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"He needna look very far," answered Semple. "There is a man that dips his sop in the dish wi' him, and that coils him round his finger wi' a mouthful o' words, wha could maist likely give him the whole history o' the matter, for he'll be at the vera beginning o' it."

"Do you mean to say, sir, that our Commander-in-Chief has a traitor for his friend and confidant and adviser?"

"I mean to say all o' that. But where will you go and not find Washington's emissaries beguiling thae stupid English?"

"You cannot call the English stupid, sir."

"I can and I will. They are sae sure o' their ain power and wisdom that they are mair than stupid. They are ridic'lus. It makes them the easy tools of every clever American that is willing to take a risk – and they maist o' them are willing."

"But when the English realize – "

"Aye, when they realize!"

"Well, sir, they came to realization last month splendidly in that encounter with the privateer, Paul Jones. It was the grandest seafight ever made between seadogs of the same breed. Why, the muzzles of their guns touched each other; the ships were nearly torn to pieces, and three-fourths of the men killed or wounded. Gentlemen, too, as well as fighters though but lowborn men, for I am told they began the combat with a courtesy worthy of the days of chivalry. Both captains bowed and remained uncovered until the foremost guns of the English ship bore on the starboard quarter of the American. Then Captain Paul Jones put on his hat, as a sign that formalities were over, and the battle began, and raged until the English ship was sinking; then she surrendered."

"Mair's the pity!" said the Elder, "she ought to have gone down fighting."

"She saved the great fleet of merchantmen she was convoying from the Baltic; while she was fighting the American every one of them got safe away and into port, and the American ship went down two days afterward – literally died of her wounds and went down to her grave. And by the bye, Mr. Semple, this Paul Jones is a countryman of ours – a Scotchman."

"Aye, is he! – from Kirkcudbright. I was told he had an intention o' sacking Edinburgh. Fair, perfect nonsense!"

"An old friend of the Macphersons – Stuart of Invernalyle – was sought out to defend the town. I had a letter from the family."

"Weel, Stuart could tak' that job easy. The west wind is a vera reliable one in the Firth o' Edinburgh, and it is weel able, and extremely likely, to defend its ain city. In fact, it did do so, for Paul couldna win near, and so he went 'north about' and found the Baltic fleet with the Serapis guarding it. Weel, then, he had his fight, though he lost the plunder. But it was a ridic'lus thing in any mortal, menacing the capital o' Scotland wi' three brigs that couldna have sacked a Fife fishing village! And what is mair," added the old man with a tear glistening in his eyes, "he wouldna have hurt Leith or Edinburgh. Not he! Scots may love America, but they never hate their ain dear Scotland; they wouldna hurt the old land, not even in thought. If put to the question, all o' them would say, as David o' Israel and David o' Scotland baith said, 'let my right hand forget its cunning – ' you ken the rest, and if you don't, it will do you good to look up the 137th Psalm."

The stir of admiration concerning these and other events – all favorable to the Americans – irritated General Clinton and made him much less courteous in his manner to both friends and foes. And, moreover, it was not pleasant for him to know that General Washington was entertaining the first French Minister to the United States at Newburgh, and that John Jay was then on his way to Madrid to complete with the Spanish government terms of recognition and alliance. So that even through the calmness of these Indian summer days there were definite echoes of defeat and triumph, whether expressed publicly or discussed so privately that the bird of the air found no whisper to carry.

One day at the end of October, Agnes did not come until the afternoon, and Maria rightly judged that Harry was in New York. There was no need to tell her so, the knowledge was an intuition, and when Agnes said to Madame, "she had a friend, and would like Maria to bring the pelerine they were retrimming to her house, and spend the evening with her," no objection was made. "I shall miss you baith; so will the Elder," she answered, "but I dare say that English lord is feeling I have had mair than my share o' your company."

"Oh, Madame!" said Agnes, "it is not the English lord, it is a true American boy from – up the river," and Agnes opened her eyes wide as she lifted them to Madame's, and there was some sort of instantaneous and satisfactory understanding. Then she added, "Will you ask Mr. Neil Semple to come for Maria about eight o'clock?"

