She rose and walked across the room a few times, and then, being cold, came back to the fire, knelt on the rug and warmed her hands. He watched her intently, but did not speak. She was trying to find something which should atone to her better self for such a contract. It came with the thought of Harry's father and Agnes. For their sakes, she ought to do all she could. Harry, for her sake, had taken his life in his hand and forfeited it; surely, then, it was right that she, having the power to do so, should redeem it. Better that he should live for others than die for her. Better that she should lose him in the living world than in the silent grave. Through Agnes she would hear of his comings and goings, his prosperity, and his happiness; but there would come no word to her from the dead whether at all he lived and loved, or not. With a quick, decisive motion she rose and looked at the man who was waiting in such motionless, but eager, silence.
"A life for a life!" she said simply, offering Medway her hand.
"You mean that you will be my wife?"
"Yes. I will marry you when the war is over."
"Or when you are twenty-one, even if it be not over?"
"Yes."
"Now, then," he said, "you are my betrothed;" and he drew her within his arm. "My honor, my hopes, my happiness, are in your hands."
"They are safe. Though I am only a girl, I know what my promise means. I shall keep it."
"I believe you. And you will love me? You will learn to love me, Maria?"
"I will do my best to make you happy, you ought not to ask more."
"Very well." He looked at her with a new and delightful interest. She was his own, her promise had been given. He could, indeed, tell by her eyes, – languid, but obstinately masterful – that she would not be easily won, but he did not dislike that; he would conquer her by the strength of his own love; he would make her understand what love really meant. Still, he felt that for the present it would be better to go away, so he said:
"You shall hear from me as soon as possible. Try and sleep, my dear one. You may tell yourself, 'Ernest is doing all that can be done.'" Then he took her hands and kissed them, and in a moment she was alone. Her heart was heavy as lead, and she was cold and trembling, but she was no longer in the shadow of Death. Medway's face, turned to her in the semi-darkness of the open door, was full of hope; and there was an atmosphere of power about the man which assured her of success; but she truly felt at that hour as if it was bought with her life. She was in the dungeon of despair; there seemed nothing to hope for, nothing to desire, in all the to-morrows of the years before her. "And I may have sixty years to live," she moaned; for youth exaggerates every feeling, and would be grieved to believe that its sorrows were not immortal.
She pushed the dying fire safely together, looked mournfully round the darksome room, closed and locked the door. Then Neil came toward her and asked if Lord Medway could do anything, and she answered, "He can save Harry's life; he has promised that. I suppose he will be imprisoned, but his life is saved. What did grandmother say about Lord Medway being here?"
"She has never been down stairs. She does not know he was here."
"Then we will not tell her. What is the use?"
"None at all. Father and mother have their own trouble. They are very anxious and almost broken-hearted at the indignity put upon our family. I heard my father crying as I passed his door and mother trying to comfort him, but crying, too. It made my heart stand still."
"It is my fault! It is my fault! Oh! what a wicked, miserable girl I am! What can I do? What can I do?"
"Try and sleep, and get a little strength for tomorrow. Within the next twenty-four hours Harry Bradley will be saved or dead."
"I think he is saved. I am sure of it."
"Then try and sleep; will you try, Maria?"
"Yes."
She said the word with a hopeless indifference, half nullifying the promise. Then, lighting her candle, she went slowly to her room. Oh, but the joy that is dead weighs heavy! Maria could hardly trail her body upstairs. Her life felt haggard and thin, as if it was in its eleventh hour; and she was too physically exhausted to stretch out her hand into the dark and find the clasp of that Unseen Hand always waiting the hour of need, strong to uphold, and ready to comfort. No, she could not pray; she had lost Harry: there was nothing else she desired. In her room there was a picture of the crucifixion, and she cast her eyes up to the Christ hanging there, forsaken in the dark, and wondered if He pitied her, but the pang of unpermitted prayer made her dumb in her lonely grief.
Alas, God Christ! along the weary lands,
What lone, invisible Calvaries are set!
What drooping brows with dews of anguish wet,
What faint outspreading of unwilling hands
Bound to a viewless cross, with viewless bands.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HELP OF JACOB COHEN
On leaving Maria, Lord Medway went straight to his friend General Clinton. He had just dined, and having taken much wine, was bland and good-tempered. Medway's entrance delighted him. "I have had my orderly riding about for a couple of hours looking for you," he said. "Where have you been Ernest? My dinner wanted flavor without you."
