it."
On page 94, "have not began" was replaced with "have not began".
On page 97, "exhilerating" was replaced with "exhilarating".
On page 109, the quotation mark was removed after "they would likely
hear it from some one.".
On page 110, "colums" was replaced with "columns".
On page 123, "confident and adviser" was replaced with "confidant and
adviser".
On page 131, a double quotation mark was placed after "at nine
o'clock. Harry.".
On page 131, a double quotation mark was placed before "I am sure
that".
On page 154, a period was added after "I refuse to say".
On page 162, the quotation mark was removed after "I will stand
still."
On page 163, a quotation mark was added after "but for my father, it
had gone badly with you!"
On page 165, a comma was added after "And there is another thing".
On page 169, "There has a low" was replaced with "There was a low".
On page 171, a period was added after "said Harry".
On page 175, a quotation mark was added before "One hundred years
ago--in Scotland".
On page 178, the period after "Would you be content if I saved his
life" was replaced with a question mark.
On page 182, a double quotation mark was added after "'Ernest is doing
all that can be done.'"
On page 188, "The horoine is" was replaced with "The heroine is".
On page 195, a person is referred to as "Hulen" and as "Hulens".
No change was made because there was no indication of which is the
correct name.
On page 197, "a saucy youth" was replaced with "A saucy youth".
On page 197, "and he went on talking" was replaced with "and he went
on talking".
On page 198, "he had builded" was replaced with "he had built".
On page 199, a quotation mark was added after "I make you the same
offer if you will take it."
On page 199, a period was placed after "and mental tremor".
On page 199, a period was placed after "waited for Neil's reply".
On page 200, "as you say" was replaced with "As you say".
On page 203, a period was placed after "will be paid to-morrow".
On page 207, "tapsalterie" was replaced with "tapsalteerie".
On page 221, A double quotation mark was removed before "This remark
Maria did not approve of".
On page 227, "curiuosly" was replaced with "curiously".
On page 234, a quotation mark was added after "less almighty and mair
sensible than others.".
On page 240, "consiousness" was replaced with "consciousness".
On page 244, the semicolon after "aboon ten thousand" was replaced
with a period.
On page 248, "the butt o 'a lot o' fellows" was replaced with "the
butt o' a lot o' fellows".
On page 253, a period was put after "lost its chief advantage for
defense".
On page 251, a quotation mark was added after "Meets all its wants."
On page 251, "scrimage" was replaced with "scrimmage".
On page 257, a quotation mark was added after the phrase "said Lord
Medway,".
On page 258, the period after "in the sweet Spring evening" was
replaced with a comma.
On page 263, a quotation mark was placed after "do love me, Maria?".
On page 272, "my father insist" was replaced with "my father insists".
On page 283, a double quotation mark was placed after "I think,
indeed,".
On page 290, "situaton" was replaced with "situation."
On page 296, the quotation mark after "in her heart for him." was
removed.
On page 296, a quotation mark was placed after "such a person".
On page 302, "vesty" was replaced with "vestry".
On page 309, a quotation mark was placed after "to show your father."
On page 310, a quotation mark was placed after "you should have been
straight."
On page 323, the quotation mark was removed after "silent and
satisfied."
On page 323, "alter" was replaced with "altar".
On page 326, "exhilerating" was replaced with "exhilarating".
On page 329, "they may seek a litttle" was replaced with "they may
seek a little".