the little washingtons' travels by lillian elizabeth roy author of the polly brewster books, the girl scouts books, etc. illustrated grosset & dunlap publishers new york made in the united states of america copyright, 1918, by the platt & nourse company [illustration: they were seated on the floor reading.] contents chapter page i. new york the great mecca 7 ii. the joys of new york life 26 iii. sight-seeing in new york 41 iv. the battle of new york 57 v. some of washington's headquarters 79 vi. george's strange battle 92 vii. battle-grounds around philadelphia 108 viii. a fight with the hessians 121 ix. farewells to washington 137 the little washingtons' travels chapter i new york the great mecca "my parlor chair swings around every way!" exclaimed martha parke, thoroughly enjoying the novelty of whirling on a pullman parlor chair. "they all do, but folks are supposed to sit quiet and only swing when they want to see who's sitting on the other side of the car, or perhaps if a friend sits next to them and talks--then you have to turn and answer, of course," explained george parke. jack davis, the philadelphia cousin of the two parke children, had the vast experience of travelling from his native city to the country home of the parkes just outside of washington, d. c., a few weeks prior to the opening of this story. so, of course, he knew all about the pullman parlor chairs. "that isn't why they whirl at all! it's so you can turn to look out of the opposite windows, 'cause both sides of a railroad track have scenery, you know," glancing at the elders of the party to make sure they had overheard him. "why, jack davis! that isn't the reason at all! it's for the convenience of the conductor to take up tickets, so he won't have to lean away over or knock off the passenger's hat. then, too, when the buffet waiter serves luncheon on those folding tables, he has to have room to move the chair around and place the stand right over the passenger's lap. don't you remember?" explained anne davis to her brother. "i'll ask mother--shall i?" ventured john graham, a member of the travelling party from the south. "no, no! we don't want to know anything! let's see who can find the first church along the line," quickly said george, to divert attention. for some time thereafter the young travellers were quiet, until jack shouted: "i see one! it's old and tumble-down, but it has a steeple just the same!" while the children were playing this game, the elders sat planning about the new york trip. they had started from the country estate that morning without mishap, which was remarkable, considering the many ways the "little washingtons" had of getting into trouble. but now that all were _en route_ for the great city of the north, they wondered whether it had been wise to bring five lively children on such a trip. "if john doesn't behave when you take him to visit the historical places, just let me know, and i will keep him at his great-aunt's. she hasn't a thing he can do mischief to!" said mrs. graham. mr. parke laughed. "that would be a severe punishment for john. but i feel quite sure he will be the least troublesome of the party. george generally takes the lead in all escapades, you know." "not when jack is around to suggest mischief!" added mrs. davis from philadelphia. "well, there will be two of us, anyway, to keep them in order. and little jim won't be here for them to use as a scapegoat, you know," laughed mrs. parke, thinking of the happy little face of the pickaninny who was last seen on the steps holding a book and a box of candy presented him by the davis children. "did sam wire you he would meet us?" asked mrs. davis of mr. parke. "yes, when i telegraphed him from home, he replied to my office in washington. he will arrive in new york a train before us, and meet us at the pennsylvania terminal at thirty-third street. then we will go to some large hotel until we see what we wish to do for the week." "george sat looking over the newspaper this morning while we were waiting at the station in washington for this train, and i leaned over to see what was engrossing his attention. what do you think he was reading?" asked mrs. parke. "goodness only knows what george reads--anything from the last drive of the italians on the alps to the present quotations on wall street!" laughed mr. parke, the father. "neither! he was poring over the list of hotels and restaurants in new york city. finding i was watching, he said: 'i just found the place for us to stop.' "'yes?' said i. 'where is it?' "'the martha washington hotel. we wouldn't think of boarding anywhere else, would we, when we are related to martha?'" the others laughed at this, and mrs. graham added: "did you explain that that hotel was a ladies' hotel, and neither he nor his father nor his uncle would be allowed to stay there?" "no, because he forgot all about the hotel when he saw jack and the girls leading john over to the candy booth. that was enough for george!" laughed mrs. parke. "i suppose you ladies have planned a campaign for going about to show the 'patriots' the historical points of interest in the city--that is why you came up here, you know," teased mr. parke. "you came for business purposes, you said, so we will not trouble you with our plans," retorted mrs. davis. but further conversation was interrupted by the children. "mother, didn't you bring the copy of our washington history with you?" "i have it in the trunk.--why?" said mrs. parke. "because jack says washington was in boston in the spring of 1776, and i say he was in new york, where he thought general howe was going after being driven from boston," explained george. "you are both right, son. washington remained in boston for a time to see just what howe would do, and then fearing the weakness of defence of and about new york, he started for that city. it was while he was at new york that the letter from congress was given him, in which he was so highly commended for the bravery and conduct of himself and his men at the siege," said mrs. parke. both boys had been so sure that each was right, that this information caused a sudden spell of humility, which gave the girls an opportunity to speak. "mother, didn't you read one day that the american army was vanquished on long island, and washington had to hide up in the hills of harlem until he got some more soldiers together?" asked martha earnestly. "oh, oh! is this the way my historical readings are interpreted?" sighed mrs. parke, in mock despair, while the other elders of the party laughed at martha's presentation of the battle on long island. "i think it best not to describe any more history now. when you are all on the spot of the battle scenes, the children will feel the actual spirit of the thing more than by listening to a tale," said mr. parke. "i will follow your suggestion later, but just now i am not going to allow this misunderstanding to rest. come here, children, and let me explain." as there was nothing more exciting offered them, the five children turned their chairs about and listened to the story. "you see, when general howe sailed from boston with his fleet, it was circulated that he proposed going to halifax. but washington was too wise a general to believe everything he heard, especially when it came from such a wily man as general howe. so he figured out just about what howe might do now that he was out of such nice, comfortable quarters like boston. "new york was another fine city, with every comfort to be had, so washington thought that the british would prefer that life to one of privation and discomfort elsewhere. "with the seized boats that had sailed into boston harbor, ignorant of the fact that the british had left there, washington was able to supply his men with guns, ammunition and goods greatly needed by them. then, when campbell of the british navy sailed serenely into the net of the enemy, a large quantity of military stores was captured, besides the fine vessel that carried over two hundred and seventy men. the latter were made prisoners, and the ships were turned into privateers, to act as sea-scouts in place of a regular naval force, which the colonists had not been able to raise as yet. "anxious for the safety of new york, washington started an army from boston, leaving five regiments under general ward to defend the city. passing through providence, norwich, and new london, he and the army arrived in new york on the 13th of april, where he found, as he feared, that city ill-prepared for defence against howe. "it was soon ascertained, however, that howe had really sailed for halifax, where he went to secure the cooperation of the forces of canada. "so you see, boys, washington was in both cities that spring, but he spent the late spring and summer in new york, fortifying and preparing that city for the battle which he knew was sure to come." "tell us some more, mother," said martha. "is it time for the luncheon?" asked george anxiously, as the porter passed through the car. "no, sah; not yet!" replied the grinning colored man. "then go on, mother!" sighed george resignedly. "well, when washington found how valuable the hudson river was for crossings, and for transmitting supplies to the northern army under the command of schuyler, he immediately began to fortify the passes bordering on that river. "so, while howe was in halifax, the american army was engaged in defending its river front, and the city of new york. "meantime, a large fleet was fitted out by the british under the command of sir peter parker. in june, this fleet came to anchor in charleston harbor, where it was joined by general clinton's forces. "fortunately, an intercepted letter warned the americans of the destination of this armament, and this gave the colonists time to prepare defence against the english. lee had been sent by washington to command the forces in the southern country, and his popularity soon amassed over five thousand men. under him were gadsden, moultrie, and thompson. at the entrance of the charleston harbor a fort had been constructed of the palmetto tree, which resembles cork in its looks and action. "when clinton landed some of his troops, he found colonel gadsden commanding a regiment on the northern extremity of james island, and two regiments under moultrie and thompson, stationed at opposite extremities of sullivan's island. "the attack on the fort began in the morning, while the ships threw their broadsides upon it, but the little fort returned the fire with so much skill and spirit that the ships suffered severely. one ran aground and was burned, while others were temporarily disabled. the british finally abandoned the enterprise, having lost over two hundred men, while the americans only lost twenty. "the failure of the attack was of great importance to the american cause, for it not only contributed much to the permanent formation of their independent government, but it had an effect on the half-hearted people who feared the power of england. "the abrupt departure of general howe from boston had upset his plans, for all of his supplies had been sent to that city, and consequently fell into the hands of the american army. after waiting at halifax for the appearance of the reinforcements he expected, but which did not arrive, he set sail for new york with his original army, where he landed on staten island the third of july, the same day that the declaration of independence was reported to the members of congress at philadelphia." mrs. parke reached this point in her story when a waiter entered the car, making announcement of an interesting fact. "dinnah now served in th' dinin' car--foh cars ahead! dinnah now served in th' dinin' car--foh cars ahead!" "oh, oh! they're going to have a dinner in the cars! we won't have to eat on the little tables brought in here," cried jack, looking eagerly at mr. parke. "why, i don't think we'll need any dinner, do you? we will be in new york in an hour's time, and can have something at a quick lunch restaurant," replied mr. parke very seriously. the children stared at him in such surprise that he was compelled to laugh outright. at that, they knew he was only fooling about dinner. meantime, the ladies began to gather their various wraps and bags and arrange them in order back of the parlor chairs. when all were ready to go forward, mr. parke beckoned the children to gather close about him, and gave them warning. "now look over the bill of fare carefully, and order the cheapest dishes there. i haven't much money with me, and it would be dreadful to have the bill come to more than i would be able to pay." the three ladies had passed on before mr. parke whispered the embarrassing news, and george, making sure his father was not joking again, said: "i've got fifty cents in my pocket; i'll eat that up!" "it may not digest, george, because silver is not considered healthy for the human stomach, you know," replied mr. parke. "oh, you know what i mean! i'll order that much," said george, laughing. "will you have enough to pay for a dish of ice cream and a sandwich?" asked martha anxiously. "we'll have to see what they charge for ice cream. you see the prices have gone so high since the war," returned mr. parke. they were passing through into the forward car as they conversed, and now the children had all they could do to balance themselves as the car swayed from side to side in its rapid flight on the tracks. at last they were safely seated in the dining-car, but the ladies and mr. parke occupied one table for four, while the children occupied another across the aisle. every one studied the menu card diligently, but to the horror of the children the ice cream was forty cents per plate. sandwiches were twenty cents each, and tea or coffee, or cocoa, was twenty cents per cup. "humph! we won't eat much at this rate!" grumbled george. "i think it is much cheaper to have luncheon served on a table in the parlor car. we had a nice lunch, and i'm sure it wasn't as much as this," remarked jack. "shall we whisper to father and ask him what he can afford to pay for?" suggested martha. but the waiter stood right at mr. parke's elbow writing down some words on a pad, so the children politely waited. when he finished and hurried away, george and martha excused themselves to the other children, and crossed the aisle. "what shall we order?" asked george. "how much can you pay for?" added martha. mrs. parke looked in amazement, while aunty and mrs. graham laughed. mr. parke drew both children down so they could hear him whisper. "i think you had better sit still and not order a thing. if the waiter comes up for your order send him to me. you see, mrs. davis and mrs. graham ordered so much that i shall have to pay for, that we will have to go hungry." george sent an angry glance at the ladies who thus deprived him of necessary food for the rest of the journey, but martha heaved a tremendous sigh, as she relinquished her hopes of a deep dish of ice cream. before the two food ambassadors were settled in their chairs again, a waiter hurried over and began arranging silver, bread and butter, and relishes before them. the children exchanged glances, and as the man went away again, george said: "we won't say anything yet--not until he asks us to order." but he failed to ask. when he next appeared, he carried cups of broth and placed them before the children. this done, he stooped and said to george, in a voice distinctly heard by those fearfully listening: "ah'm goin' to pile dat cream up high when yo' all is ready for dessert!" then winking understandingly at the doubtful faces, he went back to the kitchen. george looked in the cup of broth and turned to glance at his father for instructions, but the elders were busy with their own broth. then george decided upon a courageous measure. "we need something and we didn't order this soup. if we take it now the ladies who ordered more than they should will have to cancel some of their dinner. come on and drink the broth before we are told not to." thereupon, a great sipping and swallowing of hot liquid ensued, and soup, that despised item at home, was quickly enjoyed, for there was a dearth of more to follow--so thought the travellers about that table. before they were quite finished, however, fish was brought on and the waiter said: "ah'm tol' to bring turkey wid cranberry sauce and candied sweets. is dat all right foh de whole party?" then george suspected a hoax. he jumped up and caught his father trying to hide a smile back of his dinner napkin. "is this one of your practical jokes again?" demanded george. but an answer was unnecessary when he laughed so heartily that the ladies joined in. george was disgusted as he turned and remarked: "well, you made us drink the soup, all right, and i s'pose we all want turkey, but just you wait till dessert comes along--we're each going to eat ten plates of ice cream and make you pay for it, too!" with that threat ringing in his ears, it was a wonder mr. parke enjoyed his dinner, but he did, and when dessert was ordered he watched the children eat two great dishes each of ice cream, and never blinked at the bill presented to him for it. chapter ii the joys of new york life "oh, oh, but this is a bee-autiful station!" gasped george, when the tourists came from the train and entered the great domed concourse. "isn't it lovely? look at the ceiling--all painted and lighted so fine!" sighed martha, with satisfaction at art thus expressed. "i should think everybody would get lost in this great place. do you know where you are going, uncle?" said jack, gazing first at the hurrying mobs going every way across the main hall to reach the numerous outlets. "no, i am lost already! i shall have to ask a policeman to take us to the station-house for the night, so we can find ourselves again," replied mr. parke with a worried air, as he went over to speak to a man in uniform. "did he mean it?" whispered john to his mother. she smiled and shook her head, as she replied: "he is going to order taxicabs to convey us to the hotel." "what hotel are we going to?" wondered martha. "well, seeing there are scores of fine hotels in new york, it is difficult to tell which one mr. parke will select," said mrs. parke. shortly after this the party was snugly seated in cabs and whirled away. there was no signboard over the door of the hotel so the children could not tell the name of it. at home, the hotel in the village where the store was, had a swinging sign to say that it was "the washington arms hotel." but the uniformed men standing ready to open the doors, and the crowds of people sitting about reading or chatting were very interesting to the children. palms, great easy chairs, clusters of electric lights--lights everywhere--made the scene one to be remembered. "must be something like the fine balls given washington after the war," whispered martha to her companions. "if they only had on silk dresses and powdered wigs," returned john. it was late in the afternoon when the party arrived at the hotel. mr. parke decided it would be useless to try and see any of the sights that day. besides, they expected mr. davis every moment, as he said he would be waiting for them. but the train had been late, and he probably had become tired of waiting in the hotel lobby. "i don't see how any one could tire of sitting down there and watching the fine folks," said martha. "if you saw things like that every day you'd soon weary of them," remarked mrs. davis. and martha wondered if philadelphia were anything like new york, to make aunty speak of seeing such sights every day. before she had time to question about this interesting information, however, a cheery voice sounded outside of the large parlor they had with the suite of six rooms, and in came mr. davis. after greetings were all over, jack began: "daddy, are we going to do anything to-day? we must not lose time, you know." "indeed no! time is one of the things we can never find if it is once lost!" laughed mr. davis, patting jack on the head. "well--then----" ventured anne eagerly. "i procured tickets for the 'blue bird' at the opera house to-night," replied mr. davis, showing the tickets to prove the wonderful news. "oo-oh! i've never been in a real live theatre before! we've gone to movies in the village--that's all!" cried john eagerly. "well, this is a real live one all right!" bragged jack. and so it was. it was an entrancing play, and the gowns of the audience, and the wonderful velvet curtains, and the gold boxes and trimmings of the opera house, all presented a dazzling sight. the visiting party had a large box quite near the stage, so that everything could be seen and heard. the next morning mrs. graham left the others and started for her visit to her aunt, leaving john with his friends to accompany them on their historical tour of the city. "the first thing i have on my program is a visit to the statue of liberty. as we will be near governor's island, we can have a look at the old fort there, and then on our way back to battery park, visit the aquarium," said mrs. parke. so they left the hotel to walk to a car. "is anything going on in new york to-day?" asked john. "not unusual.--why?" wondered mrs. davis. "why, i see such a lot of people all running as if they were afraid of missing some big event," explained john. the elders laughed. "that is the way new yorkers always rush about. one would think their very lives depended upon the saving of a moment's time. and then they stand and stare at a silly advertisement, or listen to a street-corner peddler trying to sell his wares, and not only lose ten times the moments saved, but block the way for other sensible pedestrians, so that every one loses time," said mr. parke, who was escorting the ladies to the car. at the head of a flight of steps, he started down. "where are you going, father?" cried martha, aghast at her father's going down the cellar steps of some big house. "to the train! aren't you coming?" "train? i thought we were going to take one of these cars," exclaimed george, looking at a crosstown trolley. "no, the subway takes us right down to south ferry, where the boat leaves for liberty island," replied mr. parke. this was a new experience. the children stared at the ceiled arch overhead, and wondered if it would cave in while they had to wait for a train. then the roar and rush of a long, snake-like string of cars swung around the bend and came to a sudden jerky halt opposite them. it was the northbound train. then it rushed and roared out again, but before any one could catch his breath, another roar and rush sounded right before their very noses, and a brilliantly-lighted train of cars stopped beside the platform, and the guard shoved open the doors that had no handles or hinges. they all hurried in, crowds behind pushing wildly to get in first. inside, the long rows of seats on both sides of the cars were filled with all sorts of people, and our travellers were compelled to stand up in the aisle. as the train went further downtown, the crowds increased until george said: "every new yorker must be travelling to south ferry this morning." at brooklyn bridge many of the passengers got out, and mr. parke pushed his party into seats--one here, one there, some down the aisle in vacancies. before he could get back to a seat himself an entirely new mob of passengers rushed on, and violently struggled to crowd in between other seated fellow-beings. "say, jack, i've been trying to figure up all the money this company made since we got on the cars at grand central," said george to his cousin. "yes, and i think it would be a good thing for you and me to plan about our future business careers. s'pose we open a subway line like this and run opposition. besides making a lot of money easy, we will help the public, 'cause there won't be such a fearful crowd going on two lines as there is on one," said jack with good logic. "you're right! and what's more, we'll make our guards act politely to folks. i saw that horrid man slam the door right in an old man's face, as he was going to step inside! and those side doors were only opened once since we started, yet crowds of people waited outside and got left when the train pulled out of the station, and the guard leaned over the platform and laughed!" declared george, who, although on his first trip, saw conditions that make new yorkers fume and fret, without redress anywhere. at this moment the guard shouted, "south ferry! all out!" mr. parke and the ladies caught hold of the children's hands to save them from being crushed between doors and passengers, and after climbing another flight of concrete steps, they all breathed the sweet, fresh air once more, and martha said: "don't let us ever travel that way again! it's awful!" "but think of the millions who _have_ to travel that way, up to the bronx or washington heights, or over to brooklyn. there is no other way to get there except by foot, or paying several car-fares for changes of line," said mr. davis, who seemed thoroughly acquainted with conditions in new york. however, the children forgot the annoyance of travel the moment they found the small steamer "liberty island" at the wharf. they all hurried on board, and were danced over the choppy waves of new york bay. on the sail over to the statue, they saw ellis island where the immigrants landed, governor's island of revolutionary fame, the heights of brooklyn just on the edge of the water, and then were landed at liberty island. troops were quartered here, and everything was under military discipline. visitors were still permitted to the tower, but no one was allowed to go about the camps, or to question the men. the elevator landed the children high up where the balcony encircles the statue, but mrs. parke declared that they were not going to mount the steep and winding stairs, as nothing was to be gained by climbing up the hundreds of steps. the view from the balcony was the same as up in the head. as they walked around the outside of the figure, mr. parke told the children some interesting items about the statue. "bartholdi's statue named 'liberty' was presented by the french people to the united states in 1885. it is the largest statue ever built. it was conceived by the famous french sculptor whose name it bears. it is said that the face is a likeness of his mother, who was his model for this renowned figure. "it took eight years to construct the statue, and it weighed, when completed, 440,000 pounds. of this, 146,000 pounds is copper and the balance iron and steel. the latter two metals were used to construct the skeleton framework of the inside. "the mammoth electric light held aloft in the hand of this giantess is 305 feet above tide-water. the height of the figure is 152-1/2 feet; the pedestal is 91 feet, and the foundation 52 feet, 10 inches. forty persons can stand at the same time in the top of the mighty head, which is 14-1/2 feet in diameter. the index finger of the hand is eight feet long, and the nose three and three-fourth feet. the colossus of rhodes--once regarded as a world-wonder for its great size--is a pigmy in comparison with this figure." the children listened to these stupendous figures, that gave them a good idea of the great work done on liberty statue, and were all the more interested in seeing the giant steel beams and bolts that held up the skeleton of the figure. after they had gone down again and were walking about the base, while waiting for the return of the steamer to convey them back to new york, they listened to mr. parke describing the method of lighting at night, so that the entire statue seemed bathed in light. they looked at the great globes of electric lights grouped at various points of the stone parapet, and wondered at the unseen power that would reflect such brilliant illumination up at the figure as to make it plainly visible for miles across the sea. on the sail back, the children saw the old fort where prisoners were kept herded together in great masses when the british took possession of new york and long island. the aquarium was visited, and after admiring the strange and beautiful fish in the glass tanks, the children found great sport waiting for the sea-lion to utter his fearful roar, as he flopped into the large tank of water, scattering water in every direction and thoroughly sprinkling the unwary who stood too near the railing. then mr. parke led his party across battery park to a triangular green. "who knows what this is?" asked he. "why, it's another stairway to the subway cellar," said martha, who spied the sign over the entrance. the ladies laughed, for they knew the right answer to the question; but the children had not the slightest clue to it. "this is old bowling green. here the dutch used to meet daily and play bowls, while the wives and children sat on the rude wooden benches placed on the outside and chatted or watched the game." "are there any more old places like this in new york?" asked john. "yes, i thought we might go over and visit the place called 'ye olde taverne,' that has been carefully kept from mercenary realty investors all these years. there you will find the quaint old style of building in vogue during the time of howe's victory over the american forces in new york. if the old beams and wood could but talk, what interesting tales of treason, patriotism, plotting and celebrating, it could tell us. "as we will be right near the stock exchange after we leave fraunces' tavern, i will see if it is possible to have you visit and watch the buying and selling that goes on in the 'pit' every day. the exchange closes at three, so we must not delay, if we would visit this scene." the children followed eagerly as mr. parke led the way across broadway and down lower pearl street to the quaint old gable-roofed building still intact after all these years. they gazed wide-eyed at this relic of washington's period, and felt that the hero of their readings and play was very real indeed. coming out on broad street, they then went to the stock exchange building, but mr. parke discovered that no visitors were admitted there since war was declared. only those known to be in business on the stock market were permitted to enter. chapter iii sight-seeing in new york "well, as long as we can't visit the stock exchange, we may as well stop at wall street and see the subtreasury and old custom house." mr. parke's suggestion met with approval, so they all followed him up the wide street known as broad, passing the curb brokers, as they stood screaming and gesturing at each other. "oh, don't go so close to that street fight, uncle!" called anne davis, tugging at mr. parke's sleeve. "what's the matter there, father? is some one killed?" worried george, watching the mob anxiously. "no, they are merely shouting out prices, or dealing in stocks. these are called curb brokers, because they have no 'seats' in the exchange and cannot deal in there," said mr. parke. "do any of you children know why wall street has its name?" asked mrs. davis. "i suppose because it does a wall of money business every day," ventured jack, trying to be wise. "no, it was wall street long before any stock market was founded in new york. it had a high, long wall crossing here from the east river to west street, and back of this wall stood an old dutch colonial house, with fine orchards about it. so solid was this wall that the conflicting armies of the british and american sides found it very convenient for a refuge and protection. then, too, when some old dutchman or alien of new amsterdam--for it was so called by the discoverer of the island, hendrik hudson, in 1609--wanted to designate a certain district of the town, he would say 'in front of the wall', or 'so-and-so distant from the wall,' until it began to be known as 'the wall.' then the lane that ran in front of it was becoming quite a thoroughfare, as so many people had to go about the area of land enclosed by the wall, that it gradually became known as 'wall street.'" this information was very interesting to the children, and mrs. parke said: "tell them about the purchase of this island." "the land on which new york stands to-day was secured from the indians for $24.00 worth of beads and trinkets in 1626, although the island was found by hudson in 1609 on his voyage of discovery along the bay and up the hudson river. "in 1664 the english took it from the dutch and changed the name to new york after the english nobleman. when howe took it from washington's army, his men were so reckless in their merry-making that fire broke out in a tavern down here and soon the wooden houses, with their dried-shingle roofs, were blazing. in that fire more than a thousand buildings were destroyed, and the fine old mansions of lower new york, then the fashionable section of dutch and english wealth, were razed to the ground. the few places escaping the conflagration were those below this fire-line, or the homes better protected by owners, who kept a bucket-brigade at work to thoroughly soak the outside of the buildings." "now that we have seen the sights on wall street, what else can we see downtown?" asked jack. "well, we can visit the old church here at the head of wall street, and then we can also visit the graveyard of the old church standing on the corner of fulton and broadway. here we will find old flat stones marking graves made before the days of the revolution; and some of the famous men we read about are buried in this busy section of lower new york. that will fill in our time until we start back uptown to the hotel," said mr. parke. so the children wandered about the grass-covered burial spot, where centuries ago funerals of great men were held, and now old stones still showed the spots where they had been laid to rest. so completely worn out were they from that well-filled day of sight-seeing, that all were ready for bed soon after dinner that evening. when mr. davis came in from a late business conference, no one felt like talking of the day's exploits. mr. parke was to attend to his business the following day, and mr. davis offered to act as official guide to the party. john was sent uptown to his great-aunt in a taxicab and told to be sure and be on hand by ten the next day. "what shall we visit to-day?" asked mr. davis, when all the travellers had gathered about the breakfast table in the morning. "you know best--we want to see the forts and the places where they show things left by washington," said george. "i have been thinking that we may as well keep right on visiting from downtown up, taking in important points of interest on the way," suggested mrs. parke. "we can. then we ought to go down to city hall park and take in the sights from there on," replied mrs. davis. the moment john arrived--which was fifteen minutes before the time set--they started out on their second day's trip. at old city hall, with its park of ten acres, they saw the county court house, the old post office and the famous woolworth building, said to be the tallest in the world. finding they could visit the tower, they all went up in an elevator and had a bird's-eye view of the great city, with its great ribbons of river winding along on two sides of it, forming the island of manhattan, where east and north rivers met. they saw the buildings where the new york _world_, _the tribune_, _the sun_, _the mail_, and other papers were printed, and mr. davis secured permission for them to visit the plant in the tribune building, so the children could watch the interesting process of turning out a daily newspaper. after this, they went to the hudson tubes terminal building and had luncheon at the restaurant before walking down the incline of fulton entrance to the concourse underground. the very fact that so much business went on continually underground, while other business continued above on the streets, filled the children with amazement. they saw the trains of the new york terminal come in and go out again, and were told how the tubes under the hudson river had been built and were now conducted. as a crowded train left the platform, jack sighed: "the same old thing as in the subway. not half enough seats for the crowds of people that travel. when we run _our_ line we will see that every one who pays full price has a seat, or they won't have to pay but half fare." "your plan is most sensible, but no monopoly will ever consent to lose half a nickel that way while it can get full fare out of the travelling public that must reach certain destinations in a given time," replied mr. davis. from the hudson tubes the visitors followed their guide crosstown again, and after walking a few blocks they again crossed city hall park. here they entered the large municipal building that stands near the entrance to brooklyn bridge. "i think it would be a treat to take you over the bridge on a trolley car. as we cross i can explain all about the great cables that suspend this tremendous structure." the children eagerly consenting, they were soon seated in a flatbush trolley, mr. davis explaining during the ride the many interesting facts of the old brooklyn bridge structure. in brooklyn, mr. davis showed them in passing, the city hall, and as they passed down the streets so similar to the busy thoroughfares of new york, anne said: "i don't see why they changed the name of these two towns; they are just alike and ought to be called by the same name." "they tried that some years ago," replied mrs. parke. "this is all known now as greater new york, but we are now on the brooklyn section of it, while on the other side of the river it is known as manhattan. then there is the bronx section, and the washington heights or van courtlandt sections." on the way through flatbush the children saw a number of genuine old houses, still standing since the time of the occupation of long island by the british. "it is no wonder the american army was overpowered here by general howe," remarked mrs. davis. "the british had more than 30,000 men in its army and navy--all well-trained soldiers, with plenty of food, clothing, and camp equipment to keep them in good trim. poor washington had only a scattered force of less than 11,000 men, with scant rations, ragged clothes, no beds or tents for half of them, and constantly having to go from one spot to the other to defend that point." "yes, and when we remember how badgered the americans were, by not being sure where the english would strike first--landing on staten island as they did, and swarming in their fleet of battleships, transports, sloops-of-war and floating batteries of guns up the east river, along the hudson and about the bay so that it would have taken a dozen armies to keep watch of their many maneuvers," added mrs. parke. "then when howe so arranged his army that one regiment threatened from one side, another from another side, and the main army from the rear, what were the americans to do but fight or give up?" said mr. davis, while the children listened eagerly to this history, which was very real when on the ground of the scenes. "had it not been for that master-stroke of washington's, when he had but one tiny hope left to save his men--retreat and move over the east river during the heavy fog, what might have been the final result of that war? when we think of the way he handled that great army of sick, hungry, weary and wounded men, discouraged and broken-spirited as each one was, and inspired them with enough will-power and patriotism to brace up and start in absolute silence and under cover of the fog, to cross the deep and dangerous current of the river on flat-bottomed boats, we, at this late day, but faintly feel the great praise due him; and to think that not one man was lost or injured in that transport work!" "it must have been a terrible blow to howe, when he discovered his birds all flown in the morning and no one knew how or when!" jack chuckled in hearty enjoyment. "i wish i had been there to laugh in his face!" declared george. "huh! you wouldn't have laughed long or very loud--he would have clapped you in irons and thrown you into one of those wet, filthy, dark holes he used for the american prisoners!" said john. "well, even if i wasn't at the battle scene of long island, i would have loved to stand in front of the old city hall on wall street on that fourth of july, 1776, and listen to washington read from the balcony the declaration of independence to his army. how that must have cheered them up and made them willing to fight all england!" said george, with emphasis. mr. davis hired an automobile when the party reached the end of the flatbush ride, and took the children to gowan's cove, to wallabout market, which used to be called "walla bouche" by the walloons, who settled this section of brooklyn. they also passed the gowanus canal of historic fame, and many other places, stopping at fort hamilton to be able to see governor's island at close range, as no visitors were admitted on the island since the declaration of war on germany. on the way back from fort hamilton, the sight-seeing party visited the throgg's neck, red hook, and other districts where battles had occurred; but so modernized were these spots, that no one would have dreamed that any disastrous battle had ever taken place there. the next day, both gentlemen being free to escort the party about the city, they started at nine o'clock to get in a full day. john was on hand right on the minute, and they started out by visiting central park first. the great egyptian obelisk, brought across seas from alexandria in 1880, was studied, but no one could decipher the strange symbols carved on its surface. "it is called 'cleopatra's needle,' and is said to be the finest specimen of old egyptian monuments in existence," said mr. parke, focussing a camera to take a picture of it. then they visited