"I have been seeing some people about this son of Bradley's that the Police Court has in its clutches. By-the-bye, why don't you put a stop to its infamous blackmailing? As a court, it is only a part of Howe's treachery, formed for the very purpose of extortion, and of bringing His Majesty's Government into disrepute. Abolish the whole affair, Henry. You are court sufficient, in a city under martial law."
"All you say is true, Ernest, and there is no doubt that Matthews and DuBois and the rest of them are the worst of oppressors. But I am expected to subjugate the whole South this winter, and I must leave New York in three or four weeks now."
"The Government expects miracles of you, Henry; but if military miracles are possible, you are the soldier to work them. I have found out to-day why you are not more popular; it is this Police Court, and they call it a Military Police Court, I believe; and all its tyrannies are laid to you because your predecessor instituted it. They might as well lay Howe's love for rebels to you."
"Speaking of rebels, I hear most suspicious things of Bradley's son. In fact, he is a spy. Matthews tells me that he ought to have been hung to-day. There is something unusual about the affair and I wanted to talk to you concerning it. Bradley himself has been here and said things that have made me uncomfortable – you know how he brings the next world into this one; Smith has been here, also, asking me to pardon the fellow, because the feeling in the city about Tryon's doings in Connecticut is yet like smoldering fire in the hearts of the burghers. Powell has been here asking me to pardon, because the spy's father has a thousand bridles to make for the troops going South, and he thinks hanging the youth would kill his father, or at least incapacitate him for work, and Rivington has just left, vowing he will not answer for consequences if his newspaper does not sympathize with the Bradleys. If Bradley's son had been the arch-rebel's son, there could hardly have been more petitions for his life. I don't understand the case. What do you say?"
"That Matthews and DuBois have made a tremendous blunder in fining the Semples for disloyalty in the matter. I will warrant the Semples' loyalty with my own."
"So would I. It is indisputable."
"Yet the Elder has been fined two hundred pounds, and Mr. Neil Semple one hundred pounds, because Bradley's son tied his boat at their landing; a fact they were as ignorant of as you or I. And you get the blame and ill-will of such tyranny, Henry. It is shameful!"
"It is," answered Clinton in a tone of self-pity; "the boat, however, was full of goods, about which the young man would say nothing at all."
"Women's bits of lace and ribbons; a mended fan, and some gloves and stockings."
"There was also a Bradley saddle."
"Yes, Bradley acknowledged it."
"Then father or son ought to have given information about it."
"It was their business; and if either you or I were brought before such an irresponsible court and such autocratic judges, I dare say we should consider silence our most practical weapon of defense. In Harry Bradley's position, I should have acted precisely as he did. The whole affair resolves itself into a lovers' tryst; the lad would not give the lady a disagreeable publicity; he would die first. You yourself would shield any good woman with your life, Henry, you know you would."
And Clinton thought of the bewitching Mrs. Badely and the lovely Miss Blundell, and answered with an amazing air of chivalry, "Indeed I would!"
"Have you ever noticed a Captain Macpherson, belonging to your own Highland regiment?"
"Who could help noticing him? He is always the most prominent figure in every room."
"He will be so no longer. He was almost hissed out of court to-day, and I was told the demonstrations on the street sent him stamping and swearing to his quarters. Well, he is the villain of this pitiful little drama. The heroine is that lovely granddaughter of Semples."
"I know her; a little darling! and as good as she is beautiful."
Then Medway, with an inimitable scornful mimicry told the story of the pebble and the note, the alarm of the Highland troops, the arrest of the Elder and his son, the subsequent proceedings in court, the sympathy of the people with the Semples, and the contempt which no one tried to conceal for the informer. Then, changing his voice and attitude, he described Bradley's speechless grief, the Semple's wounded loyalty and indignation, and finally the passionate sorrow of the mistress and sister of the doomed man.
"It is the most pitiful story of the age," he continued, "and if I were you, Henry, I would not permit civilians to usurp the power you ought to hold in your own hand. You have to bear the blame of all the crimes committed by this infamous court. Pardon the prisoner with a stroke of your pen, if only to put these fellows in their proper place."
