"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 reëntered, 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 coöperate 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."

CHAPTER X.

MARIA GOES TO LONDON

As the days lengthened, the cold strengthened, and New York experienced a winter of unparallelled severity. Food could only be procured with hard money, and at exorbitant prices, and the scarcity of fuel added greatly to the general distress. Wall Street surrendered most of its beautiful century-old shade trees, to warm the family of the German General Riederel, and before Spring, the streets and lanes of the city, the gardens and pleasure grounds of the burghers, were shorn of their finest fruit and shade trees. The aged, the very young, the men in the prisons and hospitals perished in great numbers, and the deathly cold of the atmosphere was full of the unspeakable misery everywhere present.

These distressing conditions were intensified by the fear of an attack from Washington. The waters around New York were for several weeks so hard frozen that the heaviest artillery could easily have crossed on them; and the city in losing its insular position, lost its chief advantage for defense. Knyphausen constantly expected Washington to cross the ice, and refugees and citizens alike, were formed into companies and subjected to garrison duty. During the dark, bitter watches, men sometimes froze at their posts, and women in their unheated rooms, knelt listening to the children's breathing, for the atmosphere was so deadly cold that the babes shivered, even in the covert of their mothers' breasts.

Yet, in this city of frost, and famine, and suffering, a hectic and most unnatural gaiety was kept up. Maria would have little part in it. She could find no pleasure in listening to comedies and songs, in a freezing temperature, and the warmth induced by dancing was generally followed by a most uncomfortable and dangerous chill. Her status in society also led her to feel more content in withdrawing from it a little. She was not yet to be classed among the married belles, nor was she quite at one with the girlhood that surrounded her. Her engagement to Lord Medway had set her a little apart; it was understood that she could not be in perfect sympathy with the plans and hopes of either maids or wives.

Yet her life was far from unhappy. She visited Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Jacobus a great deal; and the latter delighted in making little lunches and dinners, where the three ladies were joined by Lord Medway, and Neil Semple, and very often also by Major André, whose versatile gifts and cheerful temperament were the necessary and delightful antitheses to Neil's natural gravity and Medway's cultivated restraint. The splendid rooms of Madame Jacobus were warm, her dinners well cooked, her wines of the finest quality, her good nature never failing. She made a pet of Maria, and Lord Medway – reclining with half-closed eyes in some luxurious chair – watched his betrothed managing this clever woman, so much older than herself, with infinite satisfaction and amusement. He foresaw that she would be equal to any social position, and it never occurred to him that it was likely she would manage Lord Medway quite as thoroughly as she managed Madame Jacobus. Occasionally, Medway gave return dinners, at which Madame Semple presided, and then Maria sat at his right hand, and he proved himself to be the most charming of hosts, and the most devoted and respectful of lovers.

Conversation was never to make, every one spoke as they listed, and as their prejudices or convictions led them. There was no Quentin Macpherson present, and opinions were as much individual property as purses. One day, toward the end of January, when the temperature was so low that the dining-table had been drawn close to the hearth, the usual party were sitting in the warmth and glow of its roaring fire. The dinner was over, the servants had left the room, Medway and Maria were picking their walnuts out together, and Major André and Neil Semple talking of a game of chess. Then Madame Jacobus drawing her gay Indian shawl closer around her, said suddenly, "Pray what is the news? Has nobody a mouthful of intelligence? Are we to wait for the Americans to make us something to talk about?"

"Indeed Madame," answered Maria, "we have not yet exhausted their night attack on the British troops encamped on Staten Island."

"They got nothing but five hundred sets of frozen hands and ears," said Major André.

"Oh, yes, they did, sir; blankets and food count for something these days," said Madame, "not to speak of the nine vessels destroyed at Decker's Ferry – and the prisoners."

"It was a dashing absurdity, Madame."

"With all my soul; yet I am glad, it was an American dashing absurdity."