"There will be nae necessity to ask him. His feet o' their ain accord will find their way to your house, Agnes," said Madame. "Before he has told himsel' where he is going he will be at your doorstep. He must be very fond o' his niece Maria – or of somebody else," and the old lady smiled pleasantly at the blushing girl. Then both girls kissed Madame and stopped at the garden gate to speak to the Elder, and so down the road together full of happy expectation, divining nothing of One who went forth with them. How should they? Neither had ever seen the face of sorrow or broke with her the ashen crust. They were not aware of her presence and they heard not the stir of her black mantle trailing upon the dust and the dead leaves as she walked at their side.

"Harry will be here for tea," said Agnes, when they reached the house, and a soft, delightful sense of pleasure to come pervaded the room as they sat sewing and talking until it was time to set the table. And as soon as Agnes began this duty there was a peculiar whistle, and Maria glanced at Agnes, threw aside her work, and went down the garden to meet her lover. He was tying his boat to the little jetty, and when the duty was done they sat down on the wooden steps and talked of this, and that, and of everything but love, and yet everything they said was a confession of their interest in each other. But the truest love has often the least to say, and those lovers are to be doubted and pitied who must always be seeking assurances, for thus they sow the path of love with thorns. Far happier are they who leave something unsaid, who dare to enter into that living silence which clasps hearts like a book of songs unsung. They will sing them all, but not all at once. One by one, as their hour comes, they will learn them together.

That calm, sweet afternoon was provocative of this very mood. Maria and Harry sat watching the river rocking the boat, and listening to the chirruping of the crickets, and both were satisfied with their own silence. It was a heavenly hour, hushed and halcyon, full of that lazy happiness which is the most complete expression of perfect love. When Agnes called, they walked hand in hand up the garden, and at the tea-table came back again into the world. Harry had much to tell them, and was full of confidence in the early triumph of the Americans.

"Then I hope we shall have peace, and all be friends again," said Maria. She spoke a little wearily, as if she had no faith in her words, and Harry answered her doubt rather than her hope.

"There will not be much friendship this generation," he said; "things have happened between England and America which men will remember until they forget themselves."

After tea, Harry said, "Maria is going with me to the river to see if the boat is safe," and Agnes, smiling, watched them a little way; then turned again to her china, and without any conscious application began to sing softly the aria of an old English anthem by King:

"I went down into the garden of nuts, to see whether the pomegranates budded – to see whether the pomegranates – the pomegranates budded,"¹ but suddenly, even as her voice rose and fell sweetly to her thoughts, a strange chill arrested the flow of the melody; and she was angry at herself because she had inadvertently wondered, "if the buds would ever open full and flowerwise?"

In about half an hour Agnes, having finished her house duties, went to the door opening into the garden and called Harry and Maria. They turned toward the house when they heard her voice, and she remained in the open door to watch them come through the tall box-shrubs and the many-colored asters. And as she did so, Quentin Macpherson reached the front door – which also stood open – and perceiving Agnes, he did not knock, but waited for her to turn inward. Consequently he saw Harry and Maria, and did not fail to notice the terms of affectionate familiarity between them. The fire of jealousy was kindled in a moment; he strode forward to meet the company, and was received with the usual friendly welcome; for such a situation had often been spoken of as possible, and Agnes was not in the least disconcerted.

"My friend, Mr. Harry Deane, Captain Macpherson," she said, without hesitation, and the Captain received the introduction with his most military air. Then Agnes set herself to keep the conversation away from the war, but that was an impossible thing; every incident of life somehow or other touched it, and before she realized the fact, Harry was deprecating Tryon's outrages in Connecticut, and Macpherson defending them on the ground that "the towns destroyed had fitted out most of the privateers which had so seriously interfered with English commerce. Both the building of the ships and the destruction of the towns for building them are natural incidents of war," he said, and then pointedly, "perhaps you are a native of Connecticut?"

"No," answered Harry, "I am a native of New York."

"Ah! I have not met you before."

"I am a great deal away – " then receiving from Agnes a look of anxious warning, he thought it best to take his leave. Agnes rose and went to the door with him, and Maria wished Captain Macpherson anywhere but in her society; especially as he began to ask her questions she did not wish to answer.

"So Miss Bradley has a lover?" he said, looking pointedly at the couple as they left the room.

"I used to think so once," answered Maria.

"But not now?"

"But not now. Mr. Deane is an old friend, a playmate even."

"I suppose he is a King's man?"