"But there was a cipher message in his possession – here it is. It was in the binding of a book he carried in his pocket."
"He says he did not put it there. No one can read it. If you found a letter in the Babylonish speech, would you hang a man because you could not read the message he carried!"
"Special pleading, Ernest. And he ought to have told who rebound the book, and to whom he was carrying it. The paper on which the cipher is written is my paper. Some one, not far from me, must have taken it."
"Suppose you question Smith?"
"Do you intend to say that Smith is a traitor?"
"I say, ask Smith. I have no doubt he can read the Babylonish for you – if he will."
"You alarm me. Am I surrounded by enemies?"
"I think you have many round you. I have warned you often. My advice to you at this time is to pardon young Bradley."
"Why are you taking such an interest in young Bradley?"
"I have no secrets from you, he is my rival."
"Preposterous! How could he rival you in anything?"
"Yet he is my rival in the affections of Maria Semple."
"Then let him hang! He will be out of your way."
"No, he would be forever in my way. She would idolize him, make him a hero and a saint, and worship him in some secret shrine of memory as long as she lives. I am going to marry her, and I want no secret shrines. He is a very good-looking, ordinary young man; only the circumstances of the time lifted him out of the average and the commonplace. Let him go scot free that he may find his level which is far below the horizon of my peerless Maria."
"I don't think I can let him go 'scot free,' Ernest. I should offend many if I did, and it would be made a precedent; suppose I imprison him during the continuance of the war!"
"That is too romantic. Maria would haunt the prison and contrive some way of communication. He would still be her hero and her lover."
"And you will marry this infatuated girl?"
"Yes, a thousand times, yes! Her love for that boy is mere sentiment. I will teach her what love really means. She has promised to marry me – if I save Harry Bradley's life."
"I never saw you taken so with any woman before."
"I never cared for a woman before. The moment I saw Maria Semple it was different. I knew that she belonged to me. Henry, you are my best friend, give me my wife; no one but you can do so."
"Ernest! Ernest! You ask a great thing."
"Not too great for you to grant. You have the will and you have the power. Are you not going to make me happy, Henry?"
"Privately, it would be a delight to humor you, Ernest; but officially, what am I to say to Matthews, DuBois and others."
"Tell them, that as a matter of military policy, you wish the prisoner released. Why should you make explanations to them? Oh, they are such courtiers, they will smile and do all you wish. You are above their rascally court; reverse their decision in this affair and show them your power. Believe me, it will be, politically, a wise step."
There was silence for a few moments, and then Clinton said: "I am sorry for the Semples. I like them both, and there is something about the saddler that sets him above other men. But it would not be right to let this young spy – for he is a spy – off, without some punishment."
"I think that is right."
"He must be told that he will be shot on sight if he enters New York again."
"He will deserve it."
"And I will have him drummed out of the city as a rogue and a suspect. We will make no hero of him – quite the contrary."
"I oppose nothing of that kind. I ask for his life and his freedom, because he stands between Maria Semple and myself. If I wanted any other reason, because I thoroughly respect his father, and am on excellent terms with his sister, who has been very hospitable to me and who is a remarkable girl. It has troubled me to-day to remember her lonely sorrow and anxiety."
"You have given me three good reasons for granting your request, and have omitted the strongest of all, Ernest."
"What is that, Henry?"
"That I love you."
"And I love you. You have always been like a big brother to me; always petted me and humored my desires."
"Well, then, I will see Matthews and DuBois in the morning."
"Send for them here to-night. If their court is a Military Police Court, you are Commander-in-Chief."
"Right! I will send for them. It is only about nine o'clock."
"And you will insist that the prisoner be given his life and freedom – nothing less?"
"I give you my word for it. But I will have him punished as I said. He must be prevented from coming to New York again. This kind of thing can not happen twice."
"I know. If words could thank you, Henry, I would say them."
"Nonsense, Ernest; what are words between us? We know each other's heart;" then he laid his arm across his friend's shoulder and their hands clasped; there was no need of words.