the museum of art, where treasures of all kinds are to be found: paintings, statuary, collections of stones, jewels, antiques of all kinds, and a famous collection of tapestries. the zoo proved to be a diversion from the other sights, and could the children have remained long enough, it is quite certain that the monkeys would have been made ill by all the peanuts fed them. from the museum and zoo, the children were taken to the museum of natural history, on the park annex grounds, located on 77th street and central park west. here, too, they found interesting things: all sorts of stuffed birds, animals and american relics. of all the animals, the dinosaur interested them the most, for its great size and queer snout. "now we'll cross to riverside park and visit the sailors' monument, which is considered one of the finest erected to our marines," said mr. davis. "and when we finish that, we will get on a bus and ride up to grant's tomb and let the kiddies see the great monument raised by a grateful people to the general of the civil war," added mr. parke. "we haven't seen washington's arch down at washington square yet," reminded george, fearful of missing something. "i know, but i thought it would be fine to get on a fifth avenue bus when we finish columbia university on the heights, and complete our college tour with the city college on 137th street and amsterdam avenue, and ride all the way downtown along riverside park to 72nd street, thence to fifth avenue. down that famous avenue we can see many interesting buildings and sights, and at last we will jump off at washington square," promised mr. parke. so the time flew rapidly by while the different places were visited, and finally the tired group almost rolled from the bus when it reached washington square. here they took but half interest in the great arch erected to the memory of washington, and all were thankful enough to get on another bus to ride uptown to the hotel. "oh, i'm glad we haven't all europe to see like this!" sighed martha, throwing herself on a couch the moment they entered the parlor of the suite. "poor john! i think i will telephone his mother and ask her to allow him to remain with us for to-night," said mrs. parke, when she saw the drooping eyelids of the weary boy. "oh do, please, and then i won't have to get up so awfully early in the morning. why, great-aunt belinda makes every one in her household rise at six o'clock, and we breakfast at seven," said john, revealing the cause of his prompt arrival each morning at the hotel. john was given permission to remain that night, and mrs. graham added that she would be down herself at nine in the morning to accompany her friends to washington's headquarters, where they proposed to visit the next day. chapter iv the battle of new york every one was hungry, and when they had gathered about the dining-room table, full justice was done the viands served in the restaurant. while waiting for dessert (the children had ice cream every time) mr. davis remarked: "any one want to go to the theatre to-night? i had some tickets reserved for a play that is said to be very good." "do you mean us, too, when you say 'any one'?" asked anne. "goodness, no! you youngsters are too tired," laughed her father. "oh, no, we're not! we're never too tired for fun," replied jack quickly. "i think it will be very nice to see a play, sam," said mrs. parke, thanking him for the suggestion. "well, then we must hurry and not miss the whole of the first act. couldn't we leave the children to go to bed alone for this time?" asked mr. parke. "i'll ask the chambermaid to see that they are all right and have what they want," said mrs. parke. "mother, if you all are going to have a good time, why can't we have ice cream and cake for a treat up in the parlor?" begged anne. "why, you're having ice cream now!" exclaimed mrs. davis. "but this is dessert--upstairs it will be a party!" cried jack. the elders laughed, and promised that maggie, the maid, should be told to give the children a party as they desired. after the elders had gone, the five children gathered in the parlor waiting for maggie's appearance. she was having her supper, and said she would be upstairs in a short time. "do you know, we haven't played war in the _longest_ time--i've almost forgotten how!" sighed george. "that's 'cause we had so much other stuff to do," replied martha. "i wish we could play nathan hale and the british now," ventured jack. "you just can't in a place full of furniture--no trees, no grass, no creek to play with," remonstrated george. "it's 'most eight o'clock. maggie should be finished with her supper long ago," said martha, getting up to peep out of the door to see if there were any signs of the maid in the long hallway. to her great delight she saw maggie coming down the soft carpeted corridor, and soon after, she knocked at the door. "is you'se all right in here?" questioned maggie. "as right as can be without that ice cream," retorted george. maggie grinned. "yer mudder said you'se were to have it sent up at eight-thirty. i th'ot like as how i'd stop to see if i wuz wanted for anything and if not, i'd run upstairs to get the clean towels for your rooms." "run ahead, and don't be behind time with the cream," agreed jack, sighing, as he took up a magazine from the center table. "this is a tiresome life when there's nothing to kill time with," also sighed george, after maggie had gone. "let's have a pillow fight," suggested martha. "come on, boys, that'll be better than nothing," added anne, taking the magazine from her brother. john was spending the night with them, so the five had quite a lively time in the fight, until the clock on the mantel chimed eight-thirty. "time for the cream!" shouted george, picking up the down that had escaped from the pillows while batting them back and forth. the children waited fully five minutes for maggie and the cream, and then jack declared he would not stand for such neglect! he took up the telephone from the wall near the door and asked the clerk to find out where maggie was. the clerk ascertained that maggie was the maid for their floor, and said she had been sent upstairs to help another maid who was ill that evening. he would let her know that she was wanted. five minutes more passed by, and still no maggie. then george had a brilliant idea. "i'll run and scout for her. i've never been anywhere about this hotel, except down in the dining-room and entrance. i'll have a look around, and find her at the same time." "i'll go with you," suggested jack. "can't we go, too?" asked the girls. "no, girls mustn't wander around like this, but john may come if he likes," replied george, going out into the corridor. not wishing to let the elevator boy know they were on a tour of inspection, the three boys walked up to the next floor. a corridor exactly the same as the one they were on, was the only thing to see. voices were heard--seemingly from the floor above. "that must be maggie upstairs," said jack. so up another flight they went, and found a couple at the head of the stairs talking loudly to a deaf old lady. maggie was not to be seen. the three strangers got on the elevator, and the three boys walked down the length of the corridor. almost at the extreme length of it, a door stood open, and the boys were sure maggie would be in that room, very probably making it ready for guests. "my, this is an awful big house," remarked john. "almost like a canyon--these high, dark corridors," said jack. "it would be great sport trying to catch a spy running away from us down these gulleys and mountain-steps," grinned john. by this time the boys had reached the end of the hallway, and stood looking in at the opened door of the room; but it was not a guest-room. it was a store-room of some sort. the door had been left open by mistake, most likely, for no one was about on the entire length of the corridor. "it must be a junk room," said george. "they keep old half-worn stuff in it, i guess," added jack, glancing at the shelves on one side, piled up with miscellaneous items. "oh! look at all the bellboys' uniforms! all colors, different from what some of them wear now," said john. "maybe they're here to be repaired or for extra help," suggested george. the boys stood looking over the motley assortment of things, when suddenly jack exclaimed: "what do you say to playing war? let's dress up in the old uniforms and have some sport!" "say!" admired john, looking at jack with envy. george said not a word in reply, but looked up and down the corridor to see if any one was about. it was empty and quiet. "let's take one each, and two for the girls," whispered george, tiptoeing into the room and selecting a green cloth suit, trimmed with gold braid and brass buttons. after holding it up against him to gauge the size, he threw it over his arm, and then selected a similar suit for martha. john also found a uniform about his size, and jack took two--one for himself and one for anne. just as the three raiders reached the head of the stairway, they heard the elevator coming up to that floor. quick as a flash, they slid down the first section of the stairs, to let the elevator continue past the floor before they ran down the other flights. into the parlor bounced the three boys, laughing and bursting with plans for a campaign. the two girls had grown tired of waiting for the boys and maggie, and were watching the crowds on the brilliantly-lighted street many stories below. "what do you think? a battle in new york!" cried jack, throwing the uniforms on the floor. "now we can have some fun!" added george. "oh, where'd you find them?" asked martha and anne in one breath. "never mind where--get into them and let's go to war," retorted john, taking his uniform to one of the bedrooms. the outer door from the parlor to the corridor was well secured against surprise, and then the children quickly dressed in the uniforms. canes left by the two gentlemen, and umbrellas, were perfectly satisfactory guns for the soldiers. one after the other they appeared in the parlor, and laughingly admired one another. "now what? we're all ready," said john. "martha, twist up your curls! soldiers can't have such hair when they fight!" scorned george. so martha ran to her mother's room and pinned up her hair, keeping it on top of her head by dragging her father's travelling cap over it. the boys also got their caps, and then they stood in line while george drilled them. "this room is too small for any fun," said jack. "can't we parade down the hallway? if we hear any one coming we can hide," suggested martha. the others exchanged looks. that was a tempting idea. "might as well. no one is about as early as this," said jack. "come on, then! george, you're general, you know, so you must go first," advised anne. nothing loath, george opened the door softly and peeped out. "all's quiet on the brandywine!" reported george, going out on tiptoes. once out in the hall, however, the five yanks seemed to lose their nerve. first anne rushed back to the parlor, then martha followed. finally, the three boys came tumbling in, for no other cause than that they thought they heard footsteps somewhere. "you're a lot of cowards! if washington ever had to fight with runaways like you two, i pity him!" sneered george. "well, didn't you run back, too?" exclaimed martha. "only to see what you girls were after! we're going out now and march properly!" declared jack. "so'll we--this time!" promised anne. again the army sallied forth, george telling them that they had to storm the heights of brooklyn and harlem to hold the forts in new york. the general marched his army down the whole length of the corridor without meeting any one, and then they stormed the stairs at the end of the hallway. up on the next floor they marched again, and not a soul was there to watch or applaud, although the uniformed army marched as well as a squad of bellboys--in fact, they resembled them closely. "now, men! howe and his men are climbing up the ridge and we must fight on the heights or be captured!" warned the general, waving his cane at the next flight of stairs. up this flight swarmed the five continentals, and at the top they turned to shoot down any english that dared to follow; but no one was to be seen. the general held a council of war with his army. what was there to do in this terrible extremity--the east river on one hand, the different regiments of the british on two sides, and howe, with his main army, back of them? "there's only one thing left for us--to cross the river in the fog and gain new york again," declared george. "how can we cross, when there is nothing to cross?" asked anne, with great lack of imagination. "oh, if our creek were only here, wouldn't it be a lark!" sighed martha. "why, this hallway is our river, can't you see? the fog is so thick one can hardly tell which is land and which is water, but we can cross it all right, if you only follow me!" cried washington courageously. down the whole length of the corridor he tore, eagerly followed by his four men, and reaching the stairway at the end he rushed up to the next floor. this happened to be the top floor, and the roof, which was used in summer as a garden dining-room, and was now deserted, except for a few tubs of greens and some odd chairs standing about, was at the top of the next flight. in marching the army from the east river to camp in new york, george found the roof and exulted in the spot. "just the place for an engagement! we can hide behind the palm trees and shoot at each other when one of us tries to cross the city. two of us have to be british, though." "john and i will be english, and the girls and you will be yanks," said jack, looking around to make sure no one was about. "if we only had some of those apples for ammunition! do you remember how soft and squashy they were when they hit you in the head?" laughed john, at the memory of that conflict on the creek. "well, this must be a bayonet fight. no guns or cannon on hand, you see, and the men at close quarters," said george. so, making their fortifications of the tables and chairs waiting to be removed to the storehouse of the hotel, and then taking their places as american and british armies, the two sides opened warfare over the possession of new york city. the battle waged furiously in the semi-light of the electric brilliancy which reflected from the dazzling advertising signs of the city. both sides tried to capture each other and make them prisoners, which would end the war, but all five were agile and experienced warriors. while howe and washington were engaged on the roof, maggie had finished her extra tasks, and suddenly remembered the children. she hastily ordered the ice cream and cake to be sent up, and hurried to the suite to humbly apologize for her tardiness. she knocked softly at the door, while framing excuses. no one answered. she knocked again--this time much louder, but still no one answered. quickly then, she opened the door and found all quiet and no one in the parlor. some odds and ends of clothing--such as george's shoes, and jack's coat, lay on the floor. "poor little dears! they waited jest as long as they could an' then they got tired and went to bed widout that cream!" said maggie, opening a bedroom door softly to bless the little sleeping darlings. but not a bed was disturbed. maggie hurried from one room to the other, to find clothes scattered about in each room, but not a sign of the children. "oh, oh, oh! what has happened to thim children? here i was told to watch thim, and now there ain't nothing but clothes to watch!" cried the distressed maggie, as she hurried for the door leading to the main corridor. half beside herself with fear of the unknown, maggie flung the door open, and was about to rush out, when she collided with the waiter, who carried the tray of ice cream and cake. as can be expected from such an impact, the tray crashed to the floor, mixing cake, cream and broken dishes well together. the waiter shouted and berated maggie, and she pulled at her hair and rolled her eyes upward, crying: "what shall i do? what shall i do? thim children is kidnapped er else they've run away!" the waiter quickly ran in to inspect the premises, and came back with a fearful idea: "black hand again! the city's full ov thim, and these folks are rich, yo' know, an' kin pay the reward!" maggie and the waiter rushed down, down and down, the many flights of stairs, never stopping to take an elevator, and then ran breathlessly up to the desk to stammer hoarsely: "children gone! clothes laying everywhere, and kidnappers carried them off!" it caused a tremendous commotion. every one within hearing crowded up to the clerk and wanted to know who was gone, where the thieves went, what floor the burglary took place on, and many other exciting questions. the proprietor was called out to quell the disturbance, but long before he reached the lobby, dozens of guests and callers streamed up the endless flights of steps to examine the vacant suite of rooms. some of the guests, who had not heard distinctly on which floor the kidnappers had found the children, climbed to the top flight. suddenly a nervous woman clutched her husband's arm. "oh, oh! those wicked men are on the roof with the dears! hear them shouting and things bumping about up there?" cried she. instantly the man, who had powerful lungs, leaned over the stair-rail and bawled down: "come up! come up! the thieves are on the roof ready to throw the children down to the street if they don't stop crying!" that brought the endless line of excited folks up and up the remaining flights of stairs, until all could quite plainly hear the noise on the roof overhead. suddenly a voice yelled: "surrender! i got you cornered." the words were ominous, but the voice was boyish. maggie recognized it as the leader of the party of children, and she ran recklessly up to grapple with the fierce kidnappers, should it be necessary to help mister george capture the rascals. the guests followed closely after the brave maid, and as the crowd pushed out upon the roof, they beheld a stacked-up rampart of tables and chairs and five bellboys in a close struggle with each other. "where are the stolen children?" cried maggie, rushing over to the boys, with whom she was quite at home, and, in fact, felt she was their superior. at the unexpected interruption, the contending forces separated and looked about. to their consternation, scores of wondering people stood near the door of the roof, staring at the five boys. the cap and hairpins of one had slipped from his (or her) head, and yellow curls blew about her head in the breeze. george never lost his presence of mind for an instant, although he feared this surprise meant the total collapse of both armies. he called to the four children: "attention!" instantly the four stood erect and took up their arms. "shoulder arms!" the four obeyed. "form line!" this was also done, to the unbelief of the audience. "forward--march!" cried george, taking his place at the head of the line. they started and marched directly for the door leading to the roof, where crowds of curious guests stood gaping. as the army reached the doorway, the people fell back on both sides and the victorious general led his men down the stairs, down, down, down, followed by the throng, now laughing and gesticulating as wildly as any new yorker can when he has been well fooled! along the corridor of the floor where their own suite was located, george led his army, and once safely inside that friendly door, he quickly slammed and locked it. the five sank down on the floor, and rocked back and forth in hysterics of fun. "oh! that was the best fight we've ever had!" finally cried martha. an imperative knock at the door made them all jump, however. "run to your rooms and tear off these uniforms! fire them in the closets or anywhere and jump in bed. cover yourselves with the bedclothes before maggie comes in with a pass-key!" ordered george quickly. a second rap on the door found them all quickly removing the uniforms, and before maggie could get her pass-key, the five quiet, dear little darlings were snugly tucked in five beds snoring soundly. the proprietor stood in the parlor wonderingly, but maggie crept to the doors and held up a warning hand for quiet. "they is all fast asleep, sir!" whispered she. the dazed man shook his head, and went out thinking deeply over the queer occurrence. could five bellboys have played that joke? but no, there was one with curls, and the maid had said the five children were not in the rooms when she sought for them! as soon as the crowd had dispersed, maggie went to the room where the two little girls slept in twin beds. "that ice cream will all be melted to nuthing," said wily maggie. instantly the girls were out of bed. "where is it?" "ha! tell me the truth and i'll give you the cream!" said maggie coaxingly. the boys heard the word "cream" and they fell into their clothes and appeared at the parlor door about the same time the two girls and maggie came from the room. the story was told, and maggie, finding herself as much at fault as the soldiers, promised to put the uniforms back in the closet, while the children sat down and enjoyed a double portion of ice cream. chapter v some of washington's headquarters an automobile was hired for the day, and as early as was practical, the party started for bronx park. here they took a quick survey of the horticultural gardens and stopped a short time at the zoo, then on to the historic points of fordham and the bronx. then they visited the stately mansion of the old morris family on the harlem river, where washington had made his headquarters during the time he was in new york with his army. from this place, the party went to white plains, and saw the places still remaining to mark the points of historic interest. thence to dobb's ferry, where the fine old house used by washington for his headquarters had been purchased by a rich american, and restored to its original state. the visitors crossed the river at this place and went to fort lee, but nothing of interest could be found here. "it is much like the man himself! general lee ruined his character and honor when he permitted the british to capture him in dressing gown and slippers!" scorned mrs. parke, who had always felt the utmost contempt for this disobedient american. "i wish we had time to cross from here and visit morristown--it is not so far in distance, but have we time to-day?" ventured mrs. davis. "i have an idea!" exclaimed mr. parke. "what do you say if we wire the garage in new york that we will not return till to-morrow? we can then go to newburgh and west point, and later on to morristown, and remain there for the night at some first-class hotel. it will be a relief to get away from the din of the new york streets, and rest in the quiet peace of a suburban town." "we would not reach morristown till long after dinner," said mrs. parke, thinking of the tiresome ride for the children. "well, ask the chauffeurs about it--they ought to know the distance and time it would take to go from newburgh to morristown," said mrs. davis. both chauffeurs declared that it was too late to think of visiting west point and newburgh that day, and to cross-country to morristown was a very poor road to travel. so it was decided to return to the city and start the next morning for west point on the small steamer running between that point and new york. in this way, the children could see the grand old hudson and its sights. if it were possible, and the day fair, they would drive to morristown and the places in its vicinity made famous by revolutionary tactics. mrs. graham had arranged with her aunt that john and she would remain at home all of the following day to meet friends and distant relatives of the family. thus john was disappointed in this trip up the hudson, for he would have much preferred to be with his friends, than sit in a darkened old city mansion, listening to folks talk about their family. early on the following day, therefore, the parkes and davises sailed up the hudson, passing the sailors' monument and grant's tomb on the way. the palisades attracted admiration, for the foliage of late fall glorified the steep cliffs of the river. past yonkers, called "younkers" in the old dutch days, they sailed again, passing dobb's ferry, where they had visited the day before, and so on to stony point. "who can tell the story of stony point?" asked mr. parke. the children looked at each other, but they seemed anxious not to venture information which might be incorrect, so mrs. parke decided to help them over the difficulty. "fortifications had been started at west point, as it looked more defensible than positions lately occupied by fort clinton and fort montgomery. but the works at west point were far from completion, and washington knew that communication must be kept open between the middle and eastern states. detachments of his army occupied positions on both sides the river, commanding the ferry and protecting the incomplete works above. on the west bank, stationed on an elevated section of ground called stony point, defences had been started but were far from being completed. on the east bank, a small fort called lafayette's on verplanck's point, projecting out into the river, was nearer completion than the works on the other side. "now, the intention of the british was to reduce both these works and capture west point, along with washington's division, and perhaps, that of the state of the confederacy. "the unfinished works at stony point, garrisoned by but forty men, was too weak to defend itself against clinton's large division of the british army, landing on the eastern bank of the river, placed under command of vaughan, so it was abandoned after setting fire to the block-house. the garrison took stores and ammunition with them, and clinton took possession of it without opposition. during the night he had cannon and mortars brought up and planted on the brow of the hill, opposite the fort on the other side of the river. "at five o'clock in the morning, a heavy fire was opened upon fort lafayette by the command at stony point, and two vessels in the river managed to pass the fort, thus cutting off all chance of escape by water. general vaughan made a circuit by land, thus completely surrounding the little garrison of seventy men. captain armstrong, the commander of the fort, and his men, held out all day and then capitulated. "clinton ordered both forts completed at once, but washington, having heard of the british general's advance up the river, had strengthened west point and taken up a strong position at smith's cove, so that the english found it unwise to attack the american forces at that time. besides staten island was threatened in his absence, so he left garrisons at the two posts captured, and retired to phillipsburg, to be ready to assist in new york and its dependencies, or at either of the other captured forts if necessary. "a garrison of 1000 men was left at stony point, and one of 5000 men at fort lafayette, but clinton determined to draw the american army, so he sent tryon with 2600 men into connecticut. after pillaging new haven and destroying property at fairfield, norwalk and greenfield, laying the towns in ashes, and treating the people with the greatest brutality, he essayed to treat new london in the same manner, but the people were roused to such a degree, by the reports from their neighboring towns, that they opposed tryon successfully. hence he returned to new york to boast of his exploits. "news of the invasion of connecticut was late in reaching washington, as he was visiting outposts in the vicinity of stony point. he understood the design of clinton, however, so did not weaken his forces in the highlands to assist the troops in connecticut; on the contrary, he planned a counter-attack on stony point, which, if successful, would alarm clinton and induce him to recall the detachment from connecticut, to defend the outpost on the river. "secrecy was one of the essential things to the success of this plan. one brigade was ordered to march so as to reach the scene of the action about the time the troops engaged in the attack, and so render assistance should disaster befall them. "as you can see from the boat here, stony point is a hill projecting far out into the river, with three sides washed by the hudson, and the other side attached to the mainland by a deep marsh. "over this marsh there was but one crossing-place, but where it joins with the river there is a sandy beach. on the summit of the hill stood the fort. besides the garrison there were some vessels stationed in the river to command the foot of the fort. "at half-past eleven at night, two columns of continentals marched with unloaded muskets, and bayonets fixed, preceded by a forlorn hope of twenty men. they crossed the marsh undiscovered, and at twenty minutes to twelve, commenced the assault. "surmounting every obstacle, they mounted and entered the works without discharging a single musket. they obtained possession of the fort, without the display of cruelty so prevalent in the british ranks, although sixty-three of the garrison were killed. the prisoners amounted to upward of five hundred, and the value of the military stores taken was considerable. "an attempt was made on the opposite fort but failed. this failure, with the fifteen hundred men it would take to garrison stony point against the enemy's shipping, caused washington to demolish and abandon the fort. but clinton re-occupied and repaired it again immediately. "then washington established his headquarters at west point in july, and from that time to december, he gave his attention to the completion of the works at that post." "look on the right, children! there you will see the verplanck's point your aunt has just been describing to you as holding fort lafayette," called mr. davis, pointing out the spot to the eager children. from that point on till the boat reached newburgh, the elders entertained the children with various descriptions of places passed. after visiting the headquarters at newburgh, and going on to visit west point, where the children were deeply interested in watching the cadets practice, they returned to the landing where they intended taking the boat back to new york. but they were too late. it had gone half an hour before they reached the dock. "that means we must go back by train," said mr. parke. "we'll get to new york much earlier than expected. we might accomplish some other visit," suggested mrs. davis. "oh, no. the return will mean that we will have time for rest before starting the trip to morristown to-morrow," said mrs. parke. so that evening was really the first quiet or restful one enjoyed since the travellers reached new york. and in the morning, all were eager to continue their historical visits. through the flats of hackensack and across the passaic, the party rode, the elders pointing out various places that might interest the children. at newark nothing of moment was found to convey any picture of washington's campaign to the youthful admirers, so they continued on to morristown. here they visited the old fort nonsense on the ridge, back of the town, and then inspected the headquarters, where a fine collection of furniture and other relics was kept on exhibition by the washington association of new jersey. later they drove through baskingridge and cross-country to pluckimin and thus on to brunswick. trenton was passed through on the homeward route, and then on to jersey city, and across the ferry to new york. in going through trenton the old hall and other historic buildings were pointed out to the children. that night george had a suggestion to offer. "we've done nothing but see, and _see_, and _see_ places since we've landed here from home, and i say that we now do something different." "but this trip was planned to show you children all we could to enlighten you on history," replied mrs. parke. "i feel so light that it would take little to waft me up to the sky," said martha, hoping so to create sympathy. "now that we have completed the round of places to be visited in the interests of revolutionary history, suppose we continue on our way to philadelphia. there is a mine of historical places to be visited in and about that city; besides we will be home and we won't have to bother like we do in a hotel," said mrs. davis. "i second that motion!" cried jack. "but our week of vacation is not yet over in new york," argued mr. parke. "well, why not leave you two men behind to finish up your week, while we go on with the children to prepare the people of the quaker city for the unexpected coming of the little washingtons?" laughed mrs. parke. "do say yes, father!" begged martha. "i see! my own daughter wants to get away from my company!" exclaimed mr. parke tragically. "we wouldn't if you were finished with your business affairs, but we know right well what will happen if we tear you away now! it will mean a delay all 'round," said mrs. parke, from former experiences. "well, then sam and i will say 'good riddance' and send you off on the morrow's train from the pennsylvania station," agreed mr. parke. chapter vi george's strange battle that evening some city friends called at the hotel to see the parkes and davises, and wishing the children to get a good night's sleep, the parents decided to receive the callers in a parlor downstairs, and turn down the lights in their own parlor. after they had gone down, george felt so restless he could not keep quiet, so he slipped out of bed and went out to the parlor to amuse himself. the lights were turned up again, and a souvenir book of the woolworth building was found on the table. this book had been purchased when they were up in the tower, but so much had been crowded in the few days in the city, that no one had taken time to look at the pictures. now, however, george found the pictures and text very entertaining for want of company or something better to do. he pored over the illustration of the tower, wondering at the great height of the structure, and the manner in which it was built. he sat in a corner of the comfortable couch, his bare feet sticking out from his new pajamas purchased that very day. as he read the book, his eyelids drooped several times, but george always fought off sleep to the very last moment, so he bravely refused to give in to it now. suddenly, as he turned a page of the book, he heard a stealthy step behind him, coming from the open window. he turned just in time to see a masked face lean over the couch, and then a great bony hand reached out and grabbed him under the arms and lifted him up. george immediately essayed to scream for help, but a hand was placed over his mouth, while the man growled: "you help me gag him, then we'll tie this towel tight about his wrists and ankles." this was done, while poor george was helpless to defend himself. he wondered if george washington ever had such a cowardly game played on him. "now we'll sneak downstairs with him and watch our chance to get away," whispered the man to his accomplice. george felt himself carried to the door, but in a sudden twist of his body he managed to slip out of the villain's grasp, and in rolling upon the floor, he upset a stand with a jardiniã¨re of flowers on it. this crashed down and woke up the other children, which was just what george wanted. the two rascals quickly caught up their victim again, and rushed out, leaving the door wide open. the three other children were heard running out and calling "george! george!" but he could not reply. just as the two men reached the head of the stairs, the three pajamaed children ran out in the hall and saw them carrying george away. he saw them follow and heard them scream for help, but he himself was helpless to move or utter a sound. down the many flights of stairs the two men now rushed with their burden, the three night-dressed children running after. on the main floor, they fled down the wide marble ornamental stairs and through the lobby, throwing people right and left as they rushed madly for the door. the three white-robed friends of george followed close at the heels of the villains. a hue and cry then started, and as the men reached the curb to jump into a waiting taxicab, the people of the hotel and the crowds on the street joined in the chase. the parkes and davises, and the children as well, all ran screaming to the sidewalk, yelling to every one to stop the runaways. george could hear this until the cab turned the corner and tore down broadway. as the reckless driver flew downtown, george held his breath in constant fear of being smashed to atoms by colliding with a trolley or automobile crossing one of the many streets. down the densely-thronged thoroughfare flew the cab, the police whistling signals for it to stop, and shooting revolvers at the tires to cause a puncture, but, strange to say, the cab escaped without a single damage to windows or tires. by the time the runaways reached union square, a long mob of people were tearing after them, all in hot pursuit of the villains. in the foremost ranks ran the parents and the bare-footed, night-robed children. george heard the men say so, as they watched from the window in the back. down fifth avenue went the cab until it reached washington square. under the famous washington arch it flew, one wheel striking the base and causing the cab to swerve. as it righted itself again, one of the wheels came loose, and so on down, down they tore in constant danger of throwing the wheel and being flung into a stone building or a passing trolley. that fearful shaking and fear almost made george sick, but he remembered how washington must have felt when everything seemed against him and his country. "did he give up and let howe get away with him and his army? no, siree! he did not. neither will i!" thought george. finally the cab reached city hall park, and around the park it flew, while the two men wondered where they could go with their captive. "can't cross the bridge without being arrested, you know. they have guards there," said one. "can't go across to liberty island at this time of night. can't go anywhere except to the woolworth tower!" said the other. "just the place! if any one follows we will drop him off!" threatened the first man. so the cab pulled up by the side entrance to the woolworth building, and the two men hustled george on an elevator inside, and made the man send the elevator to the top where the room was that visitors had to pass through to reach the tower. here they found the man asleep, as no visitors were expected that night. they bundled george on the tiny elevator that ran to the very tip-top of the tower, and one of the rascals ran it up. then they went out on the narrow balcony that circled the tower. as they walked around here, dragging george by the belt of his pajamas, they watched the mob tearing across city hall park in pursuit. george could look over the parapet, and he was sure he saw his mother in front, calling to him, 'way up in that tower. he wanted to assure her that he was brave and would be all right, but one of the men thought he was signalling to his friends. "what shall we do if some of them follow us up here and try to catch us?" wondered one of the men. "we'll warn them--we'll throw him over if they try to come up!" said the other, shaking a fist at the crowds in the park. meantime, as many as could get on the elevators, did come up to the room, but the small elevator that ran to the tower would only hold five or six at a time, and there was no one to run it. the man who slept in the chair could not be roused, so mr. parke said he would run the lift to the top. the two villains threatened in vain--george's father started for the balcony to save his son. then the men lifted george upon the stone guard, and he could look down into the dizzy depths, where the people ran about like ants on the earth. "if you step another inch, down he goes!" roared one of the men. "what shall we do?" wailed mrs. parke, wringing her hands. while one of the men stood guard at the door that opened on the balcony, the other carried george around to the other side of the balcony. the moment george found but one man to hold him, he squirmed and wriggled so that he soon got out of the fellow's hold, and then he managed in some way to free his two hands. the man tried to hold him again, but with his hands free george also managed to free his feet. then he jumped up and defied the rascal. as the man turned to call his partner, george saw that the mayor had ordered an aeroplane from governor's island to rise and save him. determined to hold off the two villains long enough to give the aviators time to reach the tower, george ran around and around the tower--the door leading to the balcony having been bolted on the outside by the villain on guard to keep help and friends from reaching george. then, as the aeroplane almost flew over george's head, the men saw it and realized that they would soon lose their prize unless they could catch him again. so one of them planned to go one way, and the other the other way, and so catch george before he could be carried off. fortunately for george, an experienced aviator flew the machine, and as he swooped down in a graceful loop, he dropped a tackle out and caught george in the back of his pajamas. just as the two men met in a swift run around the balcony and bumped together, they saw their victim lifted out of their grasp, and they jumped to catch hold of him. but the plane was swiftly skimming over the city on its way to the hangars on governor's island. george never dared to move or even breathe for fear that the great hook would rip the madras of his pajama coat and so let him drop. the aeroplane reached the water, however, and was speeding over the bay to the island, when george heard an ominous r-r-rip at his back. he tried to call to his friend, the aviator, to haul him up, but the madras kept right on tearing once it started, and just as george could see the aviation field on the island, and could feel the aeroplane rapidly descending, the material in the coat gave way entirely and down plunged the luckless george into the deep water. the mayor had very thoughtfully ordered the whistles on the bay to blow, and many scows and other craft tied up for the night, showed lights or blew whistles. just as the coat began tearing, a powerful searchlight, called the sperry light, shot across the bay, and when george fell, a great chorus of steam-whistles started their warning signals to ferryboats and other ships that were still passing back and forth. george felt himself going down, down into the water, but it was not as cold as he feared it might be. he soon bobbed up on the surface, and no sooner had his head appeared in the great flashing pathway of light shed on the bay, than a submarine shot past and a long arm lifted him out of the water and dragged him into the hold. down went the submarine, and george rubbed the salt water from his eyes to find himself a prisoner of some fierce-looking german pirates. they taunted him at first, but when the captain came in from his private den, they were silenced. "who are you?" demanded the captain. "i am george washington, commander-in-chief of the american forces!" proudly replied george. "yah! such a fine prize ve never hoped to get in new york vaters. frents, ve sail home mit him to once, and present him to our kaiser!" gloated the captain, rubbing his hands together. immediately the men in the submarine went to work, and george felt the undersea craft fairly flying through the water. but they left him alone, never dreaming that he was a brave and determined fighter. when no one was looking, george crept over to the opening where the torpedoes were shoved in and launched. he had a desperate idea. he managed to swing a torpedo about and slide it in the tube. then he managed in some marvelous manner, to close the door of the tube, first seating himself astride the torpedo. he pulled with all his might on a cord that hung inside the tube, and simultaneously with the opening of the steel plate in front of the torpedo, the swift missile shot forth from the submarine. george had no idea where it might strike, but he clung like a leech to the slippery sides, as it flew through the green waters. so swiftly did it fly that george never had a good look at the shark that swam up eager to eat him. suddenly something deflected the torpedo, and it rose up on the surface and skimmed over the top of the waves. straight on for brooklyn heights the awful explosive went, and all george could see was general howe giving the sign to hang nathan hale to a telegraph pole, when the torpedo struck and blew all of long island into the air. george rose with it, and while he tried to catch his breath, the great american eagle flew over his head and stretched out a claw. he was firmly held in this clutch, and carried dangling over the east river and right up to the cupola of city hall, where the eagle had built a nest, all unknown to the citizens. george was just about to pat the eagle on the head, when the patriotic mayor climbed to the cupola and thanked the eagle for his services. then he turned to george: "i knew such a great general as washington could not be carried a prisoner to the kaiser. i have kept our great american eagle roosting in this cupola for just such emergencies. i knew there were black hands and dangerous spies in the city, but i never dreamed they would dare to make off with our washington! all of the loyal and patriotic american citizens of this city agreed with me, that new york needed the eagle here to keep trouble away, but who could tell to what lengths these bad men would go?