"Ask him; he is still standing at the gate. I talk to him on much pleasanter subjects."

"Love, for instance?"

"Perhaps."

"How can you be so cruel, Maria?"

"It is Miss Semple's nature to be cruel."

The reproof snubbed him, and both were silent for some minutes; then the same kind of desultory fencing was renewed, and Maria felt the time to be long and the tension unendurable. She could have cried out with anger. Why had not Agnes let her go to the door with Harry? She had had no opportunity to bid him "good-bye"; and yet, even after Harry had gone, there Agnes stood at the gate, "watching for Uncle Neil, of course," thought Maria, "and no doubt she has a message for me; she might come and give it to me – very likely Harry is at the boat waiting for me – oh, dear! Why does she not come?"

With such thoughts urging her, the very attitude of Agnes was beyond endurance. She stood at the gate as still as if she was a part of it, and at length Maria could bear the delay no longer.

"I wish to speak to Agnes," she said, "will you permit me a moment?"

"Certainly," he answered with an air of offense. "I fear I am in the way of some one or something."

"Oh, no, no!" cried Maria, decisively. "I only want to make her come in. She says the night air is so unhealthy, and yet there she stands in it – bareheaded, too."

"It is an unusually warm evening."

"Yes, but you know there is the malaria. I shall bring her in a moment, you shall see how quickly I am obeyed."

In unison with these words, she rose in a hurry, and as she did so there came through the open window a little stone wrapped in white paper. If she had not moved, it would have fallen into her lap; as it was, it fell on the floor and almost at the feet of Macpherson. He lifted it, and went to the candle. It was a message, as he expected, and read thus:

"Keep that Scot amused for an hour, and meet me at Semple's landing at nine o'clock. Harry."

"Oh! Oh!" he said with an intense inward passion. "I am to be amused! I am to be cajoled! deceived! that Scot is to be used for some purpose, and by St. Andrew, I'll wager it is treason. This affair must be looked into – quick, too." With this thought he put the paper in his pocket, and followed Maria to the gate where she stood talking with Agnes.

"I will bid you good-night," he said with a purposed air of offense. "I am sure that I am an intruder on more welcome company."

He would listen to no explanations or requests. Maria became suddenly kind, and assumed the prettiest of her coaxing ways, but he knew she was only "amusing" him, and he would not respond to what he considered her base, alluring treachery.

"There, now, Maria! You have been very foolish," said Agnes. "Captain Macpherson is angry. You ought to have been particularly kind to him to-night – after Harry."

"You were so selfish, Agnes – so unreasonably selfish! You might have let me go to the gate with Harry. I never had a chance to say 'good-bye' to him; there you stood, watching for Uncle Neil, and I was on pins and needles of anxiety. Why didn't you stay with the man, and let me go to the gate?"

"If you must know why; I had some money to give Harry. Could I do that before Captain Macpherson?"

"I hate the man! I am glad he has gone! I hope he will never come again!"

"I do not think he will, Maria."

They went into the house thoroughly vexed with each other, and Maria said in a tone of pique or offense, "I wonder what delays my uncle! I wish he would come!"

In reality Neil was no later than usual, but Maria was quivering with disappointment and annoyance, and when he did arrive it was not possible for any one to escape the influence of an atmosphere charged with the miserable elements of frustrated happiness. Maria was not a girl to bear disagreeable things alone or in silence. She would talk only of Macpherson and his unwelcome visit; "but he always did come when he was not wanted," she said angrily. "Last Sunday when grandmother was sick, and I was writing a long letter to father, and nobody cared to see him at all, enter Captain Macpherson with his satisfied smile, and his clattering sword, and his provoking air of conferring a favor on us by his company. I hate the creature! And I think it is a dreadful thing to make set days for people's visits; we have all got to dislike Sunday afternoons, just for his sake!" and so on, with constant variations.

Fortunately Mr. Bradley came home soon after eight o'clock, and Maria would not make any further delay. She had many reasons for her hurry, but undoubtedly the chief one, was a feeling that Agnes ought not to have the pleasure of a conversation between her father and her lover, and probably a walk home with her, and then a walk back with Neil alone. She would go at once, and she would not ask Agnes to go with her. If she was disappointed, it was only a just retribution for her selfishness about Harry. And though she noticed Agnes was depressed and cast down, she was not appeased; "However, I will come in the morning and make all right," she thought; "to-night Agnes may suffer a little. I will come in the morning and make all right."