Very early in the morning Maria and Agnes received the good tidings. Maria was asleep when Medway's letter, with a basket of hot-house fruit was brought to her. Agnes was making her father's coffee, and they both looked at the unexpected letter with a fearful anticipation. But as soon as Agnes glanced at it, she perceived that it brought good news, and she gave it to her father. She could not speak, and for a few minutes Bradley was equally silent. Not that they were ungrateful, oh, no! They were only inarticulate. They had a gratitude so deep and holy that they had no words with which to express it; and when the happy father found speech, it was weak and tremulous as that of a man in the last extremity. "I was brought low, and He helped me!" That was all, but he stood up, steadying himself by his chair, and uttered the verse with a reverence and holy joy that no language can describe.
In a little while he began to talk to his daughter. "I knew God would not fail me," he said. "Yesterday afternoon I did all I could, and then I left the rest with Him. I saw General Clinton and said a few words which he could not gainsay. I saw Smith, and told him plainly if Harry died, he should translate that cypher message to the Commander-in-Chief. I saw Powell, and many others, whom I hold at my mercy, and they know that now, if they never knew it before. Andrews left New York an hour after I saw him; he is a fearful creature and he believed I would speak, though Harry had been silent; well, I must see the boy as soon as possible, there is certain to be some difficulty that only gold can overcome. I hope they will not imprison him."
"Lord Medway says, he will be set free."
"Thank God!"
He rose with the words and Agnes brought him his top-coat. Then, as they stood face to face, she was shocked at the ravage thirty hours of travail in the shadow of death had made on him. "Father," she said, "oh, father, forgive me! I did wrong to deceive you! I did wrong!"
"Yes, my girl, you did wrong; and nothing right can come from wrong; but Agnes, I have been worse than you. I, also, have been living a deceitful life, thinking that the end justified the means. I set you the example. Your fault is my fault. We have both been trying to do the right thing in our own way. We have been patriots, as Nicodemus was a Christian – by night. That is wrong. We must do right first hand, not second hand. From this hour that kind of thing will be sinning with our eyes open; it will be looking God's Commandments in the face, and then breaking them. Do you understand, Agnes?"
Then he went away, and Agnes tried to turn to her household duties. She wondered if Maria would come and see her or if she ought to go to Maria, and while she was debating the question Neil called. He was much depressed. The good news about Harry only affected him through Agnes, and he was very anxious about his father, who was in a high fever and was constantly talking of his fine and his inability to pay it. "Maybe I'll hae to go to prison for the debt," was his constant cry, and Neil felt that his father's fine must be satisfied, no matter at what cost. So it was a troubled little visit; the day before each was so uncertain, so full of probabilities which the slightest momentum might divert to either joy or sorrow. They could not feel that their congratulations were full ripe; something might yet happen to destroy their hopes.
Neil went first to his office. He found Mr. Curtis preparing for the court, and as yet unaware of the decision in Harry's case; "but it is a great piece of good luck for the young scamp," he said, when Neil told him, "for he's a spy, if ever there was one. I have no doubt he deserves death, fifty times over."
"I have no doubt there are fifty men in New York who deserve it more than he does – men of power and prominence."
"I would keep such observations to myself, Neil. Your father is far too outspoken and he is paying for it now."
"I hope my father will never be less outspoken."
"Well, as I say, he has to pay for his opinions. He has two hundred pounds to pay, but then he had his two hundred pounds worth of fault-finding."
"What do you mean, Curtis?"
"Don't you remember how imprudently he spoke about Mr. Hulen's imprisonment?"
"He said nothing but the truth. Mr. Hulens is the most loyal of gentlemen, but because he was not sufficiently polite to a town major, he was imprisoned with felons and vagabonds and afterward compelled to publicly apologize. It was an infamous wrong."
"Precisely what the Elder said. It has not been forgotten."
"There were the two De Lanceys – "
"Yes, to be sure! And why did he trouble himself about them? There are enough of De Lanceys to look after De Lanceys."