--even so far as to kidnap our great and true washington. now that we have saved the city from the grasp of the enemy, who would have destroyed it utterly, i wish you would make a speech to the crowds waiting below in the park." george consented, and as he stood on the edge of the cupola, holding the mayor's hand on one side, and leaning gracefully on the american eagle as it stood beside him on the other side, the throngs of people cheered and cheered for the great general who blew up the british army on long island. just as george cleared his throat to address his countrymen something terrible happened, and george found himself rolling on the floor of the hotel parlor, where he had fallen from the couch. he sat up and rubbed his eyes and stared around to see if the patriotic mayor was safe and sound, and what had become of the american eagle, when the elders came into the room, laughing and talking. "why, george! you out of bed?" cried mrs. parke. "bed! why, i haven't had a second's time to think of bed! ever since those two masked rascals, who were enemies of the mayor, grabbed me, i've been in so much trouble that the american eagle had to save me!" exclaimed george, getting up from the floor and limping over to replace the woolworth souvenir on the table. "what _are_ you all laughing at, anyway?" cried george testily, as he limped into his room, wishing he had had time to speak that fine speech he had ready. chapter vii battle-grounds around philadelphia the next morning the ladies and children left new york for philadelphia, the home of the davises. on the journey there mrs. parke was begged for a story of the time when washington fought so hard to protect the city they were bound for. "after leaving brunswick, new jersey, when cornwallis appeared there, washington retreated, leaving twelve hundred men to protect princeton, and, with the rest of the army, proceeded to trenton, on the delaware. he collected and guarded all the boats on the river for seventy miles either side of philadelphia, then sending the sick over to the latter city, he followed with baggage and equipment. leaving the thousand men at princeton to keep up the appearance of resistance to the english army, he was about to move his main army, when he heard that cornwallis was planning to cut off his retreat across the delaware. hastily calling the men from princeton, he began a quick retreat, and managed to get all his men across the river and hold the boats on the philadelphia side, about the time the british army reached the river on the jersey side. "as no boats were to be had, the enemy could not cross, so the american army had a rest on the pennsylvania side. it was during this retreat from new jersey that washington heard of the capture of lee, at a tavern near baskingridge, where he had been sleeping some distance from his men. "when the british found they were cut off from pursuit of the american army, they fell to enjoying themselves in new jersey, while waiting for the ice to freeze solid on the river to enable them to cross to philadelphia. "but the hessians indulged in such open cruelty that many of the inhabitants changed from the proffered friendship to bitter enmity. "on receiving news of the different cantonments and numbers of the british troops, washington decided to make a bold effort to check their progress. "he formed his men into three divisions, purposing to attack the hessians, 1,500 strong, where they were posted at trenton; but in trying to cross the delaware, one division, under cadwallader, failed because of the tides and the piled-up ice on the jersey bank. "the second division was to cross at trenton ferry, but this also failed on account of the ice. the third, under command of washington himself, consisting of about 2,400 men, accomplished the passage with great difficulty. "had not the obstacles and weather prevented the other two divisions from joining washington in this fight, the result of this masterly stroke would have been to sweep the british from their holds on the delaware, and thus establish a firm foothold in new jersey. as it was, washington had to forbear a final battle, and remain satisfied with having won a partial victory. he re-crossed the river with his prisoners, six pieces of artillery, 1,000 stand of arms, and valuable military stores. "this victory revived the spirits of the army, and every spark of patriotism in the land was burning brightly, when washington again crossed the delaware with 5,000 men to recover as much as possible of the territory overrun by the british. "cornwallis was on the point of sailing for england, thinking the campaign ended for the winter season, when he was compelled to resume command of his forces. "battle between the two armies raged all day, and at dark the british, confident of victory the following morning, desisted. "during the night washington silently decamped, leaving fire burning and sentinels advanced, while small parties guarded the forts. by circuitous route, the americans approached princeton, where an engagement with the british took place at daybreak. "when the americans drove headlong on, the british took refuge in the college, but later surrendered to the americans. "on the coming of daylight, cornwallis discovered the flight of the american army, and soon afterward heard firing from the direction of princeton. he immediately understood the wise tactics of the american commander, and fearing for the safety of brunswick, where valuable magazines were collected, he advanced toward that place, and was close upon the rear of the american army before they could leave princeton. "now washington found himself in a perilous position. his men were exhausted from lack of food and rest for two days and nights; he was pursued by the enemy, very superior in forces, well clothed, fed and rested, who would overtake him before he could fulfil his plan to take brunswick. under these circumstances he abandoned the project, and took the road leading up the country to pluckimin, breaking down the bridges over millstone creek and other streams, and otherwise creating obstacles to the pursuit of the enemy; but cornwallis hastened to brunswick, where he found all plans had been perfected for the removal of the stores and defence of the place. "but now came the retribution for the british, who had afflicted the jerseymen on previous trips and stays. the people hung upon the steps of the retiring army and wreaked vengeance on the men whenever opportunity offered itself. "washington fell back on morristown, in the hills of new jersey, difficult of access, and from this point, where his winter quarters were made, he overran different sections of jersey, and by judicious movements, wrested from the british most of their conquests in the state. thus terminated the eventful campaign of 1776. "the success of washington in the jerseys permitted congress to meet again in philadelphia in february, where they determined to interest foreign countries in their fight for liberty. "franklin and lee were sent to paris to enlist the help and sympathies of france, and thus it was that the valiant marquis de lafayette was destined to shed glory over the land of liberty. in the spring, he reached america and joined washington's army, with the rank of major-general. "another illustrious name that braced the muster-roll of the american warriors that year, was that of the gallant count pulaski, the courageous pole. "in august, after many encounters with the british at other places, washington moved his army. they marched through philadelphia down front street, and up chestnut street, proceeding by way of chester to wilmington. from that time on, for two weeks, washington thoroughly reconnoitered the country round about between philadelphia and the chesapeake. "general howe landed his british forces a few days' march from philadelphia, where he expected to gain the right of the american army. "after many engagements, the british army being very superior in numbers and equipment, washington was gradually forced to retreat, and howe took possession of philadelphia." mrs. parke suddenly concluded the story to the surprise of the audience, and george instantly said: "that isn't half of the story. you skipped a lot about the british before they could get in philadelphia, and you never said a word about the headquarters at brandywine, or the battle of brandywine!" "well, as you know it so well, why don't you tell it to us?" suggested mrs. parke. "i don't want to. we'd rather hear you tell it," replied george anxiously. "but i'm tired of telling it. let martha tell it." "oh, i only know about chew's house and red bank and some other places in new jersey that year," protested martha. "i know all about valley forge, and the dreadful time our army had that winter," remarked jack. "well, i thought it was time to ring for some light refreshments, as we will be in philadelphia in less than half an hour, and it will be past luncheon time when we arrive," hinted mrs. parke, who had other motives for not continuing the story of philadelphia. to this new arrangement the children immediately agreed, and the wars were forgotten in the far more interesting present campaign on luncheon. the small tables were brought in and opened before the travellers, to the great delight of george and martha, who had never lunched this way before, although jack and anne had spoken of it, when they travelled from philadelphia to washington. "i think we will each have a cup of consommã©," said mrs. parke, reading from the small menu card. "that's plain soup!" scorned george. "i don't want it--do you?" asked martha, appealing to anne and jack. "we'd rather have something nicer," replied they. mrs. parke ignored these side murmurs and continued ordering. "then you can bring us some cold beef, bread and butter, cheese and crackers, and milk for the children. we ladies will have a cup of tea." "yas'sam!" replied the polite waiter, leaving the car. "but what are we going to eat? you never give us cheese at home!" cried martha in dismay. "you can have the consommã©, crackers and milk. if you care to have a bit of cold beef, you may," replied mrs. parke. "but you didn't order any pie, or cake, or ice cream!" remonstrated george, almost speechless with surprise. "no, because they only have a buffet lunch, i find. they haven't any hot dishes, or desserts other than the kind ready-made by companies. as you know, i never care to have you eat pies or ice cream made in factories." that luncheon, so eagerly looked forward to when suggested, was a dreadful failure! only soup and plain crackers and milk that one could get at home any time for the asking! arriving in philadelphia, mrs. davis remarked as she noted the disappointed look of the children: "i know where there is a fine soda-fountain near here, and they serve the best ice cream!" said she. "oh, let's!" sighed martha. and mrs. parke, knowing opposition to be futile, followed after the eager group as they hurried to the corner drug store. a taxicab soon took them to the davises' house, where the children were engaged all afternoon, in visiting the entire house and trying out the toys in the playroom. as the two ladies sat in the upstairs sitting-room, mrs. davis said: "do tell me what caused you to suddenly change your mind about including the story of washington's campaign in and about philadelphia?" "why, i remembered that, with a story so fresh in their minds, they might try to play it out on the philadelphians. if you or i should happen to go shopping, or be invited out to tea, we might return to find washington's army charging on chestnut street, or retreating to the police-station!" mrs. parke laughingly answered her. "it will not need refreshed memories to bring about such battles. they are apt to open an active campaign without notice, at any time or place," laughed mrs. davis. "still, i think it wiser to save philadelphia's war troubles until we are safe back home on the estate," said mrs. parke. soon after this conversation, the ladies heard laughter and the patter of feet upstairs in the large playroom, and felt sure the four cousins were playing as other children did, with dolls and trains of cars, and rocking-horses and other numerous toys. but the uproar grew so loud that finally the two mothers went up to see what was going on. as usual, george was commander-in-chief of the army and jack was howe. martha was lafayette and anne was cornwallis. the dolls, tin soldiers, stuffed animals, and everything in the imitation of any living thing were arrayed in two lines, facing each other. george was furiously riding a rocking-horse, while waving a tin sword wildly about his head. howe stood on the window-seat issuing orders to his side. lafayette and cornwallis stood back of their lines, shooting peas at the helpless armies. for every tin soldier or saw-dust doll shot down, a great whoop of cheer came from the victorious side. when two victims, one on each side, fell at the same time, the yells were deafening. so enthused were the warriors that they failed to note the door opening a wee bit, so the ladies withdrew again, happy to find the children playing quietly (?) in the house. chapter viii a fight with the hessians "children, have you planned to do anything this morning?" asked mrs. davis, at breakfast the following morning after their arrival. "what did you expect to do?" countered george. "oh, nothing much, but it looks so much like rain, and the scotch mist is so heavy and cold, i thought you children could play upstairs this morning while aunty and i do some shopping downtown. we will be home for lunch and take you to a matinee if you will be good," promised mrs. davis. "cross your heart?" demanded jack, for matinees were rare treats, as mrs. davis thought children were better off at wholesome play in the fresh air, than sitting in a crowded theatre watching make-believe scenes on the stage. "yes, i'll take you to barnum's circus, showing this week in philadelphia." "oh, goody! goody! we'll be good, all right!" cried george. "indeed we will. if it clears off some we might play basket-ball out in the backyard, that's all," promised anne. so the ladies started downtown with assurances that the four cousins would be models of virtue and good behavior until noon when they would look for their reward. soon after they left, the mist lifted and the air grew warmer and pleasant. "it's kind of stuffy in the house, isn't it?" said jack, after a heated bout with george, where both wore boxing gloves, and the girls were umpires. "yes, let's go out and cool off," agreed george, mopping his face. "we can play out in the backyard, you know," suggested anne. "i'm so warm i don't want to play ball, but let's go out anyway," said george. so the four ran downstairs and out of the rear hall-door to the piazza that had steps leading down to the square of grass that was used for drying clothes. back of this plot was a small garden that was cultivated in the summer, but was now chiefly used for a basket-ball ground. the wash was out, so the grass-plot was impossible for the children, and they skirted the laundry and reached the barren garden. "what's on the other side of your high fence?" asked george, eyeing the six-foot boards that had nice cross-pieces at convenient distance from the ground to the top. "nothing, only a big vacant lot. father says the owners have had trouble over the title to it for so many years, that now they couldn't improve it even if they had the money left to do it on," said jack. "and every kind of youngster from down in those tenements comes up in that lot to play," added anne, with disgust. voices were now heard on the other side of the fence and george looked at his companions. "guess i'll climb up and sit on top and watch 'em." "so'll i! that won't do any harm, i guess," said jack. anne and martha watched their brothers climb up, and then following, they all sat on the smooth round top of the fence. some boys from the tenements were about to have a game of baseball. at first, they failed to see the four spectators sitting on the fence. when they did, however, their remarks were not flattering. "ha! see the sports up on the bleachers!" cried one. "come down and we'll show you how we bat!" called another, and at this his friends all jeered. jack wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue in his cheek, making a wry face at the last speaker. that led to more remarks from the diamond, and more faces from all four perched on the fence; finally, at a taunting sneer from one of the team on the diamond, jack replied angrily. over at one side of this large vacant area was a depression that generally held muddy water from past rain storms. it seldom filtered into the earth, and the sun not reaching that side of the property, failed to dry it up. hence, the younger children from the tenements played in this large puddle, sailing boats, or throwing stones to watch the splash. as jack retorted, one of the boys standing near the puddle, stooped and flung a handful of dripping mud at the fence. it struck low, but george instantly shouted: "don't you do that again! it's against the law to throw things in city limits!" "ha! lot you know about law! why, sissy, we're a law by ourselves!" laughed one of the boys, going over to pick up a handful of the ooze. the rest of the gang instantly followed their leader, and before the four on the fence could imagine what would follow, the air was filled with flying mud-balls. some struck the fence, some flew over and spattered the clean white clothes, and some struck the four defiant citizens on the fence, although they ducked and dodged many of the missiles. "shall we jump down and let them laugh at us?" asked jack. "don't you dare! even if you do i won't!" cried anne, too furious to wonder what might be the result of this fracas. "i should say _double no_! for a dare, i'd jump over and fight them!" declared george. "wish we had our air-rifles!" said jack. "are they fighters? do they play fair?" asked george. "fight! like tigers, but they don't know what fairness means. the whole mob'd just as soon light on you if you went over as they would throw these mud-balls," sneered jack. "let's all four attack them!" ventured martha, who was as daring as george. "there are six of them--besides the mob that will run the minute they sniff a fight!" warned jack. "i've got it! let's jump down, run alongside the house by the areaway, and get out on the street. we can run around the corner and get to the empty lot from the street, then they will be taken by surprise and can't run away," suggested anne. "i wish to goodness we had two other friends," sighed jack, as the four dropped from the fence to the wild jeering of the six boys on the other side. "oh, jack! maybe bob and dick are home by this time. you know, when we went away, they were expected back from the country that saturday," said anne significantly. as the children ran across the garden they beheld with dismay that the lovely white clothes on the lines were now all bespattered with mud. this made them determined to mete out judgment. "coo-ooh! bo-ob!" shouted jack, as he stood under the neighboring dining-room window. "come ahead out, dick!" yelled anne, making a megaphone of her hands. two heads appeared at the side window almost immediately. "when did you get home?" called bob, raising the sash. "never mind that! hurry out--dick and you! big fight on," said jack hurriedly, running to the street. bob and dick needed no further incentives, but were soon with the other four children on the sidewalk. "where?" was all they said. "empty lot back of our house. those boys dirtied all of bridget's clean clothes and pelted us with mud too, besides insulting and doing lots of things to us!" said jack, while the six comrades, friends on the spot without introductions to the two southern cousins, ran around the corner of the street. when they reached the vacant lot, however, they hid back of the stone steps belonging to the adjoining house, and peeped about the corner to see what chances they had for a victory. to their delight they found that the two larger boys had been called away for some reason, and only four boys of their own size were left playing ball in a half-hearted way. "agh! dem sissies ain't fighters! i t'ought sure dey would come ober de fence and pitch in!" said one of the ball-players to his companions. "yeh! so'd i. ef bill and huck stayed here, we coul' have chased 'em over into their own yard and licked 'em!" said another. at this information, george exchanged glances with jack. "shall we warn them, or just fall in?" asked he. "did washington send a polite letter to howe or any of the british, when he started a fight?" was all jack replied. "here you, bob--you tackle that red-headed fellow. dick--you take care of the fat one. jack can fight the thin one and i'll take charge of that freckled scrawny one--i can fight better than any of you, i guess!" planned george hurriedly. "here! here, what about us two girls! can't we help?" cried martha, with deep grief at the turn events appeared to be taking. "sure! you watch and warn us, and if the other two fellows come back, you blow this whistle for help!" advised jack, handing his newly-acquired police-whistle to anne. before the four ball players could well understand who was rushing, or what the four boys were about, each one of the washington forces had picked his man and was already busy on the offensive. in a few moments, the ball players, termed by george the low-down hessians, recognized the two boys from the fence-top and with a yell of fury, pitched in to fight with all their strength. george bawled out orders for his companions to follow, and at every fresh attack upon the hessians, the four americans whooped and fell to with renewed lust of battle. martha and anne were deeply interested in hoping and watching for the hessians--those cruel heartless fellows, who had injured and destroyed the lives and properties of the american citizens at brunswick, princeton, and other jersey towns. it served them good and right to have washington's men flay the breath out of them. but the hessians were almost spent and ready to give up when cornwallis, in the form of two pals from the tenements, came along and seeing the battle, added reinforcements to their almost vanquished army. now washington was desperate. he and his men were out-numbered by the arrival of the new forces, who were fresh and somewhat larger than the rest of the hessians, and this meant watchful and wary war. but they had not counted on anne and martha. the moment the two reinforcements from the hessians arrived, martha cried: "come on, anne! let's throw mud at them!" mud-balls flew thick and fast for a time, and every one--americans as well as hessians--was blinded, choked, or spattered before anne remembered the whistle! neither jack nor she knew what would happen if it were used. they had heard, however, that in times of dire need help would come upon the blowing of a whistle. the whistle did bring help. but anne wished she had not used it when she saw a strange officer run across the street, and rush into the mob of boys where nothing but flying fists could be seen. the hessians were accustomed to being routed by the police, and instantly took to their heels, leaving the battle-field to the american forces. the officer thought the four remaining boys were also from the tenement district, as their clothes were torn and spattered with mud. he mustered them in a group, and was about to march them off to the station-house, when the fat laundress from the davises' house mounted a ladder she had placed against the fence, determined to investigate the cause of the mud which she had found all over her clean laundry. the policeman was a friend of bridget's, and she berated the "durty varmints," who ruined her week's washing. she shook two great fists at the four boys, but not until the two girls had explained, would they believe that the boys had been erstwhile clean, decent citizens fighting under washington's command. so the battle with the hessians ended, and the american troops had to retreat to their "fastnesses in the jersey hills." as the six warriors and the policeman walked up the street where the houses of the children stood, a taxicab pulled up alongside the curb and stopped before the davises' house. two ladies alighted, and one of them paid the chauffeur. as they turned to go up the steps of the house, the vanquished army met them. "well, mother, that was a great battle, and i'm sure those hessians will know better than to attack defenceless people again," bragged george, trying to see from a swollen eye. "not defenceless--but 'on-the-fence' americans," corrected jack, tittering. "oh, oh! are these our children?" wailed mrs. davis, backing away from the muddy, tattered group. "they says they are--and miss bridget--she oughter know when she sees 'em. she says dey are belongin' here, all right!" said the officer, grinning at their plight. "where did you find them, officer?" asked mrs. davis. "yander, on the nex' block! they were fighting with a lot of ruffians," said the officer, lifting his hat and preparing to leave. "oh, thank you so much for taking care of them! and do buy some candy for your children at home, officer!" said mrs. davis, handing the man a dollar. the children then proudly related the "battle of the hessians." the mothers, however, were not impressed, and soundly reproved them for their failure to keep the promise of good behavior. as they left the dining-room after lunch, mrs. parke remarked: "we secured tickets for the circus, but i don't see why we should take you performers when you manage to have all the circus you want without troubling us." "what do you suppose we hurried and bathed and combed our hair and dressed up for, if not for the circus this afternoon?" complained jack, thinking of all the wasted moments used to make his neck clean, and to brush down his unruly cow-licks. "surely you didn't expect to come into this dining-room covered with mud and rags, did you?" cried mrs. davis, aghast. "not exactly, but we didn't have to _waste_ so much soap and hot water, if we thought you were going to turn traitor. i'm not surprised washington had such a hard time in that war, when even his own relations went back on him--after he fought for the honor of his people the way he did!" grumbled george. "i'd just as soon be born a descendant of howe as to have folks misunderstand your americanism!" added jack. but this was too much for the mothers, who were daughters of the revolution, and although the connection between washington at princeton fighting the hessians seemed to have nothing in common with the boys of the tenement alleys, they felt the spirit of patriotism that had moved their army to enter the defence of the place. so, in spite of the dire need of punishment for four fighting americans, they were treated to the circus instead. and the event of the battle in the morning was quite erased from their minds when they came forth from that wonderful place, having feasted their eyes on animals, tricks, clowns too funny to describe, trapeze actors, acrobats, and too many things to remember all at once. chapter ix farewells to washington letters came from new york, stating that mr. parke and mr. davis would be in philadelphia the following day, so if the children had not yet visited various sights of historic interest, they would escort them about and give the ladies a rest. "now, i'll tell you, mother! it is my birthday, you see, the day after to-morrow, and you promised me a party this year. while father and uncle take us about, you and aunt kate can fix up a fine party at home. ask every one you know and let's play hallowe'en games, even if it is too soon," said jack coaxingly. "it would be nice to have that party while your cousins are here," admitted mrs. davis. "oh, aunty, you don't know what a good worker mother is when there's a party to be made ready!" exclaimed martha eagerly. "that settles it! aunty must work for the party," laughed mrs. davis. "we'll all work for it. you just tell us what to do, and see if we can't hustle!" bragged jack. "i suppose you will be glad to crack walnuts and shell them for cake, eh?" teased mrs. parke, who knew of her children's failing in that line of work. "try me!" laughed jack. so it was hastily decided to celebrate jack's birthday with a sort of hallowe'en party, although it was only the middle of october. and every one went to work on the plan for the celebration. about a dozen invitations were sent out, which, with the four cousins, would make sixteen guests for the party; this was said to be quite enough for a jolly time. then cakes, prizes and other things had to be prepared, and in the midst of the pleasant excitement the two fathers arrived. "seen all of philadelphia, i suppose," said mr. parke later in the evening. "nothing but the battle-field between the hessians and washingtons," said george. "now, what does that mean?" asked mr. davis. so the boys told about the fight, in terms to suit their patriotic sense of the affair, so that it did not appear to the men as having been just an ordinary brawl between two hostile factions, but that is what both the ladies persisted in calling it. the next day the two men escorted the four children as promised, mr. davis using the automobile for the trip. they visited the old state house, girard college, the custom house and subtreasury, and the new city hall, which had cost more than $20,000,000, and is one of the finest and largest of municipal buildings in the united states. the statue of william penn crowns the top of its dome. then, too, they saw the post office, built of granite, which, they were told, has no superior in postal buildings in the country. in the state house the four little patriots saw a large apartment on the first floor which the men said was independence hall. it was decorated with quaint carvings, and pictures of famous americans adorned its walls. many of the chairs used by the members of congress in 1776 still stood here to remind the children of that great event--the reading and signing of the declaration of independence, executed in this city. "now, children, let us go and see the famous liberty bell. after that we will visit the rooms where colonial relics are kept on exhibition," said mr. davis. the children looked well at the token of what the great revolution stood for, and having read the inscription and felt sorry for the crack in its side, they followed mr. parke to other sights. they drove to carpenters hall, the building where the first colonial congress met, the board that abetted washington in his endeavors for his country. then they saw the william penn dwelling, moved to fairmount park. they visited christ church, where washington worshipped when president. also old swedes church, which was a memento of the old days. then, among the modern places of interest, they took the children to masonic temple, because mr. davis was a free mason, and was very proud of the granite structure. then they drove past the academy of fine arts, containing the pioneer art collection of the united states, as the children did not particularly care to go in and examine the objects. they stopped for a short time in the academy of natural sciences, where the oldest and most extensive collection of natural history objects can be found. from there they passed the ridgway library, the united states naval asylum, and many other great and well-known buildings. in fairmount park they visited the memorial and horticultural halls, both being handsome souvenir buildings from the centennial exhibition of 1876. "of course you two southerners know who first settled our fine city?" asked mr. davis, as they came from the museum and climbed into the automobile again. "why, i think benjamin franklin did, didn't he, jack?" said george, taken unawares. "no; william penn did. he located and planned the city, and also made it the chief city of his province of pennsylvania. he also settled the first order of 'friends' in this country, and because the name 'philadelphia' means 'brotherly love,' he called it that. in 1701 penn granted the town a charter, which constituted it a city with city privileges. "benjamin franklin, who lived in philadelphia during the greater part of the eighteenth century, planned many of its institutions, such as the fire department, libraries, parks, and other public places. as congress first met here, and continued to do so after the british evacuation, philadelphia became the seat of government from the year 1790 to 1800. the united states mint was built and established here in 1892." on the homeward drive the children passed the oldest public library in the united states, founded by benjamin franklin, containing about 175,000 volumes. "to-morrow, if you like, we will drive you out to the suburbs of germantown, manayunk, and frankford, thence on to the places where you have heard of the battles washington fought with the british," promised mr. davis, as they reached the house and wearily climbed the front steps. but the party engaged so much attention that the trip to historic spots was almost forgotten in the flood of events which followed. every one invited came, of course, and besides bob and dick, the boys next door, there were other girls and boys of jack's age. as it was said to be a premature hallowe'en party, because the two cousins would soon be going home again, no one brought a birthday gift, as most of the guests had forgotten entirely that it was the date of jack's birthday. but he had received a gift from uncle parke that morning that fully recompensed him for the lack of any others. he found the small box at his breakfast plate held something that made a significant noise, as it regularly ticked away inside the paper wrapper and satin-cushioned case. "oh! i know what this is--right off without opening it!" cried jack, jumping up to run and throw his arms about his uncle. anne did not wait for him to finish his violent protestations of affection, but broke the string and tore away the paper. by this time jack was back at his chair to rescue the gift, and upon opening the spring lid, a boy's fine watch was displayed to his delighted eyes. it was then passed around and admired by every one, george handling it longingly, while mr. parke shook his head in a knowing manner. jack had other gifts, but the watch was the most treasured of all. what boy or girl does not worship his first watch, and find it necessary to consult the time every few minutes during the first days it is carried? that night the watch was much in evidence, and every one present had to hear it tick or handle it before full justice could be done to it. when the guests were assembled, they played different games, and for the diving contests, blindfolded games, and other guessing amusements, suitable prizes had been provided, which added greatly to the evening's enjoyment. then, just as the two men went out to the dining-room to light the pumpkin jack-o-lantern and put the finishing touches to the witches' cave, where mrs. parke sat, dressed like an old gray-haired sibyl, a fearful rattling sounded on the front windows. "some one's playing tick-tack!" cried jack excitedly. "but who can it be?