Yes, she would come in the morning, but little she dreamed on what errand she would come. Still, Maria is not to be blamed over much; there is some truth in every reproach that is made.

CHAPTER VI.
THE INTERCEPTED MESSAGE

While this unhappy interlude was passing, a far greater sorrow was preparing. Captain Macpherson went at once to his colonel with the pebble-sent note. He told himself that his duty to his King and his colors demanded it, and that no harm could come to the two women except such as was reflected from the trouble that saucy young man might be entitled to. He had no objections to giving him trouble; he felt that he ought to be made to understand a little better what was due to an officer of the King. "That Scot!" He flung his plaid passionately over his shoulder and stamped his foot with the offended temper of centuries of Macphersons. As for Maria, he would not think of her. He could not know what the consequences of the interrupted tryst would be, but let her take them! A girl who could prefer quite a common-looking young man to himself needed a lesson. He said over and over that he had only done a duty he would have performed under any circumstances; and he kept reiterating the word "duty," – still he knew right well that duty in this case had been powerfully seconded by jealousy and by his personal offense.

What action his colonel would take he knew not. He desired to be excused from any part in it, because of the Semple's hospitality to him. His request was granted; and then he went to his rooms hot with uncertain excitement. The colonel had no sentimental reasons for ignoring what might prove a valuable arrest. Nothing had provoked General Clinton more than the ubiquitous nature of Washington's spies. They were everywhere; they were untiring, unceasing and undaunted. The late reverses, which had mortified every English soldier, had been undoubtedly brought about by the false reports they spread, – no one knew by whose assistance, – and this night might be a turning-point in affairs.

He ordered ten picked men to wait for the boat at Semple's landing. The place was easily reached; they had but to walk to the bottom of the fence, climb over it, and secrete themselves in the little boathouse, or among the shrubbery, if it had yet foliage enough to screen them. He looked over his roll of suspects and found Madame Semple's name among them. Likely enough, her family sympathized with her. It would at least be prudent to secure the husband and son. If they were good royalists, they could easily prove it. Then he sat down to smoke and to drink brandy; he, too, had done his duty, and was not troubled at all about results. The Semples, to him, were only two or three out of sixty thousand reputed royalists in the city. If they were honest, they had little to fear; if they were traitors, they deserved all they would certainly get from Clinton in his present surly mood.

Quite unconscious of what was transpiring, John Bradley was eating a frugal supper of oatmeal and bread and cheese, and telling his daughter about a handsome saddle that was going up the river to "the man in all the world most worthy of it." Elder Semple was asleep, and Madame, lying in the darkness, was softly praying away her physical pain and her mental anxieties. Suddenly she heard an unusual stir and the prompt, harsh voices of men either quarreling or giving orders.

"It is on our ain place!" and a sick terror assailing her, she cried: "Wake up! Wake up, Alexander! There's men at the door, and angry men, and they're calling you!"

Neil, who was sitting dressed in his room, instantly answered the summons, and was instantly under arrest; and as no effort was made to prevent noise or confusion, the tumult and panic soon reached Maria. She was combing her hair to fretful thoughts, and a keen sense of disappointment; but when Madame entered the room wringing her hands and lamenting loudly, she let the comb fall and stood up trembling with apprehension.

"Maria! Maria! They are taking your grandfather and uncle to prison! Oh, God, my dear auld man! My dear auld man!"

"Grandmother! What are you saying? You must be mistaken – you must be!"

"Come, and see for yoursel';" and Madame flung open the window and with a shriek of futile distress cried, "Alexander, look at me! Speak to me."

At these words the Elder, who was standing with a soldier, lifted his face to the distracted woman, in her white gown at the open window, and cried to her:

"Janet, my dearie, you'll get your death o' cold. It is a' a mistake. Go to your bed, dear woman. I'll be hame in the morning."

Neil repeated this advice, and then there was a sharp order and a small body of men marched forward, and in their midst Harry walked bareheaded and manacled. He tried to look up, for he had heard the colloquy between the Elder and his wife, and understood Maria might be also at the window; but as he turned his head a gigantic Highlander struck him with the flat of his sword, and as the blow fell rattling on the youth's shoulder Maria threw up her hands with a shriek and fell into a chair sobbing.