"You should have seen Knyphausen when he heard of it," continued André. He pulled his whiskers savagely and said 'Egad! Damn! These Americans have the come-back-again, come-back-again, of the flies; to drive them off – it is impossible – they come-back-again.' We have, however, had our turn. Four nights ago, our troops entered Newark and Elizabeth and made a few reprisals, and then he began to hum:

"The New York rebs are fat,

But the Jersey rebs are fatter;

So we made an expedition,

And carried off the latter."

Medway laughed. "Madame," he said, "the Major was desperately dull last night, and I wondered at it. But, this morning, as you hear, he is delivered of his verse, and he is cheerful."

"Oh, if the war is degenerating into midnight robberies!" cried Madame, "why does not Washington come? What hinders him from at least trying to get into New York? I do believe if he simply stood on Broadway, he would draw three-fourths of the men in the city to him; why does he not try? It might end this dreadful war one way or the other, and people are beginning to be indifferent, which way. Why, in the name of wonder, does he not try?"

"It would be a desperate 'try,'" answered André.

"Yes, but when ordinary means fail, desperate remedies should be tried."

"I saw the exact copy of a letter written by General Washington on the eighth of this month," said Lord Medway, "and in it he declares that his troops, both officers and men, are almost perishing for food; that they have been alternately without bread and meat for two weeks, a very scanty allowance of either, and frequently destitute of both. Furthermore, he describes his troops as almost naked, riotous, and robbing the people from sheer necessity. Can you expect a general to lead men in such a condition to battle? He performs a miracle in simply holding them together."

"The poor fellows! And we are warm and comfortable. It seems almost wrong."

"Oh, no!" said André. "It is the rebels who are wrong; they are like runaway horses, and, as I said to one who talked to me, 'my lad, a runaway horse punishes himself.'"

In such freedom of conversation, without a moment's doubt of each other, they passed the hours, and about four o'clock the party usually broke up, and Lord Medway wrapped Maria in her furs, and drove her home.

However, the weariest road sometimes comes to an end, and the long dreadful winter wore itself away, the ice broke up, and the sun shone warmly out of the blue skies, and the trees put forth their young, tender, little leaves. Every one was ready to cry with joy, the simple endurance of misery was over, men could now work and fight, and some movement and change would be possible. Coming home from a delightful drive in the sweet Spring evening, Medway told Maria this, and added that his furlough, so long extended by General Clinton's love, would probably terminate as soon as active hostilities began. But it was not yet a present case, and Maria did not take the supposition to heart. Besides, there had been frequent talk of her lover's departure, and somehow or other, he had never gone. At the Semple gate they stood a while. There were some lilies growing near it, and their fairy-like bells shook in the fresh wind and scattered incense all around. Maria stooped, gathered a handful, and offered them to her lover.

"Kiss them first, for me, Maria," he said, and she buried her lovely face in the fragrant posy, and then lifted it full of delight and perfume. He thought he had never before seen her so purely exquisite, so freshly adorable. His love was a great longing, he could hardly bear to leave her. So he stood holding her hands and the lilies, and looking into her face, but saying nothing, till Maria herself spoke the parting words: "I see grandmother at the door, Ernest, she is calling me; now we must say good-bye!" He could not answer her, he only kissed the lilies, leaped into the carriage, and went speechlessly away.

Maria watched him a few moments, and then hastened into the house. Madame met her at the door. "There is a letter from your father, Maria," she said; "I thought you might want to tell Ernest what news it contained, so I called you, but you didna answer me."

"Yes, I answered, 'coming, grandmother,' and here I am. What a thick letter! Have you one also?"

"Aye, there was one for your grandfather. Better take yours to your room. When you have read it, and changed your dress, tea will be waiting."

"Is grandfather at home?"

"He is; so do not stay up stairs too long."

She nodded a bright assent, and holding the letter in her hand went swiftly up the stairway. In half an hour she came back to the parlor, but her face was then troubled and even angry, and her eyes full of tears. She held out the letter to her grandmother, and asked, "Do you know what father has written to me about?"

"I have a very sure suspect," answered Madame; but she went on setting out her china, and did not lift her face, or offer any further opinion.

"It is a shame! I ought to have been told before."

Then the Elder rose, and came toward the tea-table, "Maria," he said, "you will not use such like words, whatever your father pleases to do. I hae nae doubt at all that he has chosen a good wife for himsel' and a good mother for you. You had a long letter; what does he say anent her?"

"She is a nonesuch, of course. No woman in England, or out of England like her."

"I expect as much; my son Alexander has my ain perception concerning women-folk. He would hae the best, or nane at a'. Wha was she? He said in my letter you would gie us a' the particulars."

"He has filled six pages about her. She was Miss Elizabeth Spencer. Father says her family is one of the best and oldest in England. The Reverend Oswald Spencer married them; he is rector of St. Margaret's Church in London, and a distant relative."

"A very fashionable congregation, and nae doubt the living is according."

"Father has become a member of St. Margaret's, and he has a large mansion in the wealthy Bloomsbury district. He tells me that I must come home, the first opportunity that gives me a respectable companion."

"And it is just destiny, Maria, and not to be," said her grandmother; "for Mrs. Gordon was here this afternoon to bid me farewell. Colonel Gordon has been exchanged, and has reached New York, and they sail in Saturday's packet for London. She will be delighted to hae your company, and a mair proper person to travel wi' you couldna find in America; for it isna only hersel', you will hae the Colonel also, to watch o'er you baith."

"Destiny or not, I won't go, grandmother."

"Dinna sow sorrow to yoursel'. They who cross destiny, make a cross for themsel's."

"I will hear what Ernest says about it."

"You arena your ain mistress yet, and God and man, baith, expect you to put your father's commands before all others," said the Elder.

"I think grandmother and you wish to get rid of me," and the tears sprang to her eyes, and she set her cup down with a noisy petulance.

There was a moment's silence and then the Elder continued, "Your education isna finished yet, as your father says; it was broken up by the war."

"And the lessons at Bradley's house were worse than nane at all," interrupted Madame.

"You are to have masters of a' kinds; and your stepmother is a grand musician, I hear, and willing to teach you hersel'."

"I will not go to school again. I know all I want to know."

"You will hae to be schooled for the station you are to fit; your father has turned his loyalty into gold, for he has got it noticed by His Majesty, and been appointed to a rich place in the government offices. Forbye, he tells me, his new wife has a fortune in her ain right, and sae the world stands straight with him and his. You'll hae society o' the best sort, and I hope you'll do your part, to show all and sundry, that a little Colonial maid isna' behind English girls, in any usefu' or ornamental particular."

But Maria was indignant and unhappy, and the thought of going to London and of being under authority again was very distasteful to her. The Elder went early upstairs, in order to escape her complaining, and Madame after his departure, was a little more sympathetic. She petted her grandchild, and tried to make her see the bright side of the new life before her.

"You'll be taken to Court, doubtless, Maria, and there is the grand opera you have heard so much about, and lords and ladies for company – "

"I have had enough of lords and ladies, grandmother."

"And fine houses, and nae cold rooms in them; and plenty o' food and clothing at Christian prices, and a rich, powerfu' father, and a musical mother – "

"Stepmother you mean. Nobody can have more than one mother. My mother is dead, and no other woman can take her place."

"Ay, weel, I suppose you are nearby right. And I hae seen – mair than once or twice – that the bairn who gets a stepmother gets a stepfather, also. Sae mind your ways and your words, and give nae occasion to friend, or foe, for complaint."

As they were talking thus, they heard the garden gate open, and Madame said, "That is your Uncle Neil at last;" but Maria, with an eager, listening face, knew better. "It is not Uncle Neil," she said, "it is Ernest. Why does he come to-night? He told me he was going to a military dinner, given in honor of Colonel Gordon's return."

"If it is Lord Medway, bring him in here," said Madame. "Your grandfather is needing me, and doubtless wondering and fretting already at my delaying." She left the room with these words, and Lord Medway immediately joined Maria. He appeared hurried and annoyed, and without any preliminaries said:

"I must leave New York immediately, my dear Maria; sit down here, close beside me, my sweet one, and comfort me. I have worn out the patience of Lord Clinton, and now I must obey orders, not desires.