--all the boys are here to-night!" said dick. bob and george hurried to open the front door to run out on the piazza and see if they could find the string that is used to fasten a nail or other metal object so it will strike the glass when drawn sharply by some one hiding across the street. but no sooner had they passed the threshold than a large bag of flour descended upon their innocent heads, breaking open and covering them with white, and causing them to choke and cough furiously. the other children had followed to the hall, and now seeing what had happened to the two scouts, they stood together, not daring to move nearer the door. jack and dick, believing the flour-bag trick to be one of mr. davis's practical jokes, rushed out to capture him, but both boys tripped over a string stretched across the steps and rolled down the four steps going to the street. at the same time, dreadful cabbages, tomatoes, and every other form of vegetable used for saluting unwelcome stage performers, were showered plentifully into the hallway and against the windows. "the hessians! the hessians!" yelled george, spluttering flour from his mouth to give the battle-cry of the washingtons. in another moment the american army was running in full pursuit of the enemy. the six boys who had not known of the party, but took this evening to show their attentions to the "american army," were out-numbered and quickly outdistanced. when jack and george, and their two boy neighbors, caught up with the rear guard of the hessians, they fell upon them with great gusto. the other six boys soon came up, and had not the old friendly officer hurried up to see what all the hullabaloo was about, the chances are the hessians would have been entirely destroyed and howe would have lost a signal battle. even as it was, the six hessians were carried from the field of battle with sore heads, black eyes, skinned shins and lame backs. "my! nothing like a little fight to give one an appetite, eh?" laughed jack, as he and his friends went back to the party. the boys were not much the worse for the scuffle; their hair was tousled, collars loosened, and ties hanging, but that was about all the damage done them. the witch in the cave, and the two gentlemen who offered to serve refreshments, had not heard a thing of the assault until martha ran into the dining-room with the news. "we licked the hessians! they got it this time!" without a second's hesitation (so certain were these parents of their children's tendencies), the fathers and mrs. parke rushed out to the hall to meet the victorious warriors returning from the scene of battle. although parents may try to dampen the ardor of youth from such warlike fun as battles and assaults on an enemy, still it was in the blood of these little washingtons, and would crop up when chance offered as naturally as general washington rode his white charger on to victory. the supper was greatly enjoyed, not only for the great plates of cake and deep cereal-bowls of ice cream that were passed and passed in endless procession, but for the realization also that one great battle had been won over the hessians without as much as bloodshed on the side of the americans. a few days after this party, the davises accompanied their relatives to the station, where the parkes boarded a train bound for washington. a few hours later they reached that fine city, and took a trolley about to leave for the nearest road that passed their country estate. late that same afternoon, as the travellers walked up the driveway, they spied jim and old mammy waiting with the baby on the front veranda, to welcome them. "oh, george! i almost forgot we had a baby at home during all the wonderful travels and sights we have had since leaving home almost ten days ago!" sighed martha, with compunction. "and just see how funny jim looks! why, he isn't half as big as i thought he was. jim, maybe we haven't a lot to tell you! oh, jim, _what a fight_ we gave those hessians when we drove them from philadelphia!" cried george, as he went running up the pathway. but mrs. parke had not forgotten she had a baby at home, as old mammy could testify, for long letters had reached her daily, advising and reminding her what to do for baby while she was away on this unusual visit. that dinner was a happy reunion; not only for mother and baby, but also for the faithful colored help. and what do you suppose jim did? george and martha were so eager to explain all about the historic sights and places they had visited, that they could not wait for the next morning, so jim was invited to sit at the table when fruit and nuts were served, and there he rolled his widened eyes dangerously backward when he heard about the battle with the hessians. "jim, that was a _real_ fight! not the make-believe kind we always play down here!" said martha impressively. "and, jim, you can believe those hessians knew _how_ to fight, too. but it took washington's army to lick them, didn't it, father?" gloated george, mentally patting himself on the back. "yes, and i remember the story of a great battle waged on brooklyn heights, when washington had to cross the east river in the fog. that scene will never be forgotten by many of the new yorkers who felt sure they had cornered the black hand and kidnappers of some very sweet little angels," remarked mr. parke. "father! who told you about it?" asked martha, who had felt quite sure that not one of the elders had discovered anything at all about that long-to-be-remembered escapade. "why, the american eagle whispered it in my ear when we came in from the theatre party that night!" teased mr. parke. then george had to tell jim all about that battle on the roof when they were dressed in the bellboys' uniforms. and jim sighed and sighed, and wondered why it was the lot of some folks to have all the joys of life, while others have bandy-legs and stay at home! ah, jim, such is life! i have never been able to explain the cause of such partiality, either. "oh, george, tell jim about your wonderful dream, when the germans captured you in the submarine and you escaped on the torpedo!" here was another marvelous tale for the most attentive of listeners, and jim's eyes opened again, wider and wider as george described his experience, and it lost nothing of its weirdness and wonder in the telling, either. then he stopped the story just as the american eagle dropped to let him slide off from the cupola, but failed to explain to jim that it was all a dream. "jim, do you know what saved george from bumping his head on the ground of city hall park that day?" asked mr. parke. "no, sah, ah don'. he diden bump, did he?" worried jim. "no, because we all came into the room in time to wake him out of his nightmare. he was on the floor, where he had rolled when he fell from the couch." jim pondered this information deeply, and that night in bed, as his mammy was turning over to see if it was daylight, he sat up and exclaimed: "why, mammy! dat mus' hab been a dream garge had!" then he cuddled down again and was fast asleep in another moment. "now, whad's dat chile talkin' uv in his sleep? he shore is a queer lil' honey-boy!" sighed mammy, finding she still had an hour before it was time to rise and get breakfast for the master. john came home from his visit to his great-aunt the day following the arrival of the parkes, and many new and exciting experiences had to be retold. john had some of his own that were quite as exciting in their way as the battle with the hessians, but he has to tell them in the next book of the little washingtons. mrs. parke wrote to thank mrs. davis for the lovely visit they all enjoyed in philadelphia, and at the last, she had a revelation. both ladies had wondered and wondered what caused the battle between washington's army and the hessians that day, and now that mrs. parke thought again over the event and retraced her steps mentally, she suddenly remembered the half-finished story told to the children on the cars from new york to philadelphia. they had heard enough of the warfare between the americans and british on the delaware, that they needed no more of a cue to start on. so she explained to her friend what had been the cause of the spirit of '76 showing itself so powerfully in the four cousins that day the wash was covered with mud from the back lot. "and do you know, my dear, i am greatly relieved now, when i remember that the most dangerous period of george washington's career is over. from now on i shall only touch lightly on the battles he fought with the british, so that the children cannot try them out in real life. but it will be a satisfaction to have them play president and lady washington in the white house, and later, when washington returns to his farm to spend his days there, that will be very quiet, acceptable fun, i think." but mrs. parke forgot that her children, as well as john and jim, their playmates, were not of the kind that cared for quiet play. so she still had many experiences before her that resulted from the reading of george washington's life history. and naturally, the little washingtons had loads of fun in applying this history, as you will see when you read the next book of their doings, called "little washington at school." the end * * * * * the little washingtons series by lillian elizabeth roy for children 6 to 12 years this series presents early american history in a manner that impresses the young readers. george and martha washington parke, two young descendants of the famous general washington, follow in play, the life of the great american. the little washingtons their thrilling battles and expeditions generally end in "punishment" lessons read by mrs. parke from the "life of washington." the culprits listen intently, for this reading generally gives them new ideas for further games of indian warfare and colonists battles. the little washingtons' relatives the davis children visit the parke home and join zealously in the games of playing george washington. so zealously, in fact, that little jim almost loses his scalp. the little washingtons' travels the children wage a fierce battle upon the roof of a hotel in new york city. then, visiting the davis home in philadelphia, the patriotic washingtons vanquish the hessians on a battle-field in the empty lot back of the davis property. the little washingtons at school after the school-house battle the washingtons discover a band of gypsies camping near their homes and incidentally they recover a stolen horse which the gypsies had taken from a farmer. the little washingtons' holidays they spend a pleasant summer on adjoining farms in vermont. during a voyage they try to capture a "frigate" but little jim is caught and about to be punished by the captain when his confederates save him. the little washingtons; farmers nero, the donkey, had never heard of george washington, and so the game the children had planned after reading the story of the general's life on his farm turned out to be quite a different game altogether. * * * * * little journeys to happyland by david cory for children from 6 to 8 years. a new series of exciting adventures by the author of the little jack rabbit books. this series is unique in that it deals with unusual and exciting adventures on land and sea and in the air. the cruise of the noah's ark this is a good rainy day story. on just such a day mr. noah invites marjorie to go for a trip in noah's ark. she gets aboard just in time and away it floats out into the big wide world. the magic soap bubble the king of the gnomes has a magic pipe with which he blows a wonderful bubble and taking ed. with him they both have a delightful time in gnomeland. the iceberg express the mermaid's magic comb changes little mary louise into a mermaid. the polar bear porter on the iceberg express invites her to take a trip with him and away they go. the wind wagon little hero stepped aboard the wind wagon and started on a journey to many wonderful places and had a delightful time. the magic umbrella a little old man gave jimmy the magic umbrella which took him to happyland, where he had many adventures. * * * * * tuck-me-in tales (trademark registered) by arthur scott bailey author of the sleepy-time tales and slumber-town tales a delightful and unusual series of bird and insect stories for boys and girls from three to eight years old, or thereabouts. the tale of jolly robin the tale of old mr. crow the tale of solomon owl the tale of jasper jay the tale of rusty wren the tale of daddy long-legs the tale of kiddie katydid the tale of betsy butterfly the tale of buster bumblebee the tale of freddie firefly the tale of bobbie bobolink the tale of chirpy cricket the tale of mrs. ladybug the tale of reddy woodpecker the tale of grandma goose (http://www.freeliterature.org) from page images generously made available by the google books library project (http://books.google.com/) note: project gutenberg also has the other two volumes of this book. volume i: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36289 volume ii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36290 images of the original pages are available through the the google books library project. see http://books.google.com/books?id=arggaaaaqaaj&oe=utf-8 ormond; or, the secret witness. by b. c. brown, author of wieland, or transformation. in three volumes. vol. iii. "sæpe intereunt aliis meditantes necem." phædrus "those who plot the destruction of others, very often fall, themselves the victims." philadelphia printed, london, re-printed for henry colburn, english and foreign public library, conduit-street, bond-street. 1811 * * * * * to the right honourable lady castlereagh, these volumes are respectfully inscribed, by her ladyship's most obedient, and humble servant, henry colburn. chapter i. "my father, in proportion as he grew old and rich, became weary of aleppo. his natal soil, had it been the haunt of calmucks or bedouins, his fancy would have transformed into paradise. no wonder that the equitable aristocracy and the peaceful husbandmen of ragusa should be endeared to his heart by comparison with egyptian plagues and turkish tyranny. besides, he lived for his children as well as himself. their education and future lot required him to seek a permanent home. "he embarked, with his wife and offspring, at scanderoon. no immediate conveyance to ragusa offering, the appearance of the plague in syria induced him to hasten his departure. he entered a french vessel for marseilles. after being three days at sea, one of the crew was seized by the fatal disease which had depopulated all the towns upon the coast. the voyage was made with more than usual despatch; but, before we reached our port, my mother and half the crew perished. my father died in the lazaretto, more through grief than disease. "my brother and i were children and helpless. my father's fortune was on board this vessel, and was left by his death to the mercy of the captain. this man was honest, and consigned us and our property to the merchant with whom he dealt. happily for us, our protector was childless and of scrupulous integrity. we henceforth became his adopted children. my brother's education and my own were conducted on the justest principles. "at the end of four years, our protector found it expedient to make a voyage to cayenne. his brother was an extensive proprietor in that colony, but his sudden death made way for the succession of our friend. to establish his claims, his presence was necessary on the spot. he was little qualified for arduous enterprises, and his age demanded repose; but, his own acquisitions having been small, and being desirous of leaving us in possession of competence, he cheerfully embarked. "meanwhile, my brother was placed at a celebrated seminary in the pays de vaud, and i was sent to a sister who resided at verona. i was at this time fourteen years old,--one year younger than my brother, whom, since that period, i have neither heard of nor seen. "i was now a woman, and qualified to judge and act for myself. the character of my new friend was austere and devout, and there were so many incongenial points between us that but little tranquillity was enjoyed under her control. the priest who discharged the office of her confessor thought proper to entertain views with regard to me, grossly inconsistent with the sanctity of his profession. he was a man of profound dissimulation and masterly address. his efforts, however, were repelled with disdain. my security against his attempts lay in the uncouthness and deformity which nature had bestowed upon his person and visage, rather than in the firmness of my own principles. "the courtship of father bartoli, the austerities of madame roselli, the disgustful or insipid occupations to which i was condemned, made me impatiently wish for a change; but my father (so i will call him) had decreed that i should remain under his sister's guardianship till his return from guiana. when this would happen was uncertain. events unforeseen might protract it for years, but it could not arrive in less than a twelvemonth. "i was incessantly preyed upon by discontent. my solitude was loathsome. i panted after liberty and friendship, and the want of these were not recompensed by luxury and quiet, and by the instructions in useful science which i received from bartoli, who, though detested as a hypocrite and lover, was venerable as a scholar. he would fain have been an abelard, but it was not his fate to meet with an eloisa. "two years passed away in this durance. my miseries were exquisite. i am almost at a loss to account for the unhappiness of that time, for, looking back upon it, i perceive that an equal period could not have been spent with more benefit. for the sake of being near me, bartoli importunately offered his instructions. he had nothing to communicate but metaphysics and geometry. these were little to my taste, but i could not keep him at a distance. i had no other alternative than to endure him as a lover or a teacher. his passion for science was at least equal to that which ho entertained for me, and both these passions combined to make him a sedulous instructor. he was a disciple of the newest doctrines respecting matter and mind. he denied the impenetrability of the first, and the immateriality of the second. these he endeavoured to inculcate upon me, as well as to subvert my religious tenets, because he delighted, like all men, in transfusing his opinions, and because he regarded my piety as the only obstacle to his designs. he succeeded in dissolving the spell of ignorance, but not in producing that kind of acquiescence he wished. he had, in this respect, to struggle not only with my principles, but my weakness. he might have overcome every obstacle but my abhorrence of deformity and age. to cure me of this aversion was beyond his power. my servitude grew daily more painful. i grew tired of chasing a comet to its aphelion, and of untying the knot of an infinite series. a change in my condition became indispensable to my very existence. languor and sadness, and unwillingness to eat or to move, were at last my perpetual attendants! "madame roselli was alarmed at my condition. the sources of my inquietude were incomprehensible to her. the truth was, that i scarcely understood them myself, and my endeavours to explain them to my friend merely instilled into her an opinion that i was either lunatic or deceitful. she complained and admonished; but my disinclination to my usual employments would not be conquered, and my health rapidly declined. a physician, who was called, confessed that my case was beyond his power to understand, but recommended, as a sort of desperate expedient, a change of scene. a succession and variety of objects might possibly contribute to my cure. "at this time there arrived, at verona, lady d'arcy,--an englishwoman of fortune and rank, and a strenuous catholic. her husband had lately died; and, in order to divert her grief, as well as to gratify her curiosity in viewing the great seat of her religion, she had come to italy. intercourse took place between her and madame roselli. by this means she gained a knowledge of my person and condition, and kindly offered to take me under her protection. she meant to traverse every part of italy, and was willing that i should accompany her in all her wanderings. "this offer was gratefully accepted, in spite of the artifices and remonstrances of bartoli. my companion speedily contracted for me the affection of a mother. she was without kindred of her own religion, having acquired her faith, not by inheritance, but conversion. she desired to abjure her native country, and to bind herself, by every social tie, to a people who adhered to the same faith. me she promised to adopt as her daughter, provided her first impressions in my favour were not belied by my future deportment. "my principles were opposite to hers; but habit, an aversion to displease my friend, my passion for knowledge, which my new condition enabled me to gratify, all combined to make me a deceiver. but my imposture was merely of a negative kind; i deceived her rather by forbearance to contradict, and by acting as she acted, than by open assent and zealous concurrence. my new state was, on this account, not devoid of inconvenience. the general deportment and sentiments of lady d'arcy testified a vigorous and pure mind. new avenues to knowledge, by converse with mankind and with books, and by the survey of new scenes, were open for my use. gratitude and veneration attached me to my friend, and made the task of pleasing her, by a seeming conformity of sentiments, less irksome. "during this interval, no tidings were received by his sister, at verona, respecting the fate of sebastian roselli. the supposition of his death was too plausible not to be adopted. what influence this disaster possessed over my brother's destiny, i know not. the generosity of lady d'arcy hindered me from experiencing any disadvantage from this circumstance. fortune seemed to have decreed that i should not be reduced to the condition of an orphan. "at an age and in a situation like mine, i could not remain long unacquainted with love. my abode at rome introduced me to the knowledge of a youth from england, who had every property which i regarded as worthy of esteem. he was a kinsman of--lady d'arcy, and as such admitted at her house on the most familiar footing. his patrimony was extremely slender, but was in his own possession. he had no intention of increasing it by any professional pursuit, but was contented with the frugal provision it afforded. he proposed no other end of his existence than the acquisition of virtue and knowledge. "the property of lady d'arcy was subject to her own disposal, but, on the failure of a testament, this youth was, in legal succession, the next heir. he was well acquainted with her temper and views, but, in the midst of urbanity and gentleness, studied none of those concealments of opinion which would have secured him her favour. that he was not of her own faith was an insuperable, but the only, obstacle to the admission of his claims. "if conformity of age and opinions, and the mutual fascination of love, be a suitable basis for marriage, wentworth and i were destined for each other. mutual disclosure added sanctity to our affection; but, the happiness of lady d'arcy being made to depend upon the dissolution of our compact, the heroism of wentworth made him hasten to dissolve it. as soon as she discovered our attachment, she displayed symptoms of the deepest anguish. in addition to religious motives, her fondness for me forbade her to exist but in my society and in the belief of the purity of my faith. the contention, on my part, was vehement between the regards due to her felicity and to my own. had wentworth left me the power to decide, my decision would doubtless have evinced the frailty of my fortitude and the strength of my passion; but, having informed me fully of the reasons of his conduct, he precipitately retired from rome. he left me no means of tracing his footsteps and of assailing his weakness by expostulation and entreaty. "lady d'arcy was no less eager to abandon a spot where her happiness had been so imminently endangered. our next residence was palermo. i will not dwell upon the sensations produced by this disappointment in me. i review them with astonishment and self-compassion. if i thought it possible for me to sink again into imbecility so ignominious, i should be disposed to kill myself. "there was no end to vows of fondness and tokens of gratitude in lady d'arcy. her future life should be devoted to compensate me for this sacrifice. nothing could console her in that single state in which she intended to live, but the consolations of my fellowship. her conduct coincided for some time with these professions, and my anguish was allayed by the contemplation of the happiness conferred upon one whom i revered. "my friend could not be charged with dissimulation and artifice. her character had been mistaken by herself as well as by me. devout affections seemed to have filled her heart, to the exclusion of any object besides myself. she cherished with romantic tenderness the memory of her husband, and imagined that a single state was indispensably enjoined upon her by religious duty. this persuasion, however, was subverted by the arts of a spanish cavalier, young, opulent, and romantic as herself in devotion. an event like this might, indeed, have been easily predicted, by those who reflected that the lady was still in the bloom of life, ardent in her temper, and bewitching in her manners. "the fondness she had lavished upon me was now, in some degree, transferred to a new object; but i still received the treatment due to a beloved daughter. she was solicitous as ever to promote my gratification, and a diminution of kindness would not have been suspected by those who had not witnessed the excesses of her former passion. her marriage with the spaniard removed the obstacle to union with wentworth. this man, however, had set himself beyond the reach of my inquiries. had there been the shadow of a clue afforded me, i should certainly have sought him to the ends of the world. "i continued to reside with my friend, and accompanied her and her husband to spain. antonio de leyva was a man of probity. his mind was enlightened by knowledge and his actions dictated by humanity. though but little older than myself, and young enough to be the son of his spouse, his deportment to me was a model of rectitude and delicacy. i spent a year in spain, partly in the mountains of castile and partly at segovia. new manners and a new language occupied my attention for a time; but these, losing their novelty, lost their power to please. i betook myself to books, to beguile the tediousness and diversify the tenor of my life. "this would not have long availed; but i was relieved from new repinings, by the appointment of antonio de leyva to a diplomatic office at vienna. thither we accordingly repaired. a coincidence of circumstances had led me wide from the path of ambition and study usually allotted to my sex and age. from the computation of eclipses, i now betook myself to the study of man. my proficiency, when i allowed it to be seen, attracted great attention. instead of adulation and gallantry, i was engaged in watching the conduct of states and revolving the theories of politicians. "superficial observers were either incredulous with regard to my character, or connected a stupid wonder with their belief. my attainments and habits they did not see to be perfectly consonant with the principles of human nature. they unavoidably flowed from the illicit attachment of bartoli, and the erring magnanimity of wentworth. aversion to the priest was the grand inciter of my former studies; the love of wentworth, whom i hoped once more to meet, made me labour to exclude the importunities of others, and to qualify myself for securing his affections. "since our parting in italy, wentworth had traversed syria and egypt, and arrived some months after me at vienna. he was on the point of leaving the city, when accident informed me of his being there. an interview was effected, and, our former sentiments respecting each other having undergone no change, we were united. madame de leyva reluctantly concurred with our wishes, and, at parting, forced upon me a considerable sum of money. "wentworth's was a character not frequently met with in the world. he was a political enthusiast, who esteemed nothing more graceful or glorious than to die for the liberties of mankind. he had traversed greece with an imagination full of the exploits of ancient times, and derived, from contemplating thermopylæ and marathon, an enthusiasm that bordered upon frenzy. "it was now the third year of the revolutionary war in america, and, previous to our meeting at vienna, he had formed the resolution of repairing thither and tendering his service to the congress as a volunteer. our marriage made no change in his plans. my soul was engrossed by two passions,--a wild spirit of adventure, and a boundless devotion to him. i vowed to accompany him in every danger, to vie with him in military ardour, to combat and to die by his side. "i delighted to assume the male dress, to acquire skill at the sword, and dexterity in every boisterous exercise. the timidity that commonly attends women gradually vanished. i felt as if imbued by a soul that was a stranger to the sexual distinction. we embarked at brest, in a frigate destined for st. domingo. a desperate conflict with an english ship in the bay of biscay was my first introduction to a scene of tumult and danger of whose true nature i had formed no previous conception. at first i was spiritless and full of dismay. experience, however, gradually reconciled me to the life that i had chosen. "a fortunate shot, by dismasting the enemy, allowed us to prosecute our voyage unmolested. at cape françois we found a ship which transported us, after various perils, to richmond, in virginia. i will not carry you through the adventures of four years. you, sitting all your life in peaceful corners, can scarcely imagine that variety of hardship and turmoil which attends the female who lives in a camp. "few would sustain these hardships with better grace than i did. i could seldom be prevailed on to remain at a distance, and inactive, when my husband was in battle, and more than once rescued him from death by the seasonable destruction of his adversary. "at the repulse of the americans at germantown, wentworth was wounded and taken prisoner. i obtained permission to attend his sick-bed and supply that care without which he would assuredly have died. being imperfectly recovered, he was sent to england and subjected to a rigorous imprisonment. milder treatment might have permitted his complete restoration to health; but, as it was, he died. "his kindred were noble, and rich, and powerful; but it was difficult to make them acquainted with wentworth's situation. their assistance, when demanded, was readily afforded; but it came too late to prevent his death. me they snatched from my voluntary prison, and employed every friendly art to efface from my mind the images of recent calamity. "wentworth's singularities of conduct and opinion had estranged him at an early age from his family. they felt little regret at his fate, but every motive concurred to secure their affection and succour to me. my character was known to many officers, returned from america, whose report, joined with the influence of my conversation, rendered me an object to be gazed at by thousands. strange vicissitude! now immersed in the infection of a military hospital, the sport of a wayward fortune, struggling with cold and hunger, with negligence and contumely. a month after, passing into scenes of gayety and luxury, exhibited at operas and masquerades, made the theme of inquiry and encomium at every place of resort, and caressed by the most illustrious among the votaries of science and the advocates of the american cause. "here i again met madame de leyva. this woman was perpetually assuming new forms. she was a sincere convert to the catholic religion, but she was open to every new impression. she was the dupe of every powerful reasoner, and assumed with equal facility the most opposite shapes. she had again reverted to the protestant religion, and, governed by a headlong zeal in whatever cause she engaged, she had sacrificed her husband and child to a new conviction. "the instrument of this change was a man who passed, at that time, for a frenchman. he was young, accomplished, and addressful, but was not suspected of having been prompted by illicit views, or of having seduced the lady from allegiance to her husband as well as to her god. de leyva, however, who was sincere in his religion as well as his love, was hasty to avenge this injury, and, in a contest with the frenchman, was killed. his wife adopted at once her ancient religion and country, and was once more an englishwoman. "at our meeting her affection for me seemed to be revived, and the most passionate entreaties were used to detain me in england. my previous arrangements would not suffer it. i foresaw restraints and inconveniences from the violence and caprice of her passions, and intended henceforth to keep my liberty inviolate by any species of engagement, either of friendship or marriage. my habits were french, and i proposed henceforward to take up my abode at paris. since his voyage to guiana, i had heard no tidings of sebastian roselli. this man's image was cherished with filial emotions, and i conceived that the sight of him would amply reward a longer journey than from london to marseilles. "beyond my hopes, i found him in his ancient abode. the voyage, and a residence of three years at cayenne, had been beneficial to his appearance and health. he greeted me with paternal tenderness, and admitted me to a full participation of his fortune, which the sale of his american property had greatly enhanced. he was a stranger to the fate of my brother. on his return home he had gone to switzerland, with a view of ascertaining his destiny. the youth, a few months after his arrival at lausanne, had eloped with a companion, and had hitherto eluded all roselli's searches and inquiries. my father was easily prevailed upon to transfer his residence from provence to paris." here martinette paused, and, marking the clock, "it is time," resumed she, "to begone. are you not weary of my tale? on the day i entered france, i entered the twenty-third year of my age, so that my promise of detailing my youthful adventures is fulfilled. i must away. till we meet again, farewell." chapter ii. such was the wild series of martinette's adventures. each incident fastened on the memory of constantia, and gave birth to numberless reflections. her prospect of mankind seemed to be enlarged, on a sudden, to double its ancient dimensions. ormond's narratives had carried her beyond the mississippi, and into the deserts of siberia. he had recounted the perils of a russian war, and painted the manners of mongols and naudowessies. her new friend had led her back to the civilized world and portrayed the other half of the species. men, in their two forms of savage and refined, had been scrutinized by these observers; and what was wanting in the delineations of the one was liberally supplied by the other. eleven years in the life of martinette was unrelated. her conversation suggested the opinion that this interval had been spent in france. it was obvious to suppose that a woman thus fearless and sagacious had not been inactive at a period like the present, which called forth talents and courage without distinction of sex, and had been particularly distinguished by female enterprise and heroism. her name easily led to the suspicion of concurrence with the subverters of monarchy, and of participation in their fall. her flight from the merciless tribunals of the faction that now reigned would explain present appearances. martinette brought to their next interview an air of uncommon exultation. on this being remarked, she communicated the tidings of the fall of the sanguinary tyranny of robespierre. her eyes sparkled, and every feature was pregnant with delight, while she unfolded, with her accustomed energy, the particulars of this tremendous revolution. the blood which it occasioned to flow was mentioned without any symptoms of disgust or horror. constantia ventured to ask if this incident was likely to influence her own condition. "yes. it will open the way for my return." "then you think of returning to a scene of so much danger?" "danger, my girl? it is my element. i am an adorer of liberty, and liberty without peril can never exist." "but so much bloodshed and injustice! does not your heart shrink from the view of a scene of massacre and tumult, such as paris has lately exhibited and will probably continue to exhibit?" "thou talkest, constantia, in a way scarcely worthy of thy good sense. have i not been three years in a camp? what are bleeding wounds and mangled corpses, when accustomed to the daily sight of them for years? am i not a lover of liberty? and must i not exult in the fall of tyrants, and regret only that my hand had no share in their destruction?" "but a woman--how can the heart of woman be inured to the shedding of blood?" "have women, i beseech thee, no capacity to reason and infer? are they less open than men to the influence of habit? my hand never faltered when liberty demanded the victim. if thou wert with me at paris, i could show thee a fusil of two barrels, which is precious beyond any other relic, merely because it enabled me to kill thirteen officers at jemappe. two of these were emigrant nobles, whom i knew and loved before the revolution, but the cause they had since espoused cancelled their claims to mercy." "what!" said the startled constantia; "have you fought in the ranks?" "certainly. hundreds of my sex have done the same. some were impelled by the enthusiasm of love, and some by a mere passion for war; some by the contagion of example; and some--with whom i myself must be ranked--by a generous devotion to liberty. brunswick and saxe-coburg had to contend with whole regiments of women,--regiments they would have formed, if they had been collected into separate bodies. "i will tell thee a secret. thou wouldst never have seen martinette de beauvais, if brunswick had deferred one day longer his orders for retreating into germany." "how so?" "she would have died by her own hand." "what could lead to such an outrage?" "the love of liberty." "i cannot comprehend how that love should prompt you to suicide." "i will tell thee. the plan was formed, and could not miscarry. a woman was to play the part of a banished royalist, was to repair to the prussian camp, and to gain admission to the general. this would have easily been granted to a female and an ex-noble. there she was to assassinate the enemy of her country, and to attest her magnanimity by slaughtering herself. i was weak enough to regret the ignominious retreat of the prussians, because it precluded the necessity of such a sacrifice." this was related with accents and looks that sufficiently attested its truth. constantia shuddered, and drew back, to contemplate more deliberately the features of her guest. hitherto she had read in them nothing that bespoke the desperate courage of a martyr and the deep designing of an assassin. the image which her mind had reflected from the deportment of this woman was changed. the likeness which she had, feigned to herself was no longer seen. she felt that antipathy was preparing to displace love. these sentiments, however, she concealed, and suffered the conversation to proceed. their discourse now turned upon the exploits of several women who mingled in the tumults of the capital and in the armies on the frontiers. instances were mentioned of ferocity in some, and magnanimity in others, which almost surpassed belief. constantia listened greedily, though not with approbation, and acquired, at every sentence, new desire to be acquainted with the personal history of martinette. on mentioning this wish, her friend said that she endeavoured to amuse her exile by composing her own memoirs, and that, on her next visit, she would bring with her the volume, which she would suffer constantia to read. a separation of a week elapsed. she felt some impatience for the renewal of their intercourse, and for the perusal of the volume that had been mentioned. one evening sarah baxter, whom constantia had placed in her own occasional service, entered the room with marks of great joy and surprise, and informed her that she at length had discovered miss monrose. from her abrupt and prolix account, it appeared that sarah had overtaken miss monrose in the street, and, guided by her own curiosity, as well as by the wish to gratify her mistress, she had followed the stranger. to her utter astonishment, the lady had paused at mr. dudley's door, with a seeming resolution to enter it, but presently resumed her way. instead of pursuing her steps farther, sarah had stopped to communicate this intelligence to constantia. having delivered her news, she hastened away, but, returning, in a moment, with a countenance of new surprise, she informed her mistress that on leaving the house she had met miss monrose at the door, on the point of entering. she added that the stranger had inquired for constantia, and was now waiting below. constantia took no time to reflect upon an incident so unexpected and so strange, but proceeded forthwith to the parlour. martinette only was there. it did not instantly occur to her that this lady and mademoiselle monrose might possibly be the same. the inquiries she made speedily removed her doubts, and it now appeared that the woman about whose destiny she had formed so many conjectures and fostered so much anxiety was no other than the daughter of roselli. having readily answered her questions, martinette inquired, in her turn, into the motives of her friend's curiosity. these were explained by a succinct account of the transactions to which the deceased baxter had been a witness. constantia concluded with mentioning her own reflections on the tale, and intimating her wish to be informed how martinette had extricated herself from a situation so calamitous. "is there any room for wonder on that head?" replied the guest. "it was absurd to stay longer in the house. having finished the interment of roselli, (soldier-fashion,) for he was the man who suffered his foolish regrets to destroy him, i forsook the house. roselli was by no means poor, but he could not consent to live at ease, or to live at all, while his country endured such horrible oppressions, and when so many of his friends had perished. i complied with his humour, because it could not be changed, and i revered him too much to desert him." "but whither," said constantia, "could you seek shelter at a time like that? the city was desolate, and a wandering female could scarcely be received under any roof. all inhabited houses were closed at that hour, and the fear of infection would have shut them against you if they had not been already so." "hast thou forgotten that there were at that time at least ten thousand french in this city, fugitives from marat and from st. domingo? that they lived in utter fearlessness of the reigning disease,--sung and loitered in the public walks, and prattled at their doors, with all their customary unconcern? supposest thou that there were none among these who would receive a countrywoman, even if her name had not been martinette de beauvais? thy fancy has depicted strange things; but believe me that, without a farthing and without a name, i should not have incurred the slightest inconvenience. the death of roselli i foresaw, because it was gradual in its approach, and was sought by him as a good. my grief, therefore, was exhausted before it came, and i rejoiced at his death, because it was the close of all his sorrows. the rueful pictures of my distress and weakness which were given by baxter existed only in his own fancy." martinette pleaded an engagement, and took her leave, professing to have