"Dinna cry that way, Maria, my dearie; they'll be hame in the morning."

"Yes, yes, grandmother! It was the blow on that last prisoner. Did you see it? Did you hear it? Oh, what a shame!"

"Poor lad! I know naething about him; but he is in a terrible sair strait."

"What is he doing here in our house? Surely you know, grandmother?"

"I know naething about him. He is doubtless one o' Washington's messengers – there's plenty o' them round. Why he came near us is mair than I can say." Then a sudden fear made her look intently at Maria, and she asked, "Do you think your Uncle Neil has turned to the American cause?"

"Oh, grandmother, how can you?"

"He has been so much wi' that Agnes Bradley. My heart misgave me at the first about her. Neil is in love, and men in love do anything."

"Uncle Neil is as true a royalist as grandfather."

"See, then, what they have, baith o' them, got for standing by King George. It serves them right! It serves them right! O dear, dear me! What shall we do?"

Two weary hours were spent in such useless conversation; then Madame, being perfectly exhausted, was compelled to go to bed. "We can do naething till morning," she said; "and Neil will hae his plans laid by that time. They will be to bail, doubtless; and God knows where the friends and the money are to come from. But there's plenty o' time for grief to-morrow; go and sleep an hour or two now."

"And you, grandmother? What will you do?"

"He who never fails will strengthen me. When the morn comes I shall be able for all it can bring. This was such a sudden blow I lost my grip."

Alone in her room, Maria felt the full force of the sudden blow. Although Harry's note had missed her, she understood that he had been waiting for a few words with her. Twice before she had been in the garden when he passed up the river, and he had landed and spent a delicious half-hour with her. She was sure now that he had been as much disappointed as herself, and had hoped she would come and say good-bye as soon as she reached home. But who had betrayed him? And why was her grandfather and uncle included in his arrest?

For some time she could think of nothing but her lover walking so proudly in the midst of his enemies; reviled by them, struck by them, yet holding his head as authoritatively as if he was their captain, rather than their prisoner. Then she remembered Agnes, and at first it was with anger. "If she had not been so selfish, Harry would not have needed to take such a risk!" she cried. "It is dreadful! dreadful! And just as soon as it is light I must go and tell her. Her father must now know all; he ought to have been told long ago. I shall insist on her telling now, for Harry's life is first of all, and his father has power some way or other."

Thus through the long hours she wept and complained and blamed Agnes and even herself, and perhaps most of all was angry with the intrusive Macpherson, whose unwelcome presence had been the cause of the trouble. And, oh! what arid torturing vigils are those where God is not! Madame lying on her bed with her hands folded over her breast and thoughts heavenward, was at peace compared with this tumultuous little heart in the midst of doubt, darkness, and the terror of dreadful death for one dear to her. She knew not what to abandon, nor what to defend; her brain seemed stupefied by calamity so inevitable. And yet, it was not inevitable; it had depended for many minutes on herself. A word, a look, and Agnes would have understood her desire; and half a dozen times before she had made the movement which was just too late; her heart had urged her to call her friend. But she had doubted, wavered, and delayed, and so given to Destiny the very weapons that were used against her.

As soon as the morning dawned she dressed herself. Before her grandmother came down stairs it was imperative on her to see Agnes and tell her what had happened. A dismal, anxious stillness had succeeded the storm of her terror and grief; a feeling of outrage, of resentment against events, and an agony of love and pity, as she remembered Harry smitten and helpless in the power of a merciless foe. She had now one driving thought and purpose – the release of her lover. She must save the life he had risked for her sake, though she gave her own for it.

As she went through the gray dawning she was sensitive to some antagonism, even in Nature. The unseasonable warmth of the previous evening had been followed by a frost. The faded grass snapped under her fleet steps, the last foliage had withered during the night, and was black and yellow as death, and everything seemed to shiver in the pale light. And though the waning moon yet hung low in the west, and all the mystery and majesty of earth was round her, Maria was only conscious of the chill terror in her heart, and of the chill, damp mist from the river which enfolded her like a cloak, and was the very atmosphere of sorrow.