"The injustice of the affair was every man's business. These two De Lanceys were private gentlemen, who, because they had some words with a German chasseur, were seized in their homes and tried by court-martial – though they had no connection whatever with the army: at the worst it was a simple assault, the most trifling offense the civil law notices, yet the De Lanceys were degraded and imprisoned for two months, and then compelled to beg this German mercenary's pardon before all the troops at Kingsbridge. Remember Mr. Hicks, turned out of his hotel by General Patterson at the request of that unmentionable creature Loring – because Loring wanted it for one of his parasites. Remember poor Amberman, the miller at Hempstead, who, because he asked Major Stockton for payment for the flour he had bought, was nearly flogged to death, and then run through with Major Crew's sword, and kicked out of the way – dead. Nothing was done to Stockton; I met him on the street an hour ago, still an officer in His Majesty's service. I could add one hundred examples to these – but what is the use? And why are we lawyers? There is no law. The will of any military officer is the law."
"Still we are lawyers, Neil; and special counselors to three of the commissaries."
"I shall not be counselor much longer. I am going to write my resignation now."
"Are you mad? These fees are about all the ready money we make."
"I should deserve to be called mad, or worse, if I continued to serve a government which had just fined me for not being careful of its interests."
"For Heaven's sake, don't throw hundreds a year away for a figment!"
"Honor is something more than a figment. But you had better go to court early this morning. When you come back, I want you to let me have two hundred pounds until I can sell some property."
Curtis burst into a loud laugh: "I could not let you have two hundred shillings," he said. "Good gracious, Neil, how can you suppose I have money to spare?"
"I know you have money, but if you are averse to lending it, that is a different thing. I thought you might have some memory of all I have done for you."
"I have. Of course I have. You have put thousands of pounds in my way; I don't deny or forget it, but I have a family – "
"I understand. I wish you would hasten about Bradley's case. His father will be expected to pay for their service."
"I suppose his case is settled. I am sorry he has got off – deuced sorry! A saucy youth who looked defiance at his betters all the time."
"Were they his betters?"
"He ought to be hung!" And he went on talking rapidly about Bradley's deserts. Neil knew the bluster was affected in order to prevent recurrence to the subject of money, and with a heart hot and wounded he sat down to write his resignation of the offices which were his principal support. Curtis was disconcerted and uneasy, and his last words on leaving the office were an entreaty to Neil to do "nothing foolish and hasty." But the papers were written, and then he took himself to the proper departments.
He was woefully unhappy. His father's and mother's condition made his strong heart tremble, and though no one could have supposed from his appearance that he had a single care, the sudden falling away of his friends and acquaintances wounded him like a sword.
As he walked the streets, so gravely erect, so haughtily apart, he was made to feel, in many ways, that he had lost in public estimation. No one took the trouble to ask him a favor or stopped to seek his opinion, or told him bits of gossip about events transpiring. He was classed with the Bradleys. The Misses Robertson passed him with the most formal of recognitions; Miss Smith did not notice him at all, while Joris Van Emerslie, who had taken his advice the previous week about the sale of his business, crossed the street to avoid him.
Friends were not far behind enemies. As he stood a moment on the steps of the barracks commissary, Judge Lawson, an old man and an intimate acquaintance of the Semples, stopped and said, "Good-morning, Neil. I am glad to see you here. I heard Cornelius Bloch had asked for your position and was likely to get it."
"I did not resign my position, Judge, until five minutes ago. The commissioners have not yet received it."
"Very true, but every one knew you must resign – the servants of the King must be above suspicion, eh?"
"Suspicion, sir!"
"Now, now, Neil! You must keep your temper for younger men; I am too old to be bluffed."
Then Neil walked silently away, and the old friend of the family watched him with a queer mingling of pity and satisfaction. "Proud creatures, them Semples, old and young," he muttered; "but good, true hearts in them, I'm half sorry for Neil, he was always ready to do me a kindness; but a little pull-down won't hurt him, he carries his head too high for anything."
But high as Neil carried his head, his heart was in the depths. It seemed to him that all the fair, honorable life he had built was falling into ruin. He needed now both help and sympathy, and his friends looked coldly upon him, or took the same reproving tone as the self-righteous comforters of the man of Uz. Full of bitter thoughts he was walking down Queen Street, when he heard a soft, familiar voice, almost at his ear, say, "Mr. Semple! Honored sir, will you speak to me for a few minutes?" He looked up quickly, and saw that he was close to the doorstep of Jacob Cohen, the Jewish dealer in fine furniture, china, jewelry, etc.
"Certainly, Mr. Cohen," he answered, as he stepped inside the gloomy warehouse, crowded with articles of great beauty and astonishing value.
"Will you sit here, if you please, sir," and Cohen drew a large stool forward for Neil; "I must not detain you, your time is worth much money, many people wish to buy it, but it is land I would buy, if you will sell it to me."
"Land, Mr. Cohen! Perhaps a house – "
"No, it is the land you own next to our synagogue. If you will remember, I had it in my heart to buy this plot of ground six years ago. I thought then we could build a larger temple, one more worthy for our worship; but we did not reach agreement at that time and then came the war. I offered you then, four hundred pounds for the land; to-day I make you the same offer if you will take it."
Neil's emotion was almost beyond his control. For a few minutes he could not answer the proposition, but Cohen had the patience of the Jew, and he divined the young man's agitation and mental tremor. Silent and motionless he waited for Neil's reply. It came strained and hesitating, as if speech was an effort.
"Mr. Cohen – I will sell you the land – yes, indeed! As you say, for four hundred pounds."
"To-morrow? Can the sale be completed to-morrow?"
"I will prepare the papers to-day."
"I am well pleased."
"Mr. Cohen, this is a great surprise – a good surprise – you do not understand how good. I believe it is something more than business you intend; it is sympathy, kindness, friendship."
"It is business, but it is kindness also, if you will accept it. Your house have ever done me good, and not evil. I and mine prayed for you – yes, the Jew knows the pang of injustice that must be borne without protest and without redress."
"You have done my family and myself an unspeakable kindness. I were the worst of ingrates not to acknowledge it," and Neil rose and offered his hand. And when Cohen took it, and held it for a few moments within his own, a marvellous change passed over the old man. The timid attitude, the almost servile respect, vanished; his face beamed with a lofty expression, his eyes met Neil's frankly; in the prosaic surroundings of the dark, crowded shop he looked, for a few moments, like an Eastern prince.
As they stood thus together, Neil longing to say something that should show his deep gratitude and friendship, and forgetting that Israel in America at that day still preserved much of their Oriental seclusion in household matters, asked after his daughter, Mrs. Belasco. "I have not seen her since her marriage," he said; "but I can never forget her. It was her promptitude in the duel between Captain Hyde and myself that saved my life."
"She has a good heart;" then suddenly, "come, come into my home, yes, come in and see her."
He walked toward the back of the shop and Neil followed him into a large, low room, where there was a table covered with a white cloth. Another white cloth, folded lengthwise, shielded the bread and the china laid ready for the noonday meal. Cohen stood at the entrance and permitted Neil to pass in. As he did so, a small, dark Jew rose and bringing forward a chair, said, "Welcome be the guest."
"This is Mr. Belasco," said Cohen, and then Neil knew the woman who was standing behind Mr. Belasco's chair. It was the still beautiful Miriam. The happiness of perfect love lighted the dusky white of her complexion and filled her glorious eyes. A brilliant silk kerchief was thrown over her black hair, and she wore a rich, flowing garment of many colors. There were gems in her ears and around her neck, and her slim, brown fingers sparkled with sapphires and diamonds. Behind her was the whitewashed wall of a room on which was traced some black Hebrew characters – wise or comforting passages from the Psalms or the Prophets; and on shelves of ordinary wood, a quantity of beautiful china, some silver vessels, and a copper lamp with seven beaks, brightly polished. Before her sat Belasco, his swarthy face revealing both power and intellect, purposely veiled beneath a manner of almost obsequious deference. But his voice, like Cohen's, was full of those vague tones of softness and melody, of which Orientals preserve the eternal poetry, with the eternal secret. Outside, but within sight and hearing, was the vibrant, noisy, military life of New York – western turmoil – hurry of business – existence without pause; but here, in this grave, unornamented room, with its domestic simplicity and biblical air, was the very atmosphere of the East.
Neil, who really possessed the heart and the imagination of a poet, felt the vibration of the far-off life, and even while addressing Mr. Belasco, had visions of palm-trees and of deserts and of long, long journeys with the caravans of camels, from oasis to oasis. He was standing amid the children of the patriarchs. These souls were of older race than himself; they had the noblest of kindreds, a country that was the mother of nations.