come merely to leave with her the promised manuscript. this interview, though short, was productive of many reflections on the deceitfulness of appearances, and on the variety of maxims by which the conduct of human beings is regulated. she was accustomed to impart all her thoughts and relate every new incident to her father. with this view she now hied to his apartment. this hour it was her custom, when disengaged, always to spend with him. she found mr. dudley busy in revolving a scheme which various circumstances had suggested and gradually conducted to maturity. no period of his life had been equally delightful with that portion of his youth which he had spent in italy. the climate, the language, the manners of the people, and the sources of intellectual gratification in painting and music, were congenial to his taste. he had reluctantly forsaken these enchanting seats, at the summons of his father, but, on his return to his native country, had encountered nothing but ignominy and pain. poverty and blindness had beset his path, and it seemed as if it were impossible to fly too far from the scene of his disasters. his misfortunes could not be concealed from others, and every thing around him seemed to renew the memory of all that he had suffered. all the events of his youth served to entice him to italy, while all the incidents of his subsequent life concurred to render disgustful his present abode. his daughter's happiness was not to be forgotten. this he imagined would be eminently promoted by the scheme. it would open to her new avenues to knowledge. it would snatch her from the odious pursuit of ormond, and, by a variety of objects and adventures, efface from her mind any impression which his dangerous artifices might have made upon it. this project was now communicated to constantia. every argument adapted to influence her choice was employed. he justly conceived that the only obstacle to her adoption of it related to ormond. he expatiated on the dubious character of this man, the wildness of his schemes, and the magnitude of his errors. what could be expected from a man, half of whose life had been spent at the head of a band of cossacks, spreading devastation in the regions of the danube, and supporting by flagitious intrigues the tyranny of catharine, and the other half in traversing inhospitable countries, and extinguishing what remained of clemency and justice by intercourse with savages? it was admitted that his energies were great, but misdirected, and that to restore them to the guidance of truth was not in itself impossible; but it was so with relation to any power that she possessed. conformity would flow from their marriage, but this conformity was not to be expected from him. it was not his custom to abjure any of his doctrines or recede from any of his claims. she knew likewise the conditions of their union. she must go with him to some corner of the world where his boasted system was established. what was the road to it he had carefully concealed, but it was evident that it lay beyond the precincts of civilized existence. whatever were her ultimate decision, it was at least proper to delay it. six years were yet wanting of that period at which only she formerly considered marriage as proper. to all the general motives for deferring her choice, the conduct of ormond superadded the weightiest. their correspondence might continue, but her residence in europe and converse with mankind might enlighten her judgement and qualify her for a more rational decision. constantia was not uninfluenced by these reasonings. instead of reluctantly admitting them, she somewhat wondered that they had not been suggested by her own reflections. her imagination anticipated her entrance on that mighty scene with emotions little less than rapturous. her studies had conferred a thousand ideal charms on a theatre where scipio and cæsar had performed their parts. her wishes were no less importunate to gaze upon the alps and pyrenees, and to vivify and chasten the images collected from books, by comparing them with their real prototypes. no social ties existed to hold her to america. her only kinsman and friend would be the companion of her journeys. this project was likewise recommended by advantages of which she only was qualified to judge. sophia westwyn had embarked, four years previous to this date, for england, in company with an english lady and her husband. the arrangements that were made forbade either of the friends to hope for a future meeting. yet now, by virtue of this project, this meeting seemed no longer to be hopeless. this burst of new ideas and now hopes on the mind of constantia took place in the course of a single hour. no change in her external situation had been wrought, and yet her mind had undergone the most signal revolution. tho novelty as well as greatness of the prospect kept her in a state of elevation and awe, more ravishing than any she had ever experienced. anticipations of intercourse with nature in her most august forms, with men in diversified states of society, with the posterity of greeks and romans, and with the actors that were now upon the stage, and, above all, with the being whom absence and the want of other attachments had, in some sort, contributed to deify, made this night pass away upon the wings of transport. the hesitation which existed on parting with her father speedily gave place to an ardour impatient of the least delay. she saw no impediments to the immediate commencement of the voyage. to delay it a month, or even a week, seemed to be unprofitable tardiness. in this ferment of her thoughts, she was neither able nor willing to sleep. in arranging the means of departure and anticipating the events that would successively arise, there was abundant food for contemplation. she marked the first dawnings of the day, and rose. she felt reluctance to break upon her father's morning slumbers, but considered that her motives were extremely urgent, and that the pleasure afforded him by her zealous approbation of his scheme would amply compensate him for this unseasonable intrusion on his rest. she hastened therefore to his chamber. she entered with blithesome steps, and softly drew aside the curtain. chapter iii. unhappy constantia! at the moment when thy dearest hopes had budded afresh, when the clouds of insecurity and disquiet had retired from thy vision, wast thou assailed by the great subverter of human schemes. thou sawest nothing in futurity but an eternal variation and succession of delights. thou wast hastening to forget dangers and sorrows which thou fondly imaginedst were never to return. this day was to be the outset of a new career; existence was henceforth to be embellished with enjoyments hitherto scarcely within the reach of hope. alas! thy predictions of calamity seldom failed to be verified. not so thy prognostics of pleasure. these, though fortified by every calculation of contingencies, were edifices grounded upon nothing. thy life was a struggle with malignant destiny,--a contest for happiness in which thou wast fated to be overcome. she stooped to kiss the venerable cheek of her father, and, by whispering, to break his slumber. her eye was no sooner fixed upon his countenance, than she started back and shrieked. she had no power to forbear. her outcries were piercing and vehement. they ceased only with the cessation of breath. she sunk upon a chair in a state partaking more of death than of life, mechanically prompted to give vent to her agonies in shrieks, but incapable of uttering a sound. the alarm called her servants to the spot. they beheld her dumb, wildly gazing, and gesticulating in a way that indicated frenzy. she made no resistance to their efforts, but permitted them to carry her back to her own chamber. sarah called upon her to speak, and to explain the cause of these appearances; but the shock which she had endured seemed to have irretrievably destroyed her powers of utterance. the terrors of the affectionate sarah were increased. she kneeled by the bedside of her mistress, and, with streaming eyes, besought the unhappy lady to compose herself. perhaps the sight of weeping in another possessed a sympathetic influence, or nature had made provision for this salutary change. however that be, a torrent of tears now came to her succour, and rescued her from a paroxysm of insanity which its longer continuance might have set beyond the reach of cure. meanwhile, a glance at his master's countenance made fabian fully acquainted with the nature of the scene. the ghastly visage of mr. dudley showed that he was dead, and that he had died in some terrific and mysterious manner. as soon as this faithful servant recovered from surprise, the first expedient which his ingenuity suggested was to fly with tidings of this event to mr. melbourne. that gentleman instantly obeyed the summons. with the power of weeping, constantia recovered the power of reflection. this, for a time, served her only as a medium of anguish. melbourne mingled his tears with hers, and endeavoured, by suitable remonstrances, to revive her fortitude. the filial passion is perhaps instinctive to man; but its energy is modified by various circumstances. every event in the life of constantia contributed to heighten this passion beyond customary bounds. in the habit of perpetual attendance on her father, of deriving from him her knowledge, and sharing with him the hourly fruits of observation and reflection, his existence seemed blended with her own. there was no other whose concurrence and council she could claim, with whom a domestic and uninterrupted alliance could be maintained. the only bond of consanguinity was loosened, the only prop of friendship was taken away. others, perhaps, would have observed that her father's existence had been merely a source of obstruction and perplexity; that she had hitherto acted by her own wisdom, and would find, hereafter, less difficulty in her choice of schemes, and fewer impediments to the execution. these reflections occurred not to her. this disaster had increased, to an insupportable degree, the vacancy and dreariness of her existence. the face she was habituated to behold had disappeared forever; the voice whose mild and affecting tones had so long been familiar to her ears was hushed into eternal silence. the felicity to which she clung was ravished away; nothing remained to hinder her from sinking into utter despair. the first transports of grief having subsided, a source of consolation seemed to be opened in the belief that her father had only changed one form of being for another; that he still lived to be the guardian of her peace and honour, to enter the recesses of her thought, to forewarn her of evil and invite her to good. she grasped at these images with eagerness, and fostered them as the only solaces of her calamity. they were not adapted to inspire her with cheerfulness, but they sublimed her sensations, and added an inexplicable fascination to sorrow. it was unavoidable sometimes to reflect upon the nature of that death which had occurred. tokens were sufficiently apparent that outward violence had been the cause. who could be the performer of so black a deed, by what motives he was guided, were topics of fruitless conjecture. she mused upon this subject, not from the thirst of vengeance, but from a mournful curiosity. had the perpetrator stood before her and challenged retribution, she would not have lifted a finger to accuse or to punish. the evil already endured left her no power to concert and execute projects for extending that evil to others. her mind was unnerved, and recoiled with loathing from considerations of abstract justice, or political utility, when they prompted to the prosecution of the murderer. melbourne was actuated by different views, but on this subject he was painfully bewildered. mr. dudley's deportment to his servants and neighbours was gentle and humane. he had no dealings with the trafficking or labouring part of mankind. the fund which supplied his cravings of necessity or habit was his daughter's. his recreations and employments were harmless and lonely. the evil purpose was limited to his death, for his chamber was exactly in the same state in which negligent security had left it. no midnight footstep or voice, no unbarred door or lifted window, afforded tokens of the presence or traces of the entrance or flight of the assassin. the meditations of constantia, however, could not fail in some of their circuities to encounter the image of craig. his agency in the impoverishment of her father, and in the scheme by which she had like to have been loaded with the penalties of forgery, was of an impervious and unprecedented kind. motives were unveiled by time, in some degree accounting for his treacherous proceeding; but there was room to suppose an inborn propensity to mischief. was he not the author of this new evil? his motives and his means were equally inscrutable, but their inscrutability might flow from her own defects in discernment and knowledge, and time might supply her defects in this as in former instances. these images were casual. the causes of the evil were seldom contemplated. her mind was rarely at liberty to wander from reflection on her irremediable loss. frequently, when confused by distressful recollections, she would detect herself going to her father's chamber. often his well-known accents would ring in her ears, and the momentary impulse would be to answer his calls. her reluctance to sit down to her meals without her usual companion could scarcely be surmounted. in this state of mind, the image of the only friend who survived, or whose destiny, at least, was doubtful, occurred to her. she sunk into fits of deeper abstraction and dissolved away in tears of more agonizing tenderness. a week after her father's interment, she shut herself up in her chamber, to torment herself with fruitless remembrances. the name of sophia westwyn was pronounced, and the ditty that solemnized their parting was sung. now, more than formerly, she became sensible of the loss of that portrait which had been deposited in the hands of m'crea as a pledge. as soon as her change of fortune had supplied her with the means of redeeming it, she hastened to m'crea for that end. to her unspeakable disappointment, he was absent from the city; he had taken a long journey, and the exact period of his return could not be ascertained. his clerks refused to deliver the picture, or even, by searching, to discover whether it was still in their master's possession. this application had frequently and lately been repeated, but without success; m'crea had not yet returned, and his family were equally in the dark as to the day on which his return might be expected. she determined, on this occasion, to renew her visit. her incessant disappointments had almost extinguished hope, and she made inquiries at his door, with a faltering accent and sinking heart. these emotions were changed into surprise and delight, when answer was made that he had just arrived. she was instantly conducted into his presence. the countenance of m'crea easily denoted that his visitant was by no means acceptable. there was a mixture of embarrassment and sullenness in his air, which was far from being diminished when the purpose of this visit was explained. constantia reminded him of the offer and acceptance of this pledge, and of the conditions with which the transaction was accompanied. he acknowledged, with some hesitation, that a promise had been given to retain the pledge until it were in her power to redeem it; but the long delay, the urgency of his own wants, and particularly the ill treatment which he conceived himself to have suffered in the transaction respecting the forged note, had, in his own opinion, absolved him from this promise. he had therefore sold the picture to a goldsmith, for as much as the gold about it was worth. this information produced, in the heart of constantia, a contest between indignation and sorrow, that for a time debarred her from speech. she stifled the anger that was, at length, rising to her lips, and calmly inquired to whom the picture had been sold. m'crea answered that for his part he had little dealings in gold and silver, but every thing of that kind which fell to his share he transacted with mr. d----. this person was one of the most eminent of his profession. his character and place of abode were universally known. tho only expedient that remained was to apply to him, and to ascertain, forthwith, the destiny of the picture. it was too probable that, when separated from its case, the portrait was thrown away or destroyed, as a mere encumbrance, but the truth was too momentous to be made the sport of mere probability. she left the house of m'crea, and hastened to that of the goldsmith. the circumstance was easily recalled to his remembrance. it was true that such a picture had been offered for sale, and that he had purchased it. the workmanship was curious, and he felt unwilling to destroy it. he therefore hung it up in his shop and indulged the hope that a purchaser would some time be attracted by the mere beauty of the toy. constantia's hopes were revived by these tidings, and she earnestly inquired if it were still in his possession. "no. a young gentleman had entered his shop some months before: the picture had caught his fancy, and he had given a price which the artist owned he should not have demanded, had he not been encouraged by the eagerness which the gentleman betrayed to possess it." "who was this gentleman? had there been any previous acquaintance between them? what was his name, his profession, and where was he to be found?" "really," the goldsmith answered, "he was ignorant respecting all those particulars. previously to this purchase, the gentleman had sometimes visited his shop; but he did not recollect to have since seen him. he was unacquainted with his name and his residence." "what appeared to be his motives for purchasing this picture?" "the customer appeared highly pleased with it. pleasure, rather than surprise, seemed to be produced by the sight of it. if i were permitted to judge," continued the artist, "i should imagine that the young man was acquainted with the original. to say the truth, i hinted as much at the time, and i did not see that he discouraged the supposition. indeed, i cannot conceive how the picture could otherwise have gained any value in his eyes." this only heightened the eagerness of constantia to trace the footsteps of the youth. it was obvious to suppose some communication or connection between her friend and this purchaser. she repeated her inquiries, and the goldsmith, after some consideration, said, "why, on second thoughts, i seem to have some notion of having seen a figure like that of my customer go into a lodging-house in front street, some time before i met with him at my shop." the situation of this house being satisfactorily described, and the artist being able to afford her no further information, except as to stature and guise, she took her leave. there were two motives impelling her to prosecute her search after this person,--the desire of regaining this portrait and of procuring tidings of her friend. involved as she was in ignorance, it was impossible to conjecture how far this incident would be subservient to these inestimable purposes. to procure an interview with this stranger was the first measure which prudence suggested. she knew not his name or his person. he was once seen entering a lodging-house. thither she must immediately repair; but how to introduce herself, how to describe the person of whom she was in search, she knew not. she was beset with embarrassments and difficulties. while her attention was entangled by these, she proceeded unconsciously on her way, and stopped not until she reached the mansion that had been described. here she paused to collect her thoughts. she found no relief in deliberation. every moment added to her perplexity and indecision. irresistibly impelled by her wishes, she at length, in a mood that partook of desperate, advanced to the door and knocked. the summons was immediately obeyed by a woman of decent appearance. a pause ensued, which constantia at length terminated by a request to see the mistress of the house. the lady courteously answered that she was the person, and immediately ushered her visitant into an apartment. constantia being seated, the lady waited for the disclosure of her message. to prolong the silence was only to multiply embarrassments. she reverted to the state of her feelings, and saw that they flowed from inconsistency and folly. one vigorous effort was sufficient to restore her to composure and self-command. she began with apologizing for a visit unpreceded by an introduction. the object of her inquiries was a person with whom it was of the utmost moment that she should procure a meeting, but whom, by an unfortunate concurrence of circumstances, she was unable to describe by the usual incidents of name and profession. her knowledge was confined to his external appearance, and to the probability of his being an inmate of this house at the beginning of the year. she then proceeded to describe his person and dress. "it is true," said the lady; "such a one as you describe has boarded in this house. his name was martynne. i have good reason to remember him, for he lived with me three months, and then left the country without paying for his board." "he has gone, then?" said constantia, greatly discouraged by these tidings. "yes. he was a man of specious manners and loud pretensions. he came from england, bringing with him forged recommendatory letters, and, after passing from one end of the country to the other, contracting debts which he never paid and making bargains which he never fulfilled, he suddenly disappeared. it is likely that he has returned to europe." "had he no kindred, no friends, no companions?" "he found none here. he made pretences to alliances in england, which better information has, i believe, since shown to be false." this was the sum of the information procurable from this source. constantia was unable to conceal her chagrin. these symptoms were observed by the lady, whose curiosity was awakened in turn. questions were obliquely started, inviting constantia to a disclosure of her thoughts. no advantage would arise from confidence, and the guest, after a few minutes of abstraction and silence, rose to take her leave. during this conference, some one appeared to be negligently sporting with the keys of a harpsichord, in the next apartment. the notes were too irregular and faint to make a forcible impression on the ear. in the present state of her mind, constantia was merely conscious of the sound, in the intervals of conversation. having arisen from her seat, her anxiety to obtain some information that might lead to the point she wished made her again pause. she endeavoured to invent some new interrogatory better suited to her purpose than those which had already been employed. a silence on both sides ensued. during this interval, the unseen musician suddenly refrained from rambling, and glided into notes of some refinement and complexity. the cadence was aerial; but a thunderbolt, falling at her feet, would not have communicated a more visible shock to the senses of constantia. a glance that denoted a tumult of soul bordering on distraction was now fixed upon the door that led into the room from whence the harmony proceeded. instantly the cadence was revived, and some accompanying voice was heard to warble,- "ah! far beyond this world of woes we meet to part,--to part no more." joy and grief, in their sudden onset and their violent extremes, approach so nearly in their influence on human beings as scarce to be distinguished. constantia's frame was still enfeebled by her recent distresses. the torrent of emotion was too abrupt and too vehement. her faculties were overwhelmed, and she sunk upon the floor motionless and without sense, but not till she had faintly articulated,-"my god! my god! this is a joy unmerited and too great." chapter iv. i must be forgiven if i now introduce myself on the stage. sophia westwyn is the friend of constantia, and the writer of this narrative. so far as my fate was connected with that of my friend, it is worthy to be known. that connection has constituted the joy and misery of my existence, and has prompted me to undertake this task. i assume no merit from the desire of knowledge and superiority to temptation. there is little of which i can boast; but that little i derived, instrumentally, from constantia. poor as my attainments are, it is to her that i am indebted for them all. life itself was the gift of her father, but my virtue and felicity are her gifts. that i am neither indigent nor profligate, flows from her bounty. i am not unaware of the divine superintendence,--of the claims upon my gratitude and service which pertain to my god. i know that all physical and moral agents are merely instrumental to the purpose that he wills; but, though the great author of being and felicity must not be forgotten, it is neither possible nor just to overlook the claims upon our love with which our fellow-beings are invested. the supreme love does not absorb, but chastens and enforces, all subordinate affections. in proportion to the rectitude of my perceptions and the ardour of my piety, must i clearly discern and fervently love the excellence discovered in my fellow-beings, and industriously promote their improvement and felicity. from my infancy to my seventeenth year, i lived in the house of mr. dudley. on the day of my birth i was deserted by my mother. her temper was more akin to that of tigress than woman. yet that is unjust; for beasts cherish their offspring. no natures but human are capable of that depravity which makes insensible to the claims of innocence and helplessness. but let me not recall her to memory. have i not enough of sorrow? yet to omit my causes of disquiet, the unprecedented forlornness of my condition, and the persecutions of an unnatural parent, would be to leave my character a problem, and the sources of my love of miss dudley unexplored. yet i must not dwell upon that complication of iniquities, that savage ferocity and unextinguishable hatred of me, which characterized my unhappy mother. i was not safe under the protection of mr. dudley, nor happy in the caresses of his daughter. my mother asserted the privilege of that relation: she laboured for years to obtain the control of my person and actions, to snatch me from a peaceful and chaste asylum, and detain me in her own house, where, indeed, i should not have been in want of raiment and food; but where-o my mother! let me not dishonour thy name! yet it is not in my power to enhance thy infamy. thy crimes, unequalled as they were, were perhaps expiated by thy penitence. thy offences are too well known; but perhaps they who witnessed thy freaks of intoxication, thy defiance of public shame, the enormity of thy pollutions, the infatuation that made thee glory in the pursuit of a loathsome and detestable trade, may be strangers to the remorse and the abstinence which accompanied the close of thy ignominious life. for ten years was my peace incessantly molested by the menaces or machinations of my mother. the longer she meditated my destruction, the more tenacious of her purpose and indefatigable in her efforts she became. that my mind was harassed with perpetual alarms was not enough. the fame and tranquillity of mr. dudley and his daughter were hourly assailed. my mother resigned herself to the impulses of malignity and rage. headlong passions, and a vigorous though perverted understanding, were hers. hence, her stratagems to undermine the reputation of my protector, and to bereave him of domestic comfort, were subtle and profound. had she not herself been careless of that good which she endeavoured to wrest from others, her artifices could scarcely have been frustrated. in proportion to the hazard which accrued to my protector and friend, the more ardent their zeal in my defence and their affection for my person became. they watched over me with ineffable solicitude. at all hours and in every occupation, i was the companion of constantia. all my wants were supplied in the same proportion as hers. the tenderness of mr. dudley seemed equally divided between us. i partook of his instructions, and the means of every intellectual and personal gratification were lavished upon me. the speed of my mother's career in infamy was at length slackened. she left new york, which had long been the theatre of her vices. actuated by a now caprice, she determined to travel through the southern states. early indulgence was the cause of her ruin, but her parents had given her the embellishments of a fashionable education. she delighted to assume all parts, and personate the most opposite characters. she now resolved to carry a new name, and the mask of virtue, into scenes hitherto unvisited. she journeyed as far as charleston. here she met an inexperienced youth, lately arrived from england, and in possession of an ample fortune. her speciousness and artifices seduced him into a precipitate marriage. her true character, however, could not be long concealed by herself, and her vices had been too conspicuous for her long to escape recognition. her husband was infatuated by her blandishments. to abandon her, or to contemplate her depravity with unconcern, were equally beyond his power. romantic in his sentiments, his fortitude was unequal to his disappointments, and he speedily sunk into the grave. by a similar refinement in generosity, he bequeathed to her his property. with this accession of wealth, she returned to her ancient abode. the mask lately worn seemed preparing to be thrown aside, and her profligate habits to be resumed with more eagerness than ever; but an unexpected and total revolution was effected, by the exhortations of a methodist divine. her heart seemed, on a sudden, to be remoulded, her vices and the abettors of them were abjured, she shut out the intrusions of society, and prepared to expiate, by the rigours of abstinence and the bitterness of tears, the offences of her past life. in this, as in her former career, she was unacquainted with restraint and moderation. her remorses gained strength in proportion as she cherished them. she brooded over the images of her guilt, till the possibility of forgiveness and remission disappeared. her treatment of her daughter and her husband constituted the chief source of her torment. her awakened conscience refused her a momentary respite from its persecutions. her thoughts became, by rapid degrees, tempestuous and gloomy, and it was at length evident that her condition was maniacal. in this state, she was to me an object, no longer of terror, but compassion. she was surrounded by hirelings, devoid of personal attachment, and anxious only to convert her misfortunes to their own advantage. this evil it was my duty to obviate. my presence, for a time, only enhanced the vehemence of her malady; but at length it was only by my attendance and soothing that she was diverted from the fellest purposes. shocking execrations and outrages, resolutions and efforts to destroy herself and those around her, were sure to take place in my absence. the moment i appeared before her, her fury abated, her gesticulations were becalmed, and her voice exerted only in incoherent and pathetic lamentations. these scenes, though so different from those which i had formerly been condemned to witness, were scarcely less excruciating. the friendship of constantia dudley was my only consolation. she took up her abode with me, and shared with me every disgustful and perilous office which my mother's insanity prescribed. of this consolation, however, it was my fate to be bereaved. my mother's state was deplorable, and no remedy hitherto employed was efficacious. a voyage to england was conceived likely to benefit, by change of temperature and scenes, and by the opportunity it would afford of trying the superior skill of english physicians. this scheme, after various struggles on my part, was adopted. it was detestable to my imagination, because it severed me from that friend in whose existence mine was involved, and without whose participation knowledge lost its attractions and society became a torment. the prescriptions of my duty could not be disguised or disobeyed, and we parted. a mutual engagement was formed to record every sentiment and relate every event that happened in the life of either, and no opportunity of communicating information was to be omitted. this engagement was punctually performed on my part. i sought out every method of conveyance to my friend, and took infinite pains to procure tidings from her; but all were ineffectual. my mother's malady declined, but was succeeded by a pulmonary disease, which threatened her speedy destruction. by the restoration of her understanding, the purpose of her voyage was obtained, and my impatience to return, which the inexplicable and ominous silence of my friend daily increased, prompted me to exert all my powers of persuasion to induce her to revisit america. my mother's frenzy was a salutary crisis in her moral history. she looked back upon her past conduct with unspeakable loathing, but this retrospect only invigorated her devotion and her virtue; but the thought of returning to the scene of her unhappiness and infamy could not be endured. besides, life, in her eyes, possessed considerable attractions, and her physicians flattered her with recovery from her present disease, if she would change the atmosphere of england for that of languedoc and naples. i followed her with murmurs and reluctance. to desert her in her present critical state would have been inhuman. my mother's aversions and attachments, habits and views, were dissonant with my own. conformity of sentiments and impressions of maternal tenderness did not exist to bind us to each other. my attendance was assiduous, but it was the sense of duty that rendered my attendance a supportable task. her decay was eminently gradual. no time seemed to diminish her appetite for novelty and change. during three years we traversed every part of france, switzerland, and italy. i could not but attend to surrounding scenes, and mark the progress of the mighty revolution, whose effects, like agitation in a fluid, gradually spread from paris, the centre, over the face of the neighbouring kingdoms; but there passed not a day or an hour in which the image of constantia was not recalled, in which the most pungent regrets were not felt at the inexplicable silence which had been observed by her, and the most vehement longings indulged to return to my native country. my exertions to ascertain her condition by indirect means, by interrogating natives of america with whom i chanced to meet, were unwearied, but, for a long period, ineffectual. during this pilgrimage, rome was thrice visited. my mother's indisposition was hastening to a crisis, and she formed the resolution of closing her life at the bottom of vesuvius. we stopped, for the sake of a few days' repose, at rome. on the morning after our arrival, i accompanied some friends to view the public edifices. casting my eyes over the vast and ruinous interior of the coliseum, my attention was fixed by the figure of a young man whom, after a moment's pause, i recollected to have seen in the streets of new york. at a distance from home, mere community of country is no inconsiderable bond of affection. the social spirit prompts us to cling even to inanimate objects, when they remind us of ancient fellowships and juvenile attachments. a servant was despatched to summon this stranger, who recognised a countrywoman with a pleasure equal to that which i had received. on nearer view, this person, whose name was courtland, did not belie my favourable prepossessions. our intercourse was soon established on a footing of confidence and intimacy. the destiny of constantia was always uppermost in my thoughts. this person's acquaintance was originally sought chiefly in the hope of obtaining from him some information respecting my friend. on inquiry, i discovered that he had left his native city seven months after me. having tasked his recollection and compared a number of facts, the name of dudley at length recurred to him. he had casually heard the history of craig's imposture and its consequences. these were now related as circumstantially as a memory occupied by subsequent incidents enabled him. the tale had been told to him, in a domestic circle which he was accustomed to frequent, by the person who purchased mr. dudley's lute and restored it to its previous owner on the conditions formerly mentioned. this tale filled me with anguish and doubt. my impatience to search out this unfortunate girl, and share with her her sorrows or relieve them, was anew excited by this mournful intelligence. that constantia dudley was reduced to beggary was too abhorrent to my feelings to receive credit; yet the sale of her father's property, comprising even his furniture and clothing, seemed to prove that she had fallen even to this depth. this enabled me in some degree to account for her silence. her generous spirit would induce her to conceal misfortunes from her friend which no communication would alleviate. it was possible that she had selected some new abode, and that, in consequence, the letters i had written, and which amounted to volumes, had never reached her hands. my mother's state would not suffer me to obey the impulse of my heart. her frame was verging towards dissolution. courtland's engagements allowed him to accompany us to naples, and here the long series of my mother's pilgrimages closed in death. her obsequies were no sooner performed, than i determined to set out on my long-projected voyage. my mother's property, which, in consequence of her decease, devolved upon me, was not inconsiderable. there is scarcely any good so dear to a rational being as competence. i was not unacquainted with its benefits, but this acquisition was valuable to mo chiefly as it enabled me to reunite my fate to that of constantia. courtland was my countryman and friend. he was destitute of fortune, and had been led to europe partly by the spirit of adventure, and partly on a mercantile project. he had made sale of his property on advantageous terms, in the ports of france, and resolved to consume the produce in examining this scene of heroic exploits and memorable revolutions. his slender stock, though frugally and even parsimoniously administered, was nearly exhausted; and, at the time of our meeting at rome, he was making reluctant preparations to return. sufficient opportunity was afforded us, in an unrestrained and domestic intercourse of three months, which succeeded our roman interview, to gain a knowledge of each other. there was that conformity of tastes and views between us which could scarcely fail, at an age and in a situation like ours, to give birth to tenderness. my resolution to hasten to america was peculiarly unwelcome to my friend. he had offered to be my companion, but this offer my regard to his interest obliged me to decline; but i was willing to compensate him for this denial, as well as to gratify my own heart, by an immediate marriage. so long a residence in england and italy had given birth to friendships and connections of the dearest kind. i had no view but to spend my life with courtland, in the midst of my maternal kindred, who were english. a voyage to america and reunion with constantia were previously indispensable; but i hoped that my friend might be prevailed upon, and that her disconnected situation would permit her to return with me to europe. if this end could not be accomplished, it was my inflexible purpose to live and die with her. suitably to this arrangement, courtland was to repair to london, and wait patiently till i should be able to rejoin him there, or to summon him to meet me in america. a week after my mother's death, i became a wife, and embarked the next day, at naples, in a ragusan ship, destined for new york. the voyage was tempestuous and tedious. the vessel was necessitated to make a short stay at toulon. the state of that city, however, then in possession of the english and besieged by the revolutionary forces, was adverse to commercial views. happily, we resumed our voyage on the day previous to that on which the place was evacuated by the british. our seasonable departure rescued us from witnessing a scene of horrors of which the history of former wars furnishes us with few examples. a cold and boisterous navigation awaited us. my palpitations and inquietudes augmented as we approached the american coast. i shall not forget the sensations which i experienced on the sight of the beacon at sandy hook. it was first seen at midnight, in a stormy and beclouded atmosphere, emerging from the waves, whose fluctuation allowed it, for some time, to be visible only by fits. this token of approaching land affected me as much as if i had reached the threshold of my friend's dwelling. at length we entered the port, and i viewed, with high-raised but inexplicable feelings, objects with which i had been from infancy familiar. the flagstaff erected on the battery recalled to my imagination the pleasures of the evening and morning walks which i had taken on that spot with the lost constantia. the dream was fondly cherished, that the figure which i saw loitering along the terrace was hers. on disembarking, i gazed at every female passenger, in hope that it was she whom i sought. an absence of three years had obliterated from my memory none of the images which attended me on my departure. chapter v. after a night of repose rather than of