When she reached the Bradley home all was shut and still; the very house seemed to be asleep, but why did its closed door affect her so painfully? She went round to the kitchen and found the slave woman Mosella bending over a few blazing chips, making herself a cup of tea. The woman looked at her wonderingly, and when Maria said, "Mosella, I must see Miss Agnes at once," she rose without a word and opened the garden door of the house. The shutters were all closed, the stairway dim, and the creaking of the steps under her feet made her quiver. It was an hour too early for light and life, and a noiseless noise around her seemed to protest against this premature invasion of the day.

She entered the room of her friend very softly. It was breathless, shadowy, and on the white bed Agnes was lying, asleep. For a moment Maria stood looking at the orderly place and the unconscious woman. The pure pallor of her cheeks had the flush of healthy sleep; her brown hair, braided, lay loose upon her pillow, her white hands upon the white coverlet. She was the image of deep, dreamless, peaceful oblivion. It seemed a kind of wrong to awaken her; but though the eyes of Agnes were closed, Maria's gaze called to the soul on guard behind them, and without one premonitory movement she opened them wide and saw Maria at her bedside. A quick fear leaped into her heart. She was momentarily speechless. She laid her hand on Maria's arm, and looked at her with apprehending inquiry.

"Harry!" said Maria, and then she sat down and covered her face and began to cry softly. There was no necessity to say more. Agnes understood. She rose and began to dress herself, and in a few minutes asked, though almost in a whisper:

"Is he taken?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"At our landing."

"When?"

"Last night."

"Why did you not send me word last night? Neil would have come."

"Neil was arrested, and also my dear old grandfather. It is shameful! shameful!"

"What was Harry doing at your landing?"

"I don't know. I was in my room. I was half-undressed, combing my hair out, when grandmother rushed to me with the news. It is not my fault, Agnes."

"Did you ever meet Harry at your landing, Maria?"

"Only twice, both times in the daylight. He was passing and happened to see me. There was no tryst between us; and I know nothing about last night, except – "

"Except what?"

"That if you had given him a chance to say 'Good-bye' to me here, he would not have thought of stopping at our landing; but," she added in a weary voice, "you were watching for Uncle Neil, and so, of course, you forgot other people."

"Don't be cruel, Maria, as well as unjust."

"All the same, it is the truth."

"How was he discovered? You surely know that?"

"No, I do not. There were at least ten or twelve soldiers – Highlanders. One of them struck Harry."

"Oh, why do you tell me? Who could have betrayed him? Macpherson? You know you offended him."

"It could not be Macpherson. He never saw Harry before. He knew nothing about him. He thought his name was Deane. If it had been Macpherson, your landing, not ours, would have been watched."

"No; for he saw you and Harry coming through the garden hand-in-hand. I am sure he did. He went away in a fit of jealousy, and he would think of your landing as well as ours. But all that is nothing. We have but a few hours in which to try and save his life. I must awake father and tell him. It will break his heart."

"You ought to have told him – "

"I know."

"What can I do?"

"Women can do nothing but suffer. I am sorry with all my soul for you, Maria, and I will let you know what father does. Go home to your poor grandmother; she will need all the comfort you can give her."

"I am sorry for you, Agnes; yes, I am! I will do anything I can. There is Lord Medway, he loves me; and General Clinton loves him, I know he does; I have seen them together."

"Father is first. I must awaken him. Leave me now, Maria, dear. None but God can stand by me in this hour."

Then Maria kissed her, and Agnes fell upon her knees, her arms spread out on her bed and her face buried in them. There were no words given her; she could not pray; but when the Gate of Prayer is closed the Gate of Tears is still open. She wept and was somewhat helped, though it was only by that intense longing after God which made her cry out, "O that I knew where to find Him, that I might come into His presence!"

When she went to her father's door he was already awake. She heard him moving about his room, washing and dressing, and humming to himself in strong snatches a favorite hymn tune; no words seemed to have come to him, for the melody was kept by a single syllable that served to connect the notes. Nevertheless, the tone was triumphant and the singer full of energy. It made Agnes shiver and sicken to listen to him. She sat down on the topmost stair and waited. It could not be many minutes, and nothing for or against Harry could be done till the world awoke and went to business. Very soon the hymn tune ceased, and there was a few minutes of a silence that could be felt, for it was threaded through by a low, solemn murmur easy to translate, – the man was praying. When he came out of his room he saw Agnes sitting on the stair, and as soon as she lifted her face to him he was frightened and asked sharply: