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Before he did so, however, there was a shrill, sharp cry of mortal pain, and Mrs. Semple was barely saved by her husband's promptitude from falling prone on the marble aisle before the chancel. Immediately all was confusion. The sick woman was carried insensible to her coach. Mr. Spencer took his sobbing sister on his arm, and the guests broke up into couples. With hurrying feet, amazed, ashamed, all talking together, they sought the vehicles that were to carry them away from a scene so painful and so unexpected. Maria sat down in the nearest pew and waited to see what would happen. She heard carriage after carriage roll away, and then realized that every one had deserted her.

In about twenty minutes the sexton began to close the church, and she asked him, "Has nobody waited for me?"

"No, miss, you be here alone." Then she took a ring from her finger and offered it to him: "Get me a closed carriage and I will give you this ring," she said, but he answered:

"Nay, I want no ring from a little lass in trouble. I'll get the carriage, and you may drop into the church some better day to pay me."

She went back home in the midst of a thunderstorm. The day was darkened, the rain driven furiously by the wind, and yet when she reached her father's house the front entrance stood open and there was neither men nor women servants in sight. She ran swiftly to her room, locked the door and sank into a chair, spent with fear and sick with apprehension. What had happened? What would be done to her? "Oh, to be back in New York!" she cried. "Nobody there would force a poor girl into misery and make a prayer over it, and a feast about it."

A sudden movement of her head showed her Maria Semple in her wedding dress. She turned herself quickly from the glass, and with frantic haste unfastened the gown and hung it up. All the trinkets in which they had dressed her were as quickly removed, and she was not satisfied until she had cast off every symbol of the miserably frustrated marriage. But as hour after hour passed and no one came near her she became sick with terror, and she was also faint with hunger and thirst. Something must be ventured, some one must be seen; she felt that she would lose consciousness if she was left alone much longer.

After repeatedly ringing her bell, it was answered by one of the women. "I want some tea, Mary, and some meat and bread. What is the matter with every one?"

"The doctors do say as Mrs. Semple is dying, and the master is like a man out of his mind." The woman spoke with an air of distinct displeasure, if not dislike, but she brought the food and tea to Maria, and without further speech left her to consider what she had been told.

Oh, how long were the gloomy hours of the day! How much longer those of the terrible night! The very atmosphere was full of pain and fear; lights were passing up and down, and footsteps and inarticulate movements, all indicating the great struggle between life and death. And Maria lay dressed upon her bed, sleepless, listening and watching, and seeing always in the dim rushlight that white shimmering gown splashed with rain, and hanging limply by one sleeve. It grew frightful to her, threatening, uncanny, and she finally tore it angrily down and flung it into a closet.

But the weariest suspense comes to some end finally, and just as dawn broke there was a sudden change. The terror and the suffering were over; peace stole through every room in the house, for a man child was born to the house of Semple.

CHAPTER XII.
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.

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."