sleep, i began the search after my friend. i went to the house which the dudleys formerly inhabited, and which had been the asylum of my infancy. it was now occupied by strangers, by whom no account could be given of its former tenants. i obtained directions to the owner of the house. he was equally unable to satisfy my curiosity. the purchase had been made at a public sale, and terms had been settled, not with dudley, but with the sheriff. it is needless to say that the history of craig's imposture and its consequences were confirmed by every one who resided at that period in new york. the dudleys were well remembered, and their disappearance, immediately after their fall, had been generally noticed; but whither they had retired was a problem which no one was able to solve. this evasion was strange. by what motives the dudleys were induced to change their ancient abode could be vaguely guessed. my friend's grandfather was a native of the west indies. descendants of the same stock still resided in tobago. they might be affluent, and to them it was possible that mr. dudley, in this change of fortune, had betaken himself for relief. this was a mournful expedient, since it would raise a barrier between my friend and myself scarcely to be surmounted. constantia's mother was stolen by mr. dudley from a convent at amiens. there were no affinities, therefore, to draw them to france. her grandmother was a native of baltimore, of a family of some note, by name ridgeley. this family might still exist, and have either afforded an asylum to the dudleys, or, at least, be apprized of their destiny. it was obvious to conclude that they no longer existed within the precincts of new york. a journey to baltimore was the next expedient. this journey was made in the depth of winter, and by the speediest conveyance. i made no more than a day's sojourn in philadelphia. the epidemic by which that city had been lately ravaged, i had not heard of till my arrival in america. its devastations were then painted to my fancy in the most formidable colours. a few months only had elapsed since its extinction, and i expected to see numerous marks of misery and depopulation. to my no small surprise, however, no vestiges of this calamity were to be discerned. all houses were open, all streets thronged, and all faces thoughtless or busy. the arts and the amusements of life seemed as sedulously cultivated as ever. little did i then think what had been, and what at that moment was, the condition of my friend. i stopped for the sake of respite from fatigue, and did not, therefore, pass much time in the streets. perhaps, had i walked seasonably abroad, we might have encountered each other, and thus have saved ourselves from a thousand anxieties. at baltimore i made myself known, without the formality of introduction, to the ridgeleys. they acknowledged their relationship to mr. dudley, but professed absolute ignorance of his fate. indirect intercourse only had been maintained, formerly, by dudley with his mother's kindred. they had heard of his misfortune a twelvemonth after it happened; but what measures had been subsequently pursued, their kinsman had not thought proper to inform them. the failure of this expedient almost bereft me of hope. neither my own imagination nor the ridgeleys could suggest any new mode by which my purpose was likely to be accomplished. to leave america without obtaining the end of my visit could not be thought of without agony; and yet the continuance of my stay promised me no relief from my uncertainties. on this theme i ruminated without ceasing. i recalled every conversation and incident of former times, and sought in them a clue by which my present conjectures might be guided. one night, immersed alone in my chamber, my thoughts were thus employed. my train of meditation was, on this occasion, new. from the review of particulars from which no satisfaction had hitherto been gained, i passed to a vague and comprehensive retrospect. mr. dudley's early life, his profession of a painter, his zeal in this pursuit, and his reluctance to quit it, were remembered. would he not revert to this profession when other means of subsistence were gone? it is true, similar obstacles with those which had formerly occasioned his resort to a different path existed at present, and no painter of his name was to be found in philadelphia, baltimore, or new york. but would it not occur to him, that the patronage denied to his skill by the frugal and unpolished habits of his countrymen might, with more probability of success, be sought from the opulence and luxury of london? nay, had he not once affirmed, in my hearing, that, if he ever were reduced to poverty, this was the method he would pursue? this conjecture was too bewitching to be easily dismissed. every new reflection augmented its force. i was suddenly raised by it from the deepest melancholy to the region of lofty and gay hopes. happiness, of which i had begun to imagine myself irretrievably bereft, seemed once more to approach within my reach. constantia would not only be found, but be met in the midst of those comforts which her father's skill could not fail to procure, and on that very stage where i most desired to encounter her. mr. dudley had many friends and associates of his youth in london. filial duty had repelled their importunities to fix his abode in europe, when summoned home by his father. on his father's death these solicitations had been renewed, but were disregarded for reasons which he, afterwards, himself confessed were fallacious. that they would a third time be preferred, and would regulate his conduct, seemed to me incontestable. i regarded with wonder and deep regret the infatuation that had hitherto excluded these images from my understanding and my memory. how many dangers and toils had i endured since my embarkation at naples, to the present moment! how many lingering minutes had i told since my first interview with courtland! all were owing to my own stupidity. had my present thoughts been seasonably suggested, i might long since have been restored to the embraces of my friend, without the necessity of an hour's separation from my husband. these were evils to be repaired as far as it was possible. nothing now remained but to procure a passage to europe. for this end diligent inquiries were immediately set on foot. a vessel was found, which, in a few weeks, would set out upon the voyage. having bespoken a conveyance, it was incumbent on me to sustain with patience the unwelcome delay. meanwhile, my mind, delivered from the dejection and perplexities that lately haunted it, was capable of some attention to surrounding objects. i marked the peculiarities of manners and language in my new abode, and studied the effects which a political and religious system so opposite to that with which i had conversed in italy and switzerland had produced. i found that the difference between europe and america lay chiefly in this:--that, in the former, all things tended to extremes, whereas, in the latter, all things tended to the same level. genius, and virtue, and happiness, on these shores, were distinguished by a sort of mediocrity. conditions were less unequal, and men were strangers to the heights of enjoyment and the depths of misery to which the inhabitants of europe are accustomed. i received friendly notice and hospitable treatment from the ridgeleys. these people were mercantile and plodding in their habits. i found in their social circle little exercise for the sympathies of my heart, and willingly accepted their aid to enlarge the sphere of my observation. about a week before my intended embarkation, and when suitable preparation had been made for that event, a lady arrived in town, who was cousin to my constantia. she had frequently been mentioned in favourable terms in my hearing. she had passed her life in a rural abode with her father, who cultivated his own domain, lying forty miles from baltimore. on an offer being made to introduce us to each other, i consented to know one whose chief recommendation in my eyes consisted in her affinity to constantia dudley. i found an artless and attractive female, unpolished and undepraved by much intercourse with mankind. at first sight, i was powerfully struck by the resemblance of her features to those of my friend, which sufficiently denoted their connection with a common stock. the first interview afforded mutual satisfaction. on our second meeting, discourse insensibly led to the mention of miss dudley, and of the design which had brought me to america. she was deeply affected by the earnestness with which i expatiated on her cousin's merits, and by the proofs which my conduct had given of unlimited attachment. i dwelt immediately on the measures which i had hitherto ineffectually pursued to trace her footsteps, and detailed the grounds of my present belief that we should meet in london. during this recital, my companion sighed and wept. when i finished my tale, her tears, instead of ceasing, flowed with new vehemence. this appearance excited some surprise, and i ventured to ask the cause of her grief. "alas!" she replied, "i am personally a stranger to my cousin, but her character has been amply displayed to me by one who knew her well. i weep to think how much she has suffered. how much excellence we have lost!" "nay," said i, "all her sufferings will, i hope, be compensated, and i by no means consider her as lost. if my search in london be unsuccessful, then shall i indeed despair." "despair, then, already," said my sobbing companion, "for your search will be unsuccessful. how i feel for your disappointment! but it cannot be known too soon. my cousin is dead!" these tidings were communicated with tokens of sincerity and sorrow that left me no room to doubt that they were believed by the relater. my own emotions were suspended till interrogations had obtained a knowledge of her reasons for crediting this fatal event, and till she had explained the time and manner of her death. a friend of miss ridgeley's father had witnessed the devastations of the yellow fever in philadelphia. he was apprized of the relationship that subsisted between his friend and the dudleys. he gave a minute and circumstantial account of the arts of craig. he mentioned the removal of my friends to philadelphia, their obscure and indigent life, and, finally, their falling victims to the pestilence. he related the means by which he became apprized of their fate, and drew a picture of their death, surpassing all that imagination can conceive of shocking and deplorable. the quarter where they lived was nearly desolate. their house was shut up, and, for a time, imagined to be uninhabited. some suspicions being awakened in those who superintended the burial of the dead, the house was entered, and the father and child discovered to be dead. the former was stretched upon his wretched pallet, while the daughter was found on the floor of the lower room, in a state that denoted the sufferance not only of disease, but of famine. this tale was false. subsequent discoveries proved this to be a detestable artifice of craig, who, stimulated by incurable habits, had invented these disasters, for the purpose of enhancing the opinion of his humanity and of furthering his views on the fortune and daughter of mr. ridgeley. its falsehood, however, i had as yet no means of ascertaining. i received it as true, and at once dismissed all my claims upon futurity. all hope of happiness, in this mutable and sublunary scene, was fled. nothing remained but to join my friend in a world where woes are at an end and virtue finds recompense. "surely," said i, "there will some time be a close to calamity and discord. to those whose lives have been blameless, but harassed by inquietudes to which not their own but the errors of others have given birth, a fortress will hereafter be assigned unassailable by change, impregnable to sorrow. "o my ill-fated constantia! i will live to cherish thy remembrance, and to emulate thy virtue. i will endure the privation of thy friendship and the vicissitudes that shall befall me, and draw my consolation and courage from the foresight of no distant close to this terrestrial scene, and of ultimate and everlasting union with thee." this consideration, though it kept me from confusion and despair, could not, but with the healing aid of time, render me tranquil or strenuous. my strength was unequal to the struggle of my passions. the ship in which i engaged to embark could not wait for my restoration to health, and i was left behind. mary ridgeley was artless and affectionate. she saw that her society was dearer to me than that of any other, and was therefore seldom willing to leave my chamber. her presence, less on her own account than by reason of her personal resemblance and her affinity by birth to constantia, was a powerful solace. i had nothing to detain me longer in america. i was anxious to change my present lonely state, for the communion of those friends in england, and the performance of those duties, which were left to me. i was informed that a british packet would shortly sail from new york. my frame was sunk into greater weakness than i had felt at any former period; and i conceived that to return to new york by water was more commodious than to perform the journey by land. this arrangement was likewise destined to be disappointed. one morning i visited, according to my custom, mary ridgeley. i found her in a temper somewhat inclined to gayety. she rallied me, with great archness, on the care with which i had concealed from her a tender engagement into which i had lately entered. i supposed myself to comprehend her allusion, and therefore answered that accident, rather than design, had made me silent on the subject of marriage. she had hitherto known me by no appellation but sophia courtland. i had thought it needless to inform her that i was indebted for my name to my husband, courtland being his name. "all that," said my friend, "i know already. and so you sagely think that my knowledge goes no further than that? we are not bound to love our husbands longer than their lives. there is no crime, i believe, in referring the living to the dead; and most heartily do congratulate you on your present choice." "what mean you? i confess, your discourse surpasses my comprehension." at that moment the bell at the door rung a loud peal. miss ridgeley hastened down at this signal, saying, with much significance,-"i am a poor hand at solving a riddle. here comes one who, if i mistake not, will find no difficulty in clearing up your doubts." presently she came up, and said, with a smile of still greater archness, "here is a young gentleman, a friend of mine, to whom i must have the pleasure of introducing you. he has come for the special purpose of solving my riddle." i attended her to the parlour without hesitation. she presented me, with great formality, to a youth, whose appearance did not greatly prepossess me in favour of his judgement. he approached me with an air supercilious and ceremonious; but the moment he caught a glance at my face, he shrunk back, visibly confounded and embarrassed. a pause ensued, in which miss ridgeley had opportunity to detect the error into which she had been led by the vanity of this young man. "how now, mr. martynne!" said my friend, in a tone of ridicule; "is it possible you do not know the lady who is the queen of your affections, the tender and indulgent fair one whose portrait you carry in your bosom, and whose image you daily and nightly bedew with your tears and kisses?" mr. martynne's confusion, instead of being subdued by his struggle, only grew more conspicuous; and, after a few incoherent speeches and apologies, during which he carefully avoided encountering my eyes, he hastily departed. i applied to my friend, with great earnestness, for an explanation of this scene. it seems that, in the course of conversation with him on the preceding day, he had suffered a portrait which hung at his breast to catch miss ridgeley's eye. on her betraying a desire to inspect it more nearly, he readily produced it. my image had been too well copied by the artist not to be instantly recognised. she concealed her knowledge of the original, and, by questions well adapted to the purpose, easily drew from him confessions that this was the portrait of his mistress. he let fall sundry innuendoes and surmises, tending to impress her with a notion of the rank, fortune, and intellectual accomplishments of the nymph, and particularly of the doting fondness and measureless confidence with which she regarded him. her imperfect knowledge of my situation left her in some doubt as to the truth of these pretensions, and she was willing to ascertain the truth by bringing about an interview. to guard against evasions and artifice in the lover, she carefully concealed from him her knowledge of the original, and merely pretended that a friend of hers was far more beautiful than her whom this picture represented. she added, that she expected a visit from her friend the next morning, and was willing, by showing her to mr. martynne, to convince him how much he was mistaken in supposing the perfections of his mistress unrivalled. chapter vi. martynne, while ho expressed his confidence that the experiment would only confirm his triumph, readily assented to the proposal, and the interview above described took place, accordingly, the next morning. had he not been taken by surprise, it is likely the address of a man who possessed no contemptible powers would have extricated him from some of his embarrassment. that my portrait should be in the possession of one whom i had never before seen, and whose character and manners entitled him to no respect, was a source of some surprise. this mode of multiplying faces is extremely prevalent in this age, and was eminently characteristic of those with whom i had associated in different parts of europe. the nature of my thoughts had modified my features into an expression which my friends were pleased to consider as a model for those who desired to personify the genius of suffering and resignation. hence, among those whose religion permitted their devotion to a picture of a female, the symbols of their chosen deity were added to features and shape that resembled mine. my own caprice, as well as that of others, always dictated a symbolical, and, in every new instance, a different accompaniment of this kind. hence was offered the means of tracing the history of that picture which martynne possessed. it had been accurately examined by miss ridgeley, and her description of the frame in which it was placed instantly informed me that it was the same which, at our parting, i left in the possession of constantia. my friend and myself were desirous of employing the skill of a saxon painter, by name eckstein. each of us were drawn by him, she with the cincture of venus, and i with the crescent of dian. this symbol was still conspicuous on the brow of that image which miss ridgeley had examined, and served to identify the original proprietor. this circumstance tended to confirm my fears that constantia was dead, since that she would part with this picture during her life was not to be believed. it was of little moment to discover how it came into the hands of the present possessor. those who carried her remains to the grave had probably torn it from her neck and afterwards disposed of it for money. by whatever means, honest or illicit, it had been acquired by martynne, it was proper that it should be restored to me. it was valuable to me, because it had been the property of one whom i loved, and it might prove highly injurious to my fame and my happiness, as the tool of this man's vanity and the attestor of his falsehood. i therefore wrote him a letter, acquainting him with my reasons for desiring the repossession of this picture, and offering a price for it at least double its value as a mere article of traffic. martynne accepted the terms. he transmitted the picture, and with it a note, apologizing for the artifice of which he had been guilty, and mentioning, in order to justify his acceptance of the price which i had offered, that he had lately purchased it for an equal sum, of a goldsmith in philadelphia. this information suggested a new reflection. constantia had engaged to preserve, for the use of her friend, copious and accurate memorials of her life. copies of these were, on suitable occasions, to be transmitted to me during my residence abroad. these i had never received, but it was highly probable that her punctuality, in the performance of the first part of her engagement, had been equal to my own. what, i asked, had become of these precious memorials? in the wreck of her property were these irretrievably engulfed? it was not probable that they had been wantonly destroyed. they had fallen, perhaps, into hands careless or unconscious of their value, or still lay, unknown and neglected, at the bottom of some closet or chest. their recovery might be effected by vehement exertions, or by some miraculous accident. suitable inquiries, carried on among those who were active in those scenes of calamity, might afford some clue by which the fate of the dudleys, and the disposition of their property, might come into fuller light. these inquiries could be made only in philadelphia, and thither, for that purpose, i now resolved to repair. there was still an interval of some weeks before the departure of the packet in which i proposed to embark. having returned to the capital, i devoted all my zeal to my darling project. my efforts, however, were without success. those who administered charity and succour during that memorable season, and who survived, could remove none of my doubts, nor answer any of my inquiries. innumerable tales, equally disastrous with those which miss ridgeley had heard, were related; but, for a considerable period, none of their circumstances were sufficiently accordant with the history of the dudleys. it is worthy of remark, in how many ways, and by what complexity of motives, human curiosity is awakened and knowledge obtained. by its connection with my darling purpose, every event in the history of this memorable pest was earnestly sought and deeply pondered. the powerful considerations which governed me made me slight those punctilious impediments which, in other circumstances, would have debarred me from intercourse with the immediate actors and observers. i found none who were unwilling to expatiate on this topic, or to communicate the knowledge they possessed. their details were copious in particulars and vivid in minuteness. they exhibited the state of manners, the diversified effects of evil or heroic passions, and the endless forms which sickness and poverty assume in the obscure recesses of a commercial and populous city. some of these details are too precious to be lost. it is above all things necessary that we should be thoroughly acquainted with the condition of our fellow-beings. justice and compassion are the fruit of knowledge. the misery that overspreads so large a part of mankind exists chiefly because those who are able to relieve it do not know that it exists. forcibly to paint the evil, seldom fails to excite the virtue of the spectator and seduce him into wishes, at least, if not into exertions, of beneficence. the circumstances in which i was placed were, perhaps, wholly singular. hence, the knowledge i obtained was more comprehensive and authentic than was possessed by any one, even of the immediate actors or sufferers. this knowledge will not be useless to myself or to the world. the motives which dictated the present narrative will hinder me from relinquishing the pen till my fund of observation and experience be exhausted. meanwhile, let me resume the thread of my tale. the period allowed me before my departure was nearly expired, and my purpose seemed to be as far from its accomplishment as ever. one evening i visited a lady who was the widow of a physician whose disinterested exertions had cost him his life. she dwelt with pathetic earnestness on the particulars of her own distress, and listened with deep attention to the inquiries and doubts which i had laid before her. after a pause of consideration, she said that an incident like that related by me she had previously heard from one of her friends, whose name she mentioned. this person was one of those whose office consisted in searching out the sufferers, and affording them unsought and unsolicited relief. she was offering to introduce me to this person, when he entered the apartment. after the usual compliments, my friend led the conversation as i wished. between mr. thompson's tale and that related to miss ridgeley there was an obvious resemblance. the sufferers resided in an obscure alley. they had shut themselves up from all intercourse with their neighbours, and had died, neglected and unknown. mr. thompson was vested with the superintendence of this district, and had passed the house frequently without suspicion of its being tenanted. he was at length informed, by one of those who conducted a hearse, that he had seen the window in the upper story of this house lifted and a female show herself. it was night, and the hearseman chanced to be passing the door. he immediately supposed that the person stood in need of his services, and stopped. this procedure was comprehended by the person at the window, who, leaning out, addressed him in a broken and feeble voice. she asked him why he had not taken a different route, and upbraided him for inhumanity in leading his noisy vehicle past her door. she wanted repose, but the ceaseless rumbling of his wheels would not allow her the sweet respite of a moment. this invective was singular, and uttered in a voice which united the utmost degree of earnestness with a feebleness that rendered it almost inarticulate. the man was at a loss for a suitable answer. his pause only increased the impatience of the person at the window, who called upon him, in a still more anxious tone, to proceed, and entreated him to avoid this alley for the future. he answered that he must come whenever the occasion called him; that three persons now lay dead in this alley, and that he must be expeditious in their removal; but that he would return as seldom and make as little noise as possible. he was interrupted by new exclamations and upbraidings. these terminated in a burst of tears, and assertions that god and man were her enemies,--that they were determined to destroy her; but she trusted that the time would come when their own experience would avenge her wrongs, and teach them some compassion for the misery of others. saying this, she shut the window with violence, and retired from it, sobbing with a vehemence that could be distinctly overheard by him in the street. he paused for some time, listening when this passion should cease. the habitation was slight, and he imagined that he heard her traversing the floor. while he stayed, she continued to vent her anguish in exclamations and sighs and passionate weeping. it did not appear that any other person was within. mr. thompson, being next day informed of these incidents, endeavoured to enter the house; but his signals, though loud and frequently repeated, being unnoticed, he was obliged to gain admission by violence. an old man, and a female lovely in the midst of emaciation and decay, were discovered without signs of life. the death of the latter appeared to have been very recent. in examining the house, no traces of other inhabitants were to be found. nothing serviceable as food was discovered, but the remnants of mouldy bread scattered on a table. no information could be gathered from neighbours respecting the condition and name of these unfortunate people. they had taken possession of this house during the rage of this malady, and refrained from all communication with their neighbours. there was too much resemblance between this and the story formerly heard, not to produce the belief that they related to the same persons. all that remained was to obtain directions to the proprietor of this dwelling, and exact from him all that he knew respecting his tenants. i found in him a man of worth and affability. he readily related, that a man applied to him for the use of this house, and that the application was received. at the beginning of the pestilence, a numerous family inhabited this tenement, but had died in rapid succession. this new applicant was the first to apprize him of this circumstance, and appeared extremely anxious to enter on immediate possession. it was intimated to him that danger would arise from the pestilential condition of the house. unless cleansed and purified, disease would be unavoidably contracted. the inconvenience and hazard this applicant was willing to encounter, and, at length, hinted that no alternative was allowed him by his present landlord but to lie in the street or to procure some other abode. "what was the external appearance of this person?" "he was infirm, past the middle age, of melancholy aspect and indigent garb. a year had since elapsed, and more characteristic particulars had not been remarked, or were forgotten. the name had been mentioned, but, in the midst of more recent and momentous transactions, had vanished from remembrance. dudley, or dolby, or hadley, seemed to approach more nearly than any other sounds." permission to inspect the house was readily granted. it had remained, since that period, unoccupied. the furniture and goods were scanty and wretched, and he did not care to endanger his safety by meddling with them. he believed that they had not been removed or touched. i was insensible of any hazard which attended my visit, and, with the guidance of a servant, who felt as little apprehension as myself, hastened to the spot. i found nothing but tables and chairs. clothing was nowhere to be seen. an earthen pot, without handle, and broken, stood upon the kitchen-hearth. no other implement or vessel for the preparation of food appeared. these forlorn appearances were accounted for by the servant, by supposing the house to have been long since rifled of every thing worth the trouble of removal, by the villains who occupied the neighbouring houses,--this alley, it seems, being noted for the profligacy of its inhabitants. when i reflected that a wretched hovel like this had been, probably, the last retreat of the dudleys, when i painted their sufferings, of which the numberless tales of distress of which i had lately been an auditor enabled me to form an adequate conception, i felt as if to lie down and expire on the very spot where constantia had fallen was the only sacrifice to friendship which time had left to me. from this house i wandered to the field where the dead had been, promiscuously and by hundreds, interred. i counted the long series of graves, which were closely ranged, and, being recently levelled, exhibited the appearance of a harrowed field. methought i could have given thousands to know in what spot the body of my friend lay, that i might moisten the sacred earth with my tears. boards hastily nailed together formed the best receptacle which the exigencies of the time could grant to the dead. many corpses were thrown into a single excavation, and all distinctions founded on merit and rank were obliterated. the father and child had been placed in the same cart and thrown into the same hole. despairing, by any longer stay in the city, to effect my purpose, and the period of my embarkation being near, i prepared to resume my journey. i should have set out the next day, but, a family with whom i had made acquaintance expecting to proceed to new york within a week, i consented to be their companion, and, for that end, to delay my departure. meanwhile, i shut myself up in my apartment, and pursued avocations that were adapted to the melancholy tenor of my thoughts. the day preceding that appointed for my journey arrived. it was necessary to complete my arrangements with the family with whom i was to travel, and to settle with the lady whose apartments i occupied. on how slender threads does our destiny hang! had not a momentary impulse tempted me to sing my favourite ditty to the harpsichord, to beguile the short interval during which my hostess was conversing with her visitor in the next apartment, i should have speeded to new york, have embarked for europe, and been eternally severed from my friend, whom i believed to have died in frenzy and beggary, but who was alive and affluent, and who sought me with a diligence scarcely inferior to my own. we imagined ourselves severed from each other by death or by impassable seas; but, at the moment when our hopes had sunk to the lowest ebb, a mysterious destiny conducted our footsteps to the same spot. i heard a murmuring exclamation; i heard my hostess call, in a voice of terror, for help; i rushed into the room; i saw one stretched on the floor, in the attitude of death; i sprung forward and fixed my eyes upon her countenance; i clasped my hands and articulated, "constantia!" she speedily recovered from her swoon. her eyes opened; she moved, she spoke. still methought it was an illusion of the senses that created the phantom. i could not bear to withdraw my eyes from her countenance. if they wandered for a moment, i fell into doubt and perplexity, and again fixed them upon her, to assure myself of her existence. the succeeding three days were spent in a state of dizziness and intoxication. the ordinary functions of nature were disturbed. the appetite for sleep and for food were confounded and lost amidst the impetuosities of a master-passion. to look and to talk to each other afforded enchanting occupation for every moment. i would not part from her side, but eat and slept, walked and mused and read, with my arm locked in hers, and with her breath fanning my cheek. i have indeed much to learn. sophia courtland has never been wise. her affections disdain the cold dictates of discretion, and spurn at every limit that contending duties and mixed obligations prescribe. and yet, o precious inebriation of the heart! o pre-eminent love! what pleasure of reason or of sense can stand in competition with those attendant upon thee? whether thou hiest to the fanes of a benevolent deity, or layest all thy homage at the feet of one who most visibly resembles the perfections of our maker, surely thy sanction is divine, thy boon is happiness! chapter vii. the tumults of curiosity and pleasure did not speedily subside. the story of each other's wanderings was told with endless amplification and minuteness. henceforth, the stream of our existence was to mix; we were to act and to think in common; casual witnesses and written testimony should become superfluous. eyes and ears were to be eternally employed upon the conduct of each other; death, when it should come, was not to be deplored, because it was an unavoidable and brief privation to her that should survive. being, under any modification, is dear; but that state to which death is a passage is all-desirable to virtue and all-compensating to grief. meanwhile, precedent events were made the themes of endless conversation. every incident and passion in the course of four years was revived and exhibited. the name of ormond was, of course, frequently repeated by my friend. his features and deportment were described; her meditations and resolutions, with regard to him, fully disclosed. my counsel was asked, in what manner it became her to act. i could not but harbour aversion to a scheme which should tend to sever me from constantia, or to give me a competitor in her affections. besides this, the properties of ormond were of too mysterious a nature to make him worthy of acceptance. little more was known concerning him than what he himself had disclosed to the dudleys, but this knowledge would suffice to invalidate his claims. he had dwelt, in his conversations with constantia, sparingly on his own concerns. yet he did not hide from her that he had been left in early youth to his own guidance; that he had embraced, when almost a child, the trade of arms; that he had found service and promotion in the armies of potemkin and romanzow; that he had executed secret and diplomatic functions at constantinople and berlin; that in the latter city he had met with schemers and reasoners who aimed at the new-modelling of the world, and the subversion of all that has hitherto been conceived elementary and fundamental in the constitution of man and of government; that some of those reformers had secretly united to break down the military and monarchical fabric of german policy; that others, more wisely, had devoted their secret efforts, not to overturn, but to build; that, for this end, they embraced an exploring and colonizing project; that he had allied himself to these, and for the promotion of their projects had spent six years of his life in journeys by sea and land, in tracts unfrequented till then by any european. what were the moral or political maxims which this adventurous and visionary sect had adopted, and what was the seat of their new-born empire,--whether on the shore of an _austral_ continent, or in the heart of desert america,--he carefully concealed. these were exhibited or hidden, or shifted, according to his purpose. not to reveal too much, and not to tire curiosity or overtask belief, was his daily labour. he talked of alliance with the family whose name he bore, and who had lost their honours and estates by the hanoverian succession to the crown of england. i had seen too much of innovation and imposture, in, france and italy, not to regard a man like this with aversion and fear. the mind of my friend was wavering and unsuspicious. she had lived at a distance from scenes where principles are hourly put to the test of experiment; where all extremes of fortitude and pusillanimity are accustomed to meet; where recluse virtue and speculative heroism gives place, as if by magic, to the last excesses of debauchery and wickedness; where pillage and murder are engrafted on systems of all-embracing and self-oblivious benevolence, and the good of mankind is professed to be pursued with bonds of association and covenants of secrecy. hence, my friend had decided without the sanction of experience, had allowed herself to wander into untried paths, and had hearkened to positions pregnant with destruction and ignominy. it was not difficult to exhibit in their true light the enormous errors of this man, and the danger of prolonging their intercourse. her assent to accompany me to england was readily obtained. too much despatch could not be used; but the disposal of her property must first take place. this was necessarily productive of some delay. i had been made, contrary to inclination, expert in the management of all affairs relative to property. my mother's lunacy, subsequent disease, and death, had imposed upon me obligations and cares little suitable to my sex and age. they could not be eluded or transferred to others; and, by degrees, experience enlarged my knowledge and familiarized my tasks. it was agreed that i should visit and inspect my friend's estate in jersey, while she remained in her present abode, to put an end to the views and expectations of ormond, and to make preparation for her voyage. we were reconciled to a temporary separation by the necessity that prescribed it. during our residence together, the mind of constantia was kept in perpetual ferment. the second day after my departure, the turbulence of her feelings began to subside, and she found herself at leisure to pursue those measures which her present situation prescribed. the time prefixed by ormond for the termination of his absence had nearly arrived. her resolutions respecting this man, lately formed, now occurred to her. her heart drooped as she revolved the necessity of disuniting their fates; but that this disunion was proper could not admit of doubt. how information of her present views might be most satisfactorily imparted to him, was a question not instantly decided. she reflected on the impetuosity of his character, and conceived that her intentions might be most conveniently unfolded in a letter. this letter she immediately sat down to write. just then the door opened, and ormond entered the apartment. she was somewhat, and for a moment, startled by this abrupt and unlooked-for entrance. yet she greeted him with pleasure. her greeting was received with coldness. a second glance at his countenance informed her that his mind was somewhat discomposed. folding his hands on his breast, ho stalked to the window and looked up at the moon. presently he withdrew his gaze from this object, and fixed it upon constantia. he spoke, but his words were produced by a kind of effort. "fit emblem," he exclaimed, "of human versatility! one impediment is gone. i hoped it was the only one. but no! the removal of that merely made room for another. let this be removed. well, fate will interplace a third. all our toils will thus be frustrated, and the ruin will finally redound upon our heads." there he stopped. this strain could not be interpreted by constantia. she smiled, and, without noticing his incoherences, proceeded to inquire into his adventures during their separation. he listened to her, but his eyes, fixed upon hers, and his solemnity of aspect, were immovable. when she paused, he seated himself close to her, and, grasping her hand with a vehemence that almost pained her, said,-"look at me; steadfastly. can you read my thoughts? can your discernment reach the bounds of my knowledge and the bottom of my purposes? catch you not a view of the monsters that are starting into birth _here_?" (and he put his left hand to his forehead.) "but you cannot. should i paint them to you verbally, you would call me jester or deceiver. what pity that you have not instruments for piercing into thoughts!" "i presume," said constantia, affecting cheerfulness which she did not feel, "such instruments would be useless to me. you never scruple to say what you think. your designs are no sooner conceived than they are expressed. all you know, all you wish, and all you purpose, are known to others as soon as to yourself. no scruples of decorum, no foresight of consequences, are obstacles in your way." "true," replied he; "all obstacles are trampled under foot but one." "what is the insuperable one?" "incredulity in him that hears. i must not say what will not be credited. i must not relate feats and avow schemes, when my hearer will say, 'those feats were never performed; these schemes are not yours.' i care not if the truth of my tenets and the practicability of my purposes be denied. still, i will openly maintain them; but when my assertions will themselves be disbelieved, when it is denied that i adopt the creed and project the plans which i affirm to be adopted and projected by me, it is needless to affirm. "to-morrow i mean to ascertain the height of the lunar mountains by travelling to the top of them. then i will station myself in the track of the last comet, and wait till its circumvolution suffers me to leap upon it; then, by walking on its surface, i will ascertain whether it be hot enough to burn my soles. do you believe that this can be done?" "no." "do you believe, in consequence of my assertion, that i design to do this, and that, in my apprehension, it is easy to be done?" "not unless i previously believe you to be lunatic." "then why should i assert my purposes? why speak, when the hearer will infer nothing from my speech but that i am either lunatic or liar?" "in that predicament, silence is best." "in that predicament i now stand. i am not going to unfold myself. just now, i pitied thee for want of eyes. 'twas a foolish compassion. thou art happy, because thou seest not an inch before thee or behind." here he was for a moment buried in thought; then, breaking from his reverie, he said, "so your father is dead?" "true," said constantia, endeavouring to suppress her rising emotions; "he is no more. it is so recent an event that i imagined you a stranger to it." "false imagination! thinkest thou i would refrain from knowing what so nearly concerns us both? perhaps your opinion of my ignorance extends beyond this. perhaps i know not your fruitless search for a picture. perhaps i neither followed you nor led you to a being called sophia courtland. i was not present at the meeting. i am unapprized of the effects of your romantic passion for each other. i did not witness the rapturous effusions and inexorable counsels of the newcomer. i know not the contents of the letter which you are preparing to write." as he spoke this, the accents of ormond gradually augmented in vehemence. his countenance bespoke a deepening inquietude and growing passion. he stopped at the mention of the letter, because his voice was overpowered by emotion. this pause afforded room for the astonishment of constantia. her interviews and conversations with me took place at seasons of general repose, when all doors were fast and avenues shut, in the midst of silence, and in the bosom of retirement. the theme of our discourse was, commonly, too sacred for any ears but our own; disclosures were of too intimate and delicate a nature for any but a female audience; they were too injurious to the fame and peace of ormond for him to be admitted to partake of them: yet his words implied a full acquaintance with recent events, and with purposes and deliberations shrouded, as we imagined, in impenetrable secrecy. as soon as constantia recovered from the confusion of these thoughts, she eagerly questioned him:--"what do you know? how do you know what has happened, or what is intended?" "poor constantia!" he exclaimed, in a tone bitter and sarcastic. "how hopeless is thy ignorance! to enlighten thee is past my power. what do i know? every thing. not a tittle has escaped me. thy letter is superfluous; i know its contents before they are written. i was to be told that a soldier and a traveller, a man who refused his faith to dreams, and his homage to shadows, merited only scorn and forgetfulness. that thy affections and person were due to another; that intercourse between us was henceforth to cease; that preparation was making for a voyage to britain, and that ormond was to walk to his grave alone!" in spite of harsh tones and inflexible features, these words were accompanied with somewhat that betrayed a mind full of discord and agony. constantia's astonishment was mingled with dejection. the discovery of a passion deeper and less curable than she suspected--the perception of embarrassments and difficulties in the path which she had chosen, that had not previously occurred to her--threw her mind into anxious suspense. the measures she had previously concerted were still approved. to part from ormond was enjoined by every dictate of discretion and duty. an explanation of her motives and views could not take place more seasonably than at present. every consideration of justice to herself and humanity to ormond made it desirable that this interview should be the last. by inexplicable means, he had gained a knowledge of her intentions. it was expedient, therefore, to state them with clearness and force. in what words this was to be done, was the subject of momentary deliberation. her thoughts were discerned, and her speech anticipated, by her companion:--"why droopest thou, and why thus silent, constantia? the secret of thy fate will never be detected. till thy destiny be finished, it will not be the topic of a single fear. but not for thyself, but me, art thou concerned. thou dreadest, yet determinest, to confirm my predictions of thy voyage to europe and thy severance from me. "dismiss thy inquietudes on that score. what misery thy scorn and thy rejection are able to inflict is inflicted already. thy decision was known to me as soon as it was formed. thy motives were known. not an argument or plea of thy counsellor, not a syllable of her invective, not a sound of her persuasive rhetoric, escaped my hearing. i know thy decree to be immutable. as my doubts, so my wishes have taken their flight. perhaps, in the depth of thy ignorance, it was supposed that i should struggle to reverse thy purpose by menaces or supplications; that i should boast of the cruelty with which i should avenge an imaginary wrong upon myself. no. all is very well. go. not a whisper of objection or reluctance shalt thou hear from me." "if i could think," said constantia, with tremulous hesitation, "that you part from me without anger; that you see the rectitude of my proceeding--" "anger! rectitude! i pr'ythee, peace. i know thou art going.--i know that all objection to thy purpose would be vain. thinkest thou that thy stay, undictated by love, the mere fruit of compassion, would afford me pleasure or crown my wishes? no. i am not so dastardly a wretch. there was something in thy power to bestow, but thy will accords not with thy power. i merit not the boon, and thou refusest it. i am content." here ormond fixed more significant eyes upon her. "poor constantia!" he continued. "shall i warn thee of the danger that awaits thee? for what end? to elude it is impossible. it will come, and thou, perhaps, wilt be unhappy. foresight that enables not to shun, only precreates, the evil. "come it will. though future, it knows not the empire of contingency. an inexorable and immutable decree enjoins it. perhaps it is thy nature to meet with calmness what cannot be shunned. perhaps, when it is past, thy reason will perceive its irrevocable nature, and restore thee to peace. such is the conduct of the wise; but such, i fear, the education of constantia dudley will debar her from pursuing. "fain would i regard it as the test of thy wisdom. i look upon thy past life. all the forms of genuine adversity have beset thy youth. poverty, disease, servile labour, a criminal and hapless parent, have been evils which thou hast not ungracefully sustained. an absent friend and murdered father were added to thy list of woes, and here thy courage was deficient. thy soul was proof against substantial misery, but sunk into helpless cowardice at the sight of phantoms. "one more disaster remains. to call it by its true name would be useless or pernicious. useless, because thou wouldst pronounce its occurrence impossible; pernicious, because, if its possibility were granted, the omen would distract thee with fear. how shall i describe it? is it loss of fame? no. the deed will be unwitnessed by a human creature. thy reputation will be spotless, for nothing will be done by thee unsuitable to the tenor of thy past life. calumny will not be heard to whisper. all that know thee will be lavish of their eulogies as ever. their eulogies will be as justly merited. of this merit thou wilt entertain as just and as adequate conceptions as now. "it is no repetition of the evils thou hast already endured; it is neither drudgery, nor sickness, nor privation of friends. strange perverseness of human reason! it is an evil; it will be thought upon with agony; it will close up all the sources of pleasurable recollection; it will exterminate hope; it will endear oblivion, and push thee into an untimely grave. yet to grasp it is impossible. the moment we inspect it nearly, it vanishes. thy claims to human approbation and divine applause will be undiminished and unaltered by it. the testimony of approving conscience will have lost none of its explicitness and energy. yet thou wilt feed upon sighs; thy tears will flow without remission; thou wilt grow enamoured of death, and perhaps wilt anticipate the stroke of disease. "yet perhaps my prediction is groundless as my knowledge. perhaps thy discernment will avail to make thee wise and happy. perhaps thou wilt perceive thy privilege of sympathetic and intellectual activity to be untouched. heaven grant the non-fulfilment of my prophecy, thy disenthralment from error, and the perpetuation of thy happiness." saying this, ormond withdrew. his words were always accompanied with gestures and looks and tones that fastened the attention of the hearer; but the terms of his present discourse afforded, independently of gesticulation and utterance, sufficient motives to attention and remembrance. he was gone, but his image was contemplated by constantia; his words still rung in her ears. the letter she designed to compose was rendered, by this interview, unnecessary. meanings of which she and her friend alone were conscious were discovered by ormond, through some other medium than words; yet that was impossible. a being unendowed with preternatural attributes could gain the information which this man possessed, only by the exertion of his senses. all human precautions had been used to baffle the attempts of any secret witness. she recalled to mind the circumstances in which conversations with her friend had taken place. all had been retirement, secrecy, and silence. the hours usually dedicated to sleep had been devoted to this better purpose. much had been said, in a voice low and scarcely louder than a whisper. to have overheard it at the distance of a few feet was apparently impossible. their conversations had not been recorded by her. it could not be believed that this had been done by sophia courtland. had ormond and her friend met during the interval that had elapsed between her separation from the latter and her meeting with the former? human events are conjoined by links imperceptible to keenest eyes. of ormond's means of information she was wholly unapprized. perhaps accident would some time unfold them. one thing was incontestable:--that her schemes and her reasons for adopting them were known to him. what unforeseen effects had that knowledge produced! in what ambiguous terms had he couched his prognostics of some mighty evil that awaited her! he had given a terrible but contradictory description of her destiny. an event was to happen, akin to no calamity which she had already endured, disconnected with all which the imagination of man is accustomed to deprecate, capable of urging her to suicide, and yet of a kind which left it undecided whether she would regard it with indifference. what reliance should she place upon prophetic incoherences thus wild? what precautions should she take against a danger thus inscrutable and imminent? chapter viii. these incidents and reflections were speedily transmitted to me. i had always believed the character and machinations of ormond to be worthy of caution and fear. his means of information i did not pretend, and thought it useless, to investigate. we cannot hide our actions and thoughts from one of powerful sagacity, whom the detection sufficiently interests to make him use all the methods of detection in his power. the study of concealment is, in all cases, fruitless or hurtful. all that duty enjoins is to design and to execute nothing which may not be approved by a divine and omniscient observer. human scrutiny is neither to be solicited nor shunned. human approbation or censure can never be exempt from injustice, because our limited perceptions debar us from a thorough knowledge of any actions and motives but our own. on reviewing what had passed between constantia and me, i recollected nothing incompatible with purity and rectitude. that ormond was apprized of all that had passed, i by no means inferred from the tenor of his conversation with constantia; nor, if this had been incontestably proved, should i have experienced any trepidation or anxiety on that account. his obscure and indirect menaces of evil were of more importance. his discourse on this topic seemed susceptible only of two constructions. either he intended some fatal mischief, and was willing to torment her by fears, while he concealed from her the nature of her danger, that he might hinder her from guarding her safety by suitable precautions; or, being hopeless of rendering her propitious to his wishes, his malice was satisfied with leaving her a legacy of apprehension and doubt. constantia's unacquaintance with the doctrines of that school in which ormond was probably instructed led her to regard the conduct of this man with more curiosity and wonder than fear. she saw nothing but a disposition to sport with her ignorance and bewilder her with doubts. i do not believe myself destitute of courage. rightly to estimate the danger and encounter it with firmness are worthy of a rational being; but to place our security in thoughtlessness and blindness is only less ignoble than cowardice. i could not forget the proofs of violence which accompanied the death of mr. dudley. i could not overlook, in the recent conversation with constantia, ormond's allusion to her murdered father. it was possible that the nature of this death had been accidentally imparted to him; but it was likewise possible that his was the knowledge of one who performed the act. the enormity of this deed appeared by no means incongruous with the sentiments of ormond. human life is momentous or trivial in our eyes, according to the course which our habits and opinions have taken. passion greedily accepts, and habit readily offers, the sacrifice of another's life, and reason obeys the impulse of education and desire. a youth of eighteen, a volunteer in a russian army encamped in bessarabia, made prey of a tartar girl, found in the field of a recent battle. conducting her to his quarters, he met a friend, who, on some pretence, claimed the victim. from angry words they betook themselves to swords. a combat ensued, in which the first claimant ran his antagonist through the body. he then bore his prize unmolested away, and, having exercised brutality of one kind upon the helpless victim, stabbed her to the heart, as an offering to the _manes_ of sarsefield, the friend whom he had slain. next morning, willing more signally to expiate his guilt, he rushed alone upon a troop of turkish foragers, and brought away five heads, suspended, by their gory locks, to his horse's mane. these he cast upon the grave of sarsefield, and conceived himself fully to have expiated yesterday's offence. in reward for his prowess, the general gave him a commission in the cossack troops. this youth was ormond; and such is a specimen of his exploits during a military career of eight years, in a warfare the most savage and implacable, and, at the same time, the most iniquitous and wanton, which history records. with passions and habits like these, the life of another was a trifling sacrifice to vengeance or impatience. how mr. dudley had excited the resentment of ormond, by what means the assassin had accomplished his intention without awakening alarm or incurring suspicion, it was not for me to discover. the inextricability of human events, the imperviousness of cunning, and the obduracy of malice, i had frequent occasions to remark. i did not labour to vanquish the security of my friend. as to precautions, they were useless. there was no fortress, guarded by barriers of stone and iron and watched by sentinels that never slept, to which she might retire from his stratagems. if there were such a retreat, it would scarcely avail her against a foe circumspect and subtle as ormond. i pondered on the condition of my friend. i reviewed the incidents of her life. i compared her lot with that of others. i could not but discover a sort of incurable malignity in her fate. i felt as if it were denied to her to enjoy a long life or permanent tranquillity. i asked myself what she had done, entitling her to this incessant persecution. impatience and murmuring took place of sorrow and fear in my heart. when i reflected that all human agency was merely subservient to a divine purpose, i fell into fits of accusation and impiety. this injustice was transient, and soberer views convinced me that every scheme, comprising the whole, must be productive of partial and temporary evil. the sufferings of constantia were limited to a moment; they were the unavoidable appendages of terrestrial existence; they formed the only avenue to wisdom, and the only claim to uninterrupted fruition and eternal repose in an after-scene. the course of my reflections, and the issue to which they led, were unforeseen by myself. fondly as i doted upon this woman, methought i could resign her to the grave without a murmur or a tear. while my thoughts were calmed by resignation, and my fancy occupied with nothing but the briefness of that space and evanescence of that time which severs the living from the dead, i contemplated, almost with complacency, a violent or untimely close to her existence. this loftiness of mind could not always be accomplished or constantly maintained. one effect of my fears was to hasten my departure to europe. there existed no impediment but the want of a suitable conveyance. in the first packet that should leave america, it was determined to secure a passage. mr. melbourne consented to take charge of constantia's property, and, after the sale of it, to transmit to her the money that should thence arise. meanwhile, i was anxious that constantia should leave her present abode and join me in new york. she willingly adopted this arrangement, but conceived it necessary to spend a few days at her house in jersey. she could reach the latter place without much deviation from the straight road, and she was desirous of resurveying a spot where many of her infantile days had been spent. this house and domain i have already mentioned to have once belonged to mr. dudley. it was selected with the judgement and adorned with the taste of a disciple of the schools of florence and vicenza. in his view, cultivation was subservient to the picturesque, and a mansion was erected, eminent for nothing but chastity of ornaments and simplicity of structure. the massive parts were of stone; the outer surfaces were smooth, snow-white, and diversified by apertures and cornices, in which a cement uncommonly tenacious was wrought into proportions the most correct and forms the most graceful. the floors, walls, and ceilings, consisted of a still more exquisitely-tempered substance, and were painted by mr. dudley's own hand. all appendages of this building, as seats, tables, and cabinets, were modelled by the owner's particular direction, and in a manner scrupulously classical. he had scarcely entered on the enjoyment of this splendid possession, when it was ravished away. no privation was endured with more impatience than this; but, happily, it was purchased by one who left mr. dudley's arrangements unmolested, and who shortly after conveyed it entire to ormond. by him it was finally appropriated to the use of helena cleves, and now, by a singular contexture of events, it had reverted to those hands in which the death of the original proprietor, if no other change had been made in his condition, would have left it. the farm still remained in the tenure of a german emigrant, who held it partly on condition of preserving the garden and mansion in safety and in perfect order. this retreat was now revisited by constantia, after an interval of four years. autumn had made some progress, but the aspect of nature was, so to speak, more significant than at any other season. she was agreeably accommodated under the tenant's roof, and found a nameless pleasure in traversing spaces in which every object prompted an endless train of recollections. her sensations were not foreseen. they led to a state of mind inconsistent, in some degree, with the projects adopted in obedience to the suggestions of a friend. every thing in this scene had been created and modelled by the genius of her father. it was a kind of fane, sanctified by his imaginary presence. to consign the fruits of his industry and invention to foreign and unsparing hands seemed a kind of sacrilege, for which she almost feared that the dead would rise to upbraid her. those images which bind us to our natal soil, to the abode of our innocent and careless youth, were recalled to her fancy by the scenes which she now beheld. these were enforced by considerations of the dangers which attended her voyage from storms and from enemies, and from the tendency to revolution and war which seemed to actuate all the nations of europe. her native country was by no means exempt from similar tendencies, but these evils were less imminent, and its manners and government, in their present modifications, were unspeakably more favourable to the dignity and improvement of the human race than those which prevailed in any part of the ancient world. my solicitations and my obligation to repair to england overweighed her objections, but her new reflections led her to form new determinations with regard to this part of her property. she concluded to retain possession, and hoped that some future event would allow her to return to this favourite spot without forfeiture of my society. an abode of some years in europe would more eminently qualify her for the enjoyment of retirement and safety in her native country. the time that should elapse before her embarkation, she was desirous of passing among the shades of this romantic retreat. i was by no means reconciled to this proceeding. i loved my friend too well to endure any needless separation without repining. in addition to this, the image of ormond haunted my thoughts, and gave birth to incessant but indefinable fears. i believed that her safety would very little depend upon the nature of her abode, or the number or watchfulness of her companions. my nearness to her person would frustrate no stratagem, nor promote any other end than my own entanglement in the same fold. still, that i was not apprized each hour of her condition, that her state was lonely and sequestered, were sources of disquiet, the obvious remedy to which was her coming to new york. preparations for departure were assigned to me, and these required my continuance in the city. once a week, laffert, her tenant, visited, for purposes of traffic, the city. he was the medium of our correspondence. to him i intrusted a letter, in which my dissatisfaction at her absence, and the causes which gave it birth, were freely confessed. the confidence of safety seldom deserted my friend. since her mysterious conversation with ormond, he had utterly vanished. previous to that interview, his visits or his letters were incessant and punctual; but since, no token was given that he existed. two months had elapsed. he gave her no reason to expect a cessation of intercourse. he had parted from her with his usual abruptness and informality. she did not conceive it incumbent on her to search him out, but she would not have been displeased with an opportunity to discuss with him more fully the motives of her conduct. this opportunity had been hitherto denied. her occupations in her present retreat were, for the most part, dictated by caprice or by chance. the mildness of autumn permitted her to ramble, during the day, from one rock and one grove to another. there was a luxury in musing, and in the sensations which the scenery and silence produced, which, in consequence of her long estrangement from them, were accompanied with all the attractions of novelty, and from which she would not consent to withdraw. in the evening she usually retired to the mansion, and shut herself up in that apartment which, in the original structure of the house, had been designed for study, and no part of whose furniture had been removed or displaced. it was a kind of closet on the second floor, illuminated by a spacious window, through which a landscape of uncommon amplitude and beauty was presented to the view. here the pleasures of the day were revived, by recalling and enumerating them in letters to her friend. she always quitted this recess with reluctance, and seldom till the night was half spent. one evening she retired hither when the sun had just dipped beneath the horizon. her implements of writing were prepared; but, before the pen was assumed, her eyes rested for a moment on the variegated hues which were poured out upon the western sky and upon the scene of intermingled waters, copses, and fields. the view comprised a part of the road which led to this dwelling. it was partially and distantly seen, and the passage of horses or men was betokened chiefly by the dust which was raised by their footsteps. a token of this kind now caught her attention. it fixed her eye chiefly by the picturesque effect produced by interposing its obscurity between her and the splendours which the sun had left. presently she gained a faint view of a man and horse. this circumstance laid no claim to attention, and she was withdrawing her eye, when the traveller's stopping and dismounting at the gate made her renew her scrutiny. this was reinforced by something in the figure and movements of the horseman which reminded her of ormond. she started from her seat with some degree of palpitation. whence this arose, whether from fear or from joy, or from intermixed emotions, it would not be easy to ascertain. having entered the gate, the visitant, remounting his horse, set the animal on full speed. every moment brought him nearer, and added to her first belief. he stopped not till he reached the mansion. the person of ormond was distinctly recognised. an interview at this dusky and lonely hour, in circumstances so abrupt and unexpected, could not fail to surprise, and, in some degree, to alarm. the substance of his last conversation was recalled. the evils which were darkly and ambiguously predicted thronged to her memory. it seemed as if the present moment was to be, in some way, decisive of her fate. this visit she did not hesitate to suppose designed for her, but somewhat uncommonly momentous must have prompted him to take so long a journey. the rooms on the lower floor were dark, the windows and doors being fastened. she had entered the house by the principal door, and this was the only one at present unlocked. the room in which she sat was over the hall, and the massive door beneath could not be opened without noisy signals. the question that occurred to her, by what means ormond would gain admittance to her presence, she supposed would be instantly decided. she listened to hear his footsteps on the pavement, or the creaking of hinges. the silence, however, continued profound as before. after a minute's pause, she approached the window more nearly and endeavoured to gain a view of the space before the house. she saw nothing but the horse, whose bridle was thrown over his neck, and who was left at liberty to pick up what scanty herbage the lawn afforded to his hunger. the rider had disappeared. it now occurred to her that this visit had a purpose different from that which she at first conjectured. it was easily conceived that ormond was unacquainted with her residence at this spot. the knowledge could only be imparted to him by indirect or illicit means. that these means had been employed by him, she was by no means authorized to infer from the silence and distance he had lately maintained. but if an interview with her were not the purpose of his coming, how should she interpret it? chapter ix. while occupied with these reflections, the light hastily disappeared, and darkness, rendered, by a cloudy atmosphere, uncommonly intense, succeeded. she had the means of lighting a lamp that hung against the wall, but had been too much immersed in thought to notice the deepening of the gloom. recovering from her reverie, she looked around her with some degree of trepidation, and prepared to strike a spark that would enable her to light her lamp. she had hitherto indulged an habitual indifference to danger. now the presence of ormond, the unknown purpose that led him hither, and the defencelessness of her condition, inspired her with apprehensions to which she had hitherto been a stranger. she had been accustomed to pass many nocturnal hours in this closet. till now, nothing had occurred that made her enter it with circumspection or continue in it with reluctance. her sensations were no longer tranquil. each minute that she spent in this recess appeared to multiply her hazards. to linger here appeared to her the height of culpable temerity. she hastily resolved to return to the farmer's dwelling, and, on the morrow, to repair to new york. for this end she was desirous to produce a light. the materials were at hand. she lifted her hand to strike the flint, when her ear caught a sound which betokened the opening of the door that led into the next apartment. her motion was suspended, and she listened as well as a throbbing heart would permit. that ormond's was the hand that opened, was the first suggestion of her fears. the motives of this unseasonable entrance could not be reconciled with her safety. he had given no warning of his approach, and the door was opened with tardiness and seeming caution. sounds continued, of which no distinct conception could be obtained, or the cause that produced them assigned. the floors of every apartment being composed, like the walls and ceiling, of cement, footsteps were rendered almost undistinguishable. it was plain, however, that some one approached her own door. the panic and confusion that now invaded her was owing to surprise, and to the singularity of her situation. the mansion was desolate and lonely. it was night. she was immersed in darkness. she had not the means, and was unaccustomed to the office, of repelling personal injuries. what injuries she had reason to dread, who was the agent, and what were his motives, were subjects of vague and incoherent meditation. meanwhile, low and imperfect sounds, that had in them more of inanimate than human, assailed her ear. presently they ceased. an inexplicable fear deterred her from calling. light would have exercised a friendly influence. this it was in her power to produce, but not without motion and noise; and these, by occasioning the discovery of her being in the closet, might possibly enhance her danger. conceptions like these were unworthy of the mind of constantia. an interval of silence succeeded, interrupted only by the whistling of the blast without. it was sufficient for the restoration of her courage. she blushed at the cowardice which had trembled at a sound. she considered that ormond might, indeed, be near, but that he was probably unconscious of her situation. his coming was not with the circumspection of an enemy. he might be acquainted with the place of her retreat, and had come to obtain an interview, with no clandestine or mysterious purposes. the noises she had heard had, doubtless, proceeded from the next apartment, but might be produced by some harmless or vagrant creature. these considerations restored her tranquillity. they enabled her, deliberately, to create a light, but they did not dissuade her from leaving the house. omens of evil seemed to be connected with this solitary and darksome abode. besides, ormond had unquestionably entered upon this scene it could not be doubted that she was the object of his visit. the farm-house was a place of meeting more suitable and safe than any other. thither, therefore, she determined immediately to return. the closet had but one door, and this led into the chamber where the sounds had arisen. through this chamber, therefore, she was obliged to pass, in order to reach the staircase, which terminated in the hall below. bearing the light in her left hand, she withdrew the bolt of the door and opened. in spite of courageous efforts, she opened with unwillingness, and shuddered to throw a glance forward or advance a step into the room. this was not needed, to reveal to her the cause of her late disturbance. her eye instantly lighted on the body of a man, supine, motionless, stretched on the floor, close to the door through which she was about to pass. a spectacle like this was qualified to startle her. she shrunk back, and fixed a more steadfast eye upon the prostrate person. there was no mark of blood or of wounds, but there was something in the attitude more significant of death than of sleep. his face rested on the floor, and his ragged locks concealed what part of his visage was not hidden by his posture. his garb was characterized by fashionable elegance, but was polluted with dust. the image that first occurred to her was that of ormond. this instantly gave place to another, which was familiar to her apprehension. it was at first too indistinctly seen to suggest a name. she continued to gaze and to be lost in fearful astonishment. was this the person whose entrance had been overheard, and who had dragged himself hither to die at her door? yet, in that case, would not groans and expiring efforts have testified his condition and invoked her succour? was he not brought hither in the arms of his assassin? she mused upon the possible motives that induced some one thus to act, and upon the connection that might subsist between her destiny and that of the dead. her meditations, however fruitless in other respects, could not fail to show her the propriety of hastening from this spot. to scrutinize the form or face of the dead was a task to which her courage was unequal. suitably accompanied and guarded, she would not scruple to return and ascertain, by the most sedulous examination, the cause of this ominous event. she stepped over the breathless corpse, and hurried to the staircase. it became her to maintain the command of her muscles and joints, and to proceed without faltering or hesitation. scarcely had she reached the entrance of the hall, when, casting anxious looks forward, she beheld a human figure. no scrutiny was requisite to inform her that this was ormond. she stopped. he approached her with looks and gestures placid but solemn. there was nothing in his countenance rugged or malignant. on the contrary, there were tokens of compassion. "so," said he, "i expected to meet you. alight, gleaming from the window, marked you out. this and laffert's directions have guided me." "what," said constantia, with discomposure in her accent, "was your motive for seeking me?" "have you forgotten," said ormond, "what passed at our last interview? the evil that i then predicted is at hand. perhaps you were incredulous; you accounted me a madman or deceiver; now i am come to witness the fulfilment of my words and the completion of your destiny. to rescue you i have not come: that is not within the compass of human powers. "poor constantia," he continued, in tones that manifested genuine sympathy, "look upon thyself as lost. the toils that beset thee are inextricable. summon up thy patience to endure the evil. now will the last and heaviest trial betide thy fortitude. i could weep for thee, if my manly nature would permit. this is the scene of thy calamity, and this the hour." these words were adapted to excite curiosity mingled with terror. ormond's deportment was of an unexampled tenor, as well as that evil which he had so ambiguously predicted. he offered no protection from danger, and yet gave no proof of being himself an agent or auxiliary. after a minute's pause, constantia, recovering a firm tone, said,-"mr. ormond, your recent deportment but ill accords with your professions of sincerity and plain dealing. what your purpose is, or whether you have any purpose, i am at a loss to conjecture. whether you most deserve censure or ridicule, is a point which you afford me not the means of deciding, and to which, unless on your own account, i am indifferent. if you are willing to be more explicit, or if there be any topic on which you wish further to converse, i will not refuse your company to laffert's dwelling. longer to remain here would be indiscreet and absurd." so saying, she motioned towards the door. ormond was passive, and seemed indisposed to prevent her departure, till she laid her hand upon the lock. he then, without moving from his place, exclaimed,-"stay! must this meeting, which fate ordains to be the last, be so short? must a time and place so suitable for what remains to be said and done be neglected or misused? no. you charge me with duplicity, and deem my conduct either ridiculous or criminal. i have stated my reasons for concealment, but these have failed to convince you. well, here is now an end to doubt. all ambiguities are preparing to vanish." when ormond began to speak, constantia paused to hearken to him. his vehemence was not of that nature which threatened to obstruct her passage. it was by entreaty that he apparently endeavoured to detain her steps, and not by violence. hence arose her patience to listen. he continued:-"constantia! thy father is dead. art thou not desirous of detecting the author of his fate? will it afford thee no consolation to know that the deed is punished? wilt thou suffer me to drag the murderer to thy feet? thy justice will be gratified by this sacrifice. somewhat will be due to him who avenged thy wrong in the blood of the perpetrator. what sayest thou? grant me thy permission, and in a moment i will drag him hither." these words called up the image of the person whose corpse she had lately seen. it was readily conceived that to him ormond alluded; but this was the assassin of her father, and his crime had been detected and punished by ormond! these images had no other effect than to urge her departure: she again applied her hand to the lock, and said,-"this scene must not be prolonged. my father's death i desire not to hear explained or to see revenged, but whatever information you are willing or able to communicate must be deferred." "nay," interrupted ormond, with augmented vehemence, "art thou equally devoid of curiosity and justice? thinkest thou that the enmity which bereft thy father of life will not seek thy own? there are evils which i cannot prevent thee from enduring, but there are, likewise, ills which my counsel will enable thee and thy friend to shun. save me from witnessing thy death. thy father's destiny is sealed; all that remained was to punish his assassin; but thou and thy sophia still live. why should ye perish by a like stroke?" this intimation was sufficient to arrest the steps of constantia. she withdrew her hand from the door, and fixed eyes of the deepest anxiety on ormond:--"what mean you? how am i to understand--" "ah!" said ormond, "i see thou wilt consent to stay. thy detention shall not be long. remain where thou art during one moment,--merely while i drag hither thy enemy and show thee a visage which thou wilt not be slow to recognise." saying this, he hastily ascended the staircase, and quickly passed beyond her sight. deportment thus mysterious could not fail of bewildering her thoughts. there was somewhat in the looks and accents of ormond, different from former appearances; tokens of a hidden purpose and a smothered meaning were perceptible,--a mixture of the inoffensive and the lawless, which, added to the loneliness and silence that encompassed her, produced a faltering emotion. her curiosity was overpowered by her fear, and the resolution was suddenly conceived of seizing this opportunity to escape. a third time she put her hand to the lock and attempted to open. the effort was ineffectual. the door that was accustomed to obey the gentlest touch was now immovable. she had lately unlocked and passed through it. her eager inspection convinced her that the principal bolt was still withdrawn, but a small one was now perceived, of whose existence she had not been apprized, and over which her key had no power. now did she first harbour a fear that was intelligible in its dictates. now did she first perceive herself sinking in the toils of some lurking enemy. hope whispered that this foe was not ormond. his conduct had bespoken no willingness to put constraint upon her steps. he talked not as if he was aware of this obstruction, and yet his seeming acquiescence might have flowed from a knowledge that she had no power to remove beyond his reach. he warned her of danger to her life, of which he was her self-appointed rescuer. his counsel was to arm her with sufficient caution; the peril that awaited her was imminent; this was the time and place of its occurrence, and here she was compelled to remain, till the power that fastened would condescend to loose the door. there were other avenues to the hall. these were accustomed to be locked; but ormond had found access, and, if all continued fast, it was incontestable that he was the author of this new impediment. the other avenues were hastily examined. all were bolted and locked. the first impulse led her to call for help from without; but the mansion was distant from laffert's habitation. this spot was wholly unfrequented. no passenger was likely to be stationed where her call could be heard. besides, this forcible detention might operate for a short time, and be attended with no mischievous consequences. whatever was to come, it was her duty to collect her courage and encounter it. tho steps of ormond above now gave tokens of his approach. vigilant observance of this man was all that her situation permitted. a vehement effort restored her to some degree of composure. her stifled palpitations allowed her steadfastly to notice him as he now descended the stairs, bearing a lifeless body in his arms. "there!" said he, as he cast it at her feet; "whose countenance is that? who would imagine that features like those belonged to an assassin and impostor?" closed eyelids and fallen muscles could not hide from her lineaments so often seen. she shrunk back and exclaimed, "thomas craig!" a pause succeeded, in which she alternately gazed at the countenance of this unfortunate wretch and at ormond. at length, the latter exclaimed,-"well, my girl, hast thou examined him? dost thou recognise a friend or an enemy?" "i know him well: but how came this? what purpose brought him hither? who was the author of his fate?" "have i not already told thee that ormond was his own avenger and thine? to thee and to me he has been a robber. to him thy father is indebted for the loss not only of property but life. did crimes like these merit a less punishment? and what recompense is due to him whose vigilance pursued him hither and made him pay for his offences with his blood? what benefit have i received at thy hand to authorize me, for thy sake, to take away his life?" "no benefit received from me," said constantia, "would justify such an act. i should have abhorred myself for annexing to my benefits so bloody a condition. it calls for no gratitude or recompense. its suitable attendant is remorse. that he is a thief, i know but too well; that my father died by his hand is incredible. no motives or means--" "why so?" interrupted ormond. "does not sleep seal up the senses? cannot closets be unlocked at midnight? cannot adjoining houses communicate by doors? cannot these doors be hidden from suspicion by a sheet of canvas?" these words were of startling and abundant import. they reminded her of circumstances in her father's chamber, which sufficiently explained the means by which his life was assailed. the closet, and its canvas-covered wall; the adjoining house untenanted and shut up--but this house, though unoccupied, belonged to ormond. from the inferences which flowed hence, her attention was withdrawn by her companion, who continued:-"do these means imply the interposal of a miracle? his motives? what scruples can be expected from a man inured from infancy to cunning and pillage? will he abstain from murder when urged by excruciating poverty, by menaces of persecution, by terror of expiring on the gallows?" tumultuous suspicions were now awakened in the mind of constantia. her faltering voice scarcely allowed her to ask, "how know _you_ that craig was thus guilty?--that these were his incitements and means?" ormond's solemnity now gave place to a tone of sarcasm and looks of exultation:--"poor constantia! thou art still pestered with incredulity and doubts! my veracity is still in question! my knowledge, girl, is infallible. that these were his means of access i cannot be ignorant, for i pointed them out. he was urged by these motives, for they were stated and enforced by me. his was the deed, for i stood beside him when it was done." these, indeed, were terms that stood in no need of further explanation. the veil that shrouded this formidable being was lifted high enough to make him be regarded with inexplicable horror. what his future acts should be, how his omens of ill were to be solved, were still involved in uncertainty. in the midst of fears for her own safety, by which constantia was now assailed, the image of her father was revived; keen regret and vehement upbraiding were conjured up. "craig, then, was the instrument, and yours the instigation, that destroyed my father! in what had he offended you? what cause had he given for resentment?" "cause!" replied he, with impetuous accents. "resentment! none. my motive was benevolent; my deed conferred a benefit. i gave him sight and took away his life, from motives equally wise. know you not that ormond was fool enough to set value on the affections of a woman? these were sought with preposterous anxiety and endless labour. among other facilitators of his purpose, he summoned gratitude to his aid. to snatch you from poverty, to restore his sight to your father, were expected to operate as incentives to love. "but here i was the dupe of error. a thousand prejudices stood in my way. these, provided our intercourse were not obstructed, i hoped to subdue. the rage of innovation seized your father: this, blended with a mortal antipathy to me, made him labour to seduce you from the bosom of your peaceful country; to make you enter on a boisterous sea; to visit lands where all is havoc and hostility; to snatch you from the influence of my arguments. "this new obstacle i was bound to remove. while revolving the means, chance and his evil destiny threw craig in my way. i soon convinced him that his reputation and his life were in my hands. his retention of these depended upon my will, on the performance of conditions which i prescribed. "my happiness and yours depended on your concurrence with my wishes. your father's life was an obstacle to your concurrence. for killing him, therefore, i may claim your gratitude. his death was a due and disinterested offering at the altar of your felicity and mine. "my deed was not injurious to him. at his age, death, whose coming at some period is inevitable, could not be distant. to make it unforeseen and brief, and void of pain,--to preclude the torments of a lingering malady, a slow and visible descent to the grave,--was the dictate of beneficence. but of what value was a continuance of his life? either you would have gone with him to europe or have stayed at home with me. in the first case, his life would have been rapidly consumed by perils and cares. in the second, separation from you, and union with me,--a being so detestable,--would equally have poisoned his existence. "craig's cowardice and crimes made him a pliant and commodious tool. i pointed out the way. the unsuspected door which led into the closet of your father's chamber was made, by my direction, during the life of helena. by this avenue i was wont to post myself where all your conversations could be overheard. by this avenue an entrance and retreat were afforded to the agent of my newest purpose. "fool that i was! i solaced myself with the belief that all impediments were now smoothed, when a new enemy appeared. my folly lasted as long as my hope. i saw that to gain your affections, fortified by antiquated scruples and obsequious to the guidance of this new monitor, was impossible. it is not my way to toil after that which is beyond my reach. if the greater good be inaccessible, i learn to be contented with the less. "i have served you with successless sedulity. i have set an engine in act to obliterate an obstacle to your felicity, and lay your father at rest. under my guidance, this engine was productive only of good. governed by itself or by another, it will only work you harm. i have, therefore, hastened to destroy it. lo! it is now before you motionless and impotent. "for this complexity of benefit i look for no reward. i am not tired of well-doing. having ceased to labour for an unattainable good, i have come hither to possess myself of all that i now crave, and by the same deed to afford you an illustrious opportunity to signalize your wisdom and your fortitude." during this speech, the mind of constantia became more deeply pervaded with dread of some overhanging but incomprehensible evil. the strongest impulse was to gain a safe asylum, at a distance from this spot and from the presence of this extraordinary being. this impulse was followed by the recollection that her liberty was taken away, that egress from the hall was denied her, and that this restriction might be part of some conspiracy of ormond against her life. security from danger like this would be, in the first place, sought, by one of constantia's sex and opinions, in flight. this had been rendered, by some fatal chance or by the precautions of her foe, impracticable. stratagem or force was all that remained to elude or disarm her adversary. for the contrivance and execution of fraud, all the habits of her life and all the maxims of her education had conspired to unfit her. her force of muscles would avail her nothing against the superior energy of ormond. she remembered that to inflict death was no iniquitous exertion of self-defence, and that the penknife which she held in her hand was capable of this service. she had used it to remove any lurking obstruction in the wards of her key, supposing, for a time, this to be the cause of her failing to withdraw the bolt of the door. this resource was, indeed, scarcely less disastrous and deplorable than any fate from which it could rescue her. some uncertainty still involved the intentions of ormond. as soon as he paused, she spoke:-"how am i to understand this prelude? let me know the full extent of my danger,--why it is that i am hindered from leaving this house, and why this interview was sought." "ah, constantia, this, indeed, is merely a prelude to a scene that is to terminate my influence over thy fate. when this is past i have sworn to part with thee forever. art thou still dubious of my purpose? art thou not a woman? and have i not entreated for thy love and been rejected? "canst thou imagine that i aim at thy life? my avowals of love were sincere; my passion was vehement and undisguised. it gave dignity and value to a gift in thy power, as a woman, to bestow. this has been denied. that gift has lost none of its value in my eyes. what thou refusest to bestow it is in my power to extort. i came for that end. when this end is accomplished, i will restore thee to liberty." these words were accompanied by looks that rendered all explanation of their meaning useless. the evil reserved for her, hitherto obscured by half-disclosed and contradictory attributes, was now sufficiently apparent. the truth in this respect unveiled itself with the rapidity and brightness of an electrical flash. she was silent. she cast her eyes at the windows and doors. escape through them was hopeless. she looked at those lineaments of ormond which evinced his disdain of supplication and inexorable passions. she felt that entreaty and argument would be vain; that all appeals to his compassion and benevolence would counteract her purpose, since, in the unexampled conformation of this man's mind, these principles were made subservient to his most flagitious designs. considerations of justice and pity were made, by a fatal perverseness of reasoning, champions and bulwarks of his most atrocious mistakes. the last extremes of opposition, the most violent expedients for defence, would be justified by being indispensable. to find safety for her honour, even in the blood of an assailant, was the prescription of duty. tho equity of this species of defence was not, in the present confusion of her mind, a subject of momentary doubt. to forewarn him of her desperate purpose would be to furnish him with means of counteraction. her weapon would easily be wrested from her feeble hand. ineffectual opposition would only precipitate her evil destiny. a rage, contented with nothing less than her life, might be awakened in his bosom. but was not this to be desired? death, untimely and violent, was better than the loss of honour. this thought led to a new series of reflections. she involuntarily shrunk from the act of killing: but would her efforts to destroy her adversary be effectual? would not his strength and dexterity easily repel or elude them? her power in this respect was questionable, but her power was undeniably sufficient to a different end. the instrument which could not rescue her from this injury by the destruction of another might save her from it by her own destruction. these thoughts rapidly occurred; but the resolution to which they led was scarcely formed, when ormond advanced towards her. she recoiled a few steps, and, showing the knife which she held, said,-"ormond! beware! know that my unalterable resolution is to die uninjured. i have the means in my power. stop where you are; one step more, and i plunge this knife into my heart. i know that to contend with your strength or your reason would be vain. to turn this weapon against you i should not fear, if i were sure of success; but to that i will not trust. to save a greater good by the sacrifice of life is in my power, and that sacrifice shall be made." "poor constantia!" replied ormond, in a tone of contempt; "so thou preferrest thy imaginary honour to life! to escape this injury without a name or substance, without connection with the past or future, without contamination of thy purity or thraldom of thy will, thou wilt kill thyself; put an end to thy activity in virtue's cause; rob thy friend of her solace, the world of thy beneficence, thyself of being and pleasure? "i shall be grieved for the fatal issue of my experiment; i shall mourn over thy martyrdom to the most opprobrious and contemptible of all errors: but that thou shouldst undergo the trial is decreed. there is still an interval of hope that thy cowardice is counterfeited, or that it will give place to wisdom and courage. "whatever thou intendest by way of prevention or cure, it behooves thee to employ with steadfastness. die with the guilt of suicide and the brand of cowardice upon thy memory, or live with thy claims to felicity and approbation undiminished. choose which thou wilt. thy decision is of moment to thyself, but of none to me. living or dead, the prize that i have in view shall be mine." chapter x. it will be requisite to withdraw your attention from this scene for a moment, and fix it on myself. my impatience of my friend's delay, for some days preceding this disastrous interview, became continually more painful. as the time of our departure approached, my dread of some misfortune or impediment increased. ormond's disappearance from the scene contributed but little to my consolation. to wrap his purposes in mystery, to place himself at seeming distance, was the usual artifice of such as he,--was necessary to the maturing of his project and the hopeless entanglement of his victim. i saw no means of placing the safety of my friend beyond his reach. between different methods of procedure, there was, however, room for choice. her present abode was more hazardous than an abode in the city. to be alone argued a state more defenceless and perilous than to be attended by me. i wrote her an urgent admonition to return. my remonstrances were couched in such terms as, in my own opinion, laid her under the necessity of immediate compliance. the letter was despatched by the usual messenger, and for some hours i solaced myself with the prospect of a speedy meeting. these thoughts gave place to doubt and apprehension. i began to distrust the efficacy of my arguments, and to invent a thousand reasons, inducing her, in defiance of my rhetoric, at least to protract her absence. these reasons i had not previously conceived, and had not, therefore, attempted, in my letter, to invalidate their force. this omission was possible to be supplied in a second epistle; but, meanwhile, time would be lost, and my new arguments might, like the old, fail to convince her. at least, the tongue was a much more versatile and powerful advocate than the pen; and, by hastening to her habitation, i might either compel her to return with me, or ward off danger by my presence, or share it with her. i finally resolved to join her by the speediest conveyance. this resolution was suggested by the meditations of a sleepless night. i rose with the dawn, and sought out the means of transporting myself, with most celerity, to the abode of my friend. a stage-boat, accustomed twice a day to cross new york bay to staten island, was prevailed upon, by liberal offers, to set out upon the voyage at the dawn of day. the sky was gloomy, and the air boisterous and unsettled. the wind, suddenly becoming tempestuous and adverse, rendered the voyage at once tedious and full of peril. a voyage of nine miles was not effected in less than eight hours and without imminent and hairbreadth danger of being drowned. fifteen miles of the journey remained to be performed by land. a carriage, with the utmost difficulty, was procured, but lank horses and a crazy vehicle were but little in unison with my impatience. we reached not amboy ferry till some hours after nightfall. i was rowed across the sound, and proceeded to accomplish the remainder of my journey--about three miles--on foot. i was actuated to this speed by indefinite but powerful motives. the belief that my speedy arrival was essential to the rescue of my friend from some inexplicable injury haunted me with ceaseless importunity. on no account would i have consented to postpone this precipitate expedition till the morrow. i at length arrived at dudley's farm-house. the inhabitants were struck with wonder at the sight of me. my clothes were stained by the water by which every passenger was copiously sprinkled during our boisterous navigation, and soiled by dust; my frame was almost overpowered by fatigue and abstinence. to my anxious inquiries respecting my friend, they told me that her evenings were usually spent at the mansion, where it was probable she was now to be found. they were not apprized of any inconvenience or danger that betided her. it was her custom sometimes to prolong her absence till midnight. i could not applaud the discretion nor censure the temerity of this proceeding. my mind was harassed by unintelligible omens and self-confuted fears. to obviate the danger and to banish my inquietudes was my first duty. for this end i hastened to the mansion. having passed the intervening hillocks and copses, i gained a view of the front of the building. my heart suddenly sunk, on observing that no apartment--not even that in which i knew it was her custom to sit at these unseasonable hours--was illuminated. a gleam from the window of the study i should have regarded as an argument at once of her presence and her safety. i approached the house with misgiving and faltering steps. the gate leading into a spacious court was open. a sound on one side attracted my attention. in the present state of my thoughts, any near or unexplained sound sufficed to startle me. looking towards the quarter whence my panic was excited, i espied, through the dusk, a horse grazing, with his bridle thrown over his neck. this appearance was a new source of perplexity and alarm. the inference was unavoidable that a visitant was here. who that visitant was, and how he was now employed, was a subject of eager but fruitless curiosity. within and around the mansion, all was buried in the deepest repose. i now approached the principal door, and, looking through the keyhole, perceived a lamp, standing on the lowest step of the staircase. it shed a pale light over the lofty ceiling and marble balustrades. no face or movement of a human being was perceptible. these tokens assured me that some one was within: they also accounted for the non-appearance of light at the window above. i withdrew my eye from this avenue, and was preparing to knock loudly for admission, when my attention was awakened by some one who advanced to the door from the inside and seemed busily engaged in unlocking. i started back and waited with impatience till the door should open and the person issue forth. presently i heard a voice within exclaim, in accents of mingled terror and grief, "oh, what--what will become of me? shall i never be released from this detested prison?" the voice was that of constantia. it penetrated to my heart like an icebolt. i once more darted a glance through the crevice. a figure, with difficulty recognised to be that of my friend, now appeared in sight. her hands were clasped on her breast, her eyes wildly fixed upon the ceiling and streaming with tears, and her hair unbound and falling confusedly over her bosom and neck. my sensations scarcely permitted me to call, "constantia! for heaven's sake, what has happened to you? open the door, i beseech you." "what voice is that? sophia courtland! o my friend! i am imprisoned! some demon has barred the door, beyond my power to unfasten. ah, why comest thou so late? thy succour would have somewhat profited if sooner given; but now, the lost constantia--" here her voice sunk into convulsive sobs. in the midst of my own despair, on perceiving the fulfilment of my apprehensions, and what i regarded as the fatal execution of some project of ormond, i was not insensible to the suggestions of prudence. i entreated my friend to retain her courage, while i flew to laffert's and returned with suitable assistance to burst open the door. the people of the farm-house readily obeyed my summons. accompanied by three men of powerful sinews, sons and servants of the farmer, i returned with the utmost expedition to the mansion. the lamp still remained in its former place, but our loudest calls were unanswered. the silence was uninterrupted and profound. the door yielded to strenuous and repeated efforts, and i rushed into the hall. the first object that met my sight was my friend, stretched upon the floor, pale and motionless, supine, and with all the tokens of death. from this object my attention was speedily attracted by two figures, breathless and supine like that of constantia. one of them was ormond. a smile of disdain still sat upon his features. the wound by which he fell was secret, and was scarcely betrayed by the effusion of a drop of blood. the face of the third victim was familiar to my early days. it was that of the impostor whose artifice had torn from mr. dudley his peace and fortune. an explication of this scene was hopeless. by what disastrous and inscrutable fate a place like this became the scene of such complicated havoc, to whom craig was indebted for his death, what evil had been meditated or inflicted by ormond, and by what means his project had arrived at this bloody consummation, were topics of wild and fearful conjecture. but my friend--the first impulse of my fears was to regard her as dead. hope and a closer observation outrooted, or, at least, suspended, this opinion. one of the men lifted her in his arms. no trace of blood or mark of fatal violence was discoverable, and the effusion of cold water restored her, though slowly, to life. to withdraw her from this spectacle of death was my first care. she suffered herself to be led to the farm-house. she was carried to her chamber. for a time she appeared incapable of recollection. she grasped my hand, as i sat by her bedside, but scarcely gave any other tokens of life. from this state of inactivity she gradually recovered. i was actuated by a thousand forebodings, but refrained from molesting her by interrogation or condolence. i watched by her side in silence, but was eager to collect from her own lips an account of this mysterious transaction. at length she opened her eyes, and appeared to recollect her present situation, and the events which led to it. i inquired into her condition, and asked if there were any thing in my power to procure or perform for her. "oh, my friend," she answered, "what have i done, what have i suffered, within the last dreadful hour! the remembrance, though insupportable, will never leave me. you can do nothing for my relief. all i claim is your compassion and your sympathy." "i hope," said i, "that nothing has happened to load you with guilt or with shame?" "alas! i know not. my deed was scarcely the fruit of intention. it was suggested by a momentary frenzy. i saw no other means of escaping from vileness and pollution. i was menaced with an evil worse than death. i forebore till my strength was almost subdued: the lapse of another moment would have placed me beyond hope. "my stroke was desperate and at random. it answered my purpose too well. he cast at me a look of terrible upbraiding, but spoke not. his heart was pierced, and he sunk, as if struck by lightning, at my feet. o much erring and unhappy ormond! that thou shouldst thus untimely perish! that i should be thy executioner!" these words sufficiently explained the scene that i had witnessed. the violence of ormond had been repulsed by equal violence. his foul attempts had been prevented by his death. not to deplore the necessity which had produced this act was impossible; but, since this necessity existed, it was surely not a deed to be thought upon with lasting horror, or to be allowed to generate remorse. in consequence of this catastrophe, arduous duties had devolved upon me. the people that surrounded me were powerless with terror. their ignorance and cowardice left them at a loss how to act in this emergency. they besought my direction, and willingly performed whatever i thought proper to enjoin upon them. no deliberation was necessary to acquaint me with my duty. laffert was despatched to the nearest magistrate with a letter, in which his immediate presence was entreated and these transactions were briefly explained. early the next day the formalities of justice, in the inspection of the bodies and the examination of witnesses, were executed. it would be needless to dwell on the particulars of this catastrophe. a sufficient explanation has been given of the causes that led to it. they were such as exempted my friend from legal animadversion. her act was prompted by motives which every scheme of jurisprudence known in the world not only exculpates, but applauds. to state these motives before a tribunal hastily formed and exercising its functions on the spot was a task not to be avoided, though infinitely painful. remonstrances the most urgent and pathetic could scarcely conquer her reluctance. this task, however, was easy, in comparison with that which remained. to restore health and equanimity to my friend; to repel the erroneous accusations of her conscience; to hinder her from musing, with eternal anguish, upon this catastrophe; to lay the spirit of secret upbraiding by which she was incessantly tormented, which bereft her of repose, empoisoned all her enjoyments, and menaced not only the subversion of her peace but the speedy destruction of her life, became my next employment. my counsels and remonstrances were not wholly inefficacious. they afforded me the prospect of her ultimate restoration to tranquillity. meanwhile, i called to my aid the influence of time and of a change of scene. i hastened to embark with her for europe. our voyage was tempestuous and dangerous, but storms and perils at length gave way to security and repose. before our voyage was commenced, i endeavoured to procure tidings of the true condition and designs of ormond. my information extended no further than that he had put his american property into the hands of mr. melbourne, and was preparing to embark for france. courtland, who has since been at paris, and who, while there, became confidentially acquainted with martinette de beauvais, has communicated facts of an unexpected nature. at the period of ormond's return to philadelphia, at which his last interview with constantia in that city took place, he visited martinette. he avowed himself to be her brother, and supported his pretensions by relating the incidents of his early life. a separation at the age of fifteen, and which had lasted for the same number of years, may be supposed to have considerably changed the countenance and figure she had formerly known. his relationship was chiefly proved by the enumeration of incidents of which her brother only could be apprized. he possessed a minute acquaintance with her own adventures, but concealed from her the means by which he had procured the knowledge. he had rarely and imperfectly alluded to his own opinions and projects, and had maintained an invariable silence on the subject of his connection with constantia and helena. being informed of her intention to return to france, he readily complied with her request to accompany her in this voyage. his intentions in this respect were frustrated by the dreadful catastrophe that has been just related. respecting this event, martinette had collected only vague and perplexing information. courtland, though able to remove her doubts, thought proper to withhold from her the knowledge he possessed. since her arrival in england, the life of my friend has experienced little variation. of her personal deportment and domestic habits you have been a witness. these, therefore, it would be needless for me to exhibit. it is sufficient to have related events which the recentness of your intercourse with her hindered you from knowing but by means of some formal narrative like the present. she and her friend only were able to impart to you the knowledge which you have so anxiously sought. in consideration of your merits and of your attachment to my friend, i have consented to devote my leisure to this task. it is now finished; and i have only to add my wishes that the perusal of this tale may afford you as much instruction as the contemplation of the sufferings and vicissitudes of constantia dudley has afforded to me. farewell. the end. (http://www.freeliterature.org) from page images generously made available by the google books library project (http://books.google.com/) note: project gutenberg also has the other two volumes of this book. volume ii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36290 volume iii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36291 images of the original pages are available through the the google books library project. see http://books.google.com/books?id=phggaaaaqaaj&oe=utf-8 ormond; or, the secret witness. by b. c. brown, author of wieland, or transformation. in three volumes. vol. i. "sæpe intereunt aliis meditantes necem." phædrus "those who plot the destruction of others, very often fall, themselves the victims." philadelphia printed, london, re-printed for henry colburn, english and foreign public library, conduit-street, bond-street. 1811 * * * * * to the right honourable lady castlereagh, these volumes are respectfully inscribed, by her ladyship's most obedient, and humble servant, henry colburn. introduction. _to i.e. rosenberg._ you are anxious to obtain some knowledge of the history of constantia dudley. i am well acquainted with your motives, and allow that they justify your curiosity. i am willing to the utmost of my power to comply with your request, and will now dedicate what leisure i have to the composition of her story. my narrative will have little of that merit which flows from unity of design. you are desirous of hearing an authentic and not a fictitious tale. it will therefore be my duty to relate events in no artificial or elaborate order, and without that harmonious congruity and luminous amplification, which might justly be displayed in a tale flowing merely from invention. it will be little more than a biographical sketch, in which the facts are distributed and amplified, not as a poetical taste would prescribe, but as the materials afforded me, sometimes abundant and sometimes scanty, would permit. constantia, like all the beings made known to us, not by fancy, but experience, has numerous defects. you will readily perceive that her tale is told by her friend; but i hope you will not discover many or glaring proofs of a disposition to extenuate her errors or falsify her character. ormond will perhaps appear to you a contradictory or unintelligible being. i pretend not to the infallibility of inspiration. he is not a creature of fancy. it was not prudent to unfold _all_ the means by which i gained a knowledge of his actions; but these means, though singularly fortunate and accurate, could not be unerring and complete. i have shown him to you as he appeared on different occasions, and at successive periods to me. this is all that you will demand from a faithful biographer. if you were not deeply interested in the fate of my friend, yet my undertaking will not be useless, inasmuch as it will introduce you to scenes to which you have been hitherto a stranger. the modes of life, the influence of public events upon the character and happiness of individuals in america, are new to you. the distinctions of birth, and the artificial degrees of esteem or contempt which connect themselves with different professions and ranks in your native country, are but little known among us. society and manners constitute your favourite study, and i am willing to believe that my relation will supply you with knowledge, on these heads, not to be otherwise obtained. if these details be in that respect unsatisfactory, all that i can add, is my counsel to go and examine for yourself. s.c. germany ormond, or the _secret witness._ chapter i. stephen dudley was a native of new york. he was educated to the profession of a painter. his father's trade was that of an apothecary. but this son, manifesting an attachment to the pencil, he was resolved that it should be gratified. for this end stephen was sent at an early age to europe, and not only enjoyed the instructions of fuzeli and bartolozzi, but spent a considerable period in italy, in studying the augustan and medicean monuments. it was intended that he should practise his art in his native city, but the young man, though reconciled to this scheme by deference to paternal authority, and by a sense of its propriety, was willing as long as possible to postpone it. the liberality of his father relieved him from all pecuniary cares. his whole time was devoted to the improvement of his skill in his favourite art, and the enriching of his mind with every valuable accomplishment. he was endowed with a comprehensive genius and indefatigable industry. his progress was proportionably rapid, and he passed his time without much regard to futurity, being too well satisfied with the present to anticipate a change. a change however was unavoidable, and he was obliged at length to pay a reluctant obedience to his father's repeated summons. the death of his wife had rendered his society still more necessary to the old gentleman. he married before his return. the woman whom he had selected was an unportioned orphan, and was recommended merely by her moral qualities. these, however, were eminent, and secured to her, till the end of her life, the affection of her husband. though painting was capable of fully gratifying his taste as matter of amusement, he quickly found that, in his new situation, it would not answer the ends of a profession. his father supported himself by the profits of his shop, but with all his industry he could do no more than procure a subsistence for himself and his son. till his father's death young dudley attached himself to painting. his gains were slender, but he loved the art, and his father's profession rendered his own exertions in a great degree superfluous. the death of the elder dudley introduced an important change in his situation. it thenceforth became necessary to strike into some new path, to deny himself the indulgence of his inclinations, and regulate his future exertions by a view to nothing but gain. there was little room for choice. his habits had disqualified him for mechanical employments. he could not stoop to the imaginary indignity which attended them, nor spare the time necessary to obtain the requisite degree of skill. his father died in possession of some stock, and a sufficient portion of credit to supply its annual decays. he lived at what they call a _good stand_, and enjoyed a certain quantity of permanent custom. the knowledge that was required was as easily obtained as the elements of any other profession, and was not wholly unallied to the pursuits in which he had sometimes engaged. hence he could not hesitate long in forming his resolution, but assumed the management of his father's concerns with a cheerful and determined spirit. the knowledge of his business was acquired in no long time; he was stimulated to the acquisition by a sense of duty; he was inured to habits of industry, and there were few things capable to resist a strenuous exertion of his faculties. knowledge of whatever kind afforded a compensation to labour; but the task being finished, that which remained, which in ordinary apprehensions would have been esteemed an easy and smooth path, was to him insupportably disgustful. the drudgery of a shop, where all the faculties were at a stand, and one day was an unvaried repetition of the foregoing, was too incongenial to his disposition not to be a source of discontent. this was an evil which it was the tendency of time to increase rather than diminish. the longer he endured it the less tolerable it became. he could not forbear comparing his present situation with his former, and deriving from the contrast perpetual food for melancholy. the indulgence of his father had contributed to instil into him prejudices, in consequence of which a certain species of disgrace was annexed to every employment of which the only purpose was gain. his present situation not only precluded all those pursuits which exalt and harmonize the feelings, but was detested by him as something humiliating and ignominious. his wife was of a pliant temper, and her condition less influenced by this change than that of her husband. she was qualified to be his comforter; but instead of dispelling his gloom by judicious arguments, or a seasonable example of vivacity, she caught the infection that preyed upon his mind, and augmented his anxieties by partaking in them. by enlarging in some degree the foundation on which his father had built, he had provided the means of a future secession, and might console himself with the prospect of enjoying his darling ease at some period of his life. this period was necessarily too remote for his wishes; and had not certain occurrences taken place, by which he was flattered with the immediate possession of ease, it is far from being certain that he would not have fallen a victim to his growing disquietudes. he was one morning engaged behind his counter as usual, when a youth came into his shop, and, in terms that bespoke the union of fearlessness and frankness, inquired whether he could be engaged as an apprentice. a proposal of this kind could not be suddenly rejected or adopted. he stood in need of assistance; the youth was manly and blooming, and exhibited a modest and ingenuous aspect. it was possible that he was, in every respect, qualified for the post for which he applied; but it was previously necessary to ascertain these qualifications. for this end he requested the youth to call at his house in the evening, when he should be at leisure to converse with him, and furnished him with suitable directions. the youth came according to appointment. on being questioned as to his birthplace and origin, he stated that he was a native of wakefield, in yorkshire; that his family were honest, and his education not mean; that he was the eldest, of many children, and having attained an age at which he conceived it his duty to provide for himself, he had, with the concurrence of his friends, come to america, in search of the means of independent subsistence; that he had just arrived in a ship which he named, and, his scanty stock of money being likely to be speedily consumed, this had been the first effort he had made to procure employment. his tale was circumstantial and consistent, and his veracity appeared liable to no doubt. he was master of his book and his pen, and had acquired more than the rudiments of latin. mr. dudley did not require much time to deliberate. in a few days the youth was established as a member of his family, and as a coadjutor in his shop, nothing but food, clothing, and lodging being stipulated as the reward of his services. the young man improved daily in the good opinion of his master. his apprehension was quick, his sobriety invariable, and his application incessant. though by no means presumptuous or arrogant, he was not wanting in a suitable degree of self-confidence. all his propensities appeared to concentre in his occupation and the promotion of his master's interest, from which he was drawn aside by no allurements of sensual or intellectual pleasure. in a short time he was able to relieve his master of most of the toils of his profession, and mr. dudley a thousand times congratulated himself on possessing a servant equally qualified by his talents and his probity. he gradually remitted his attention to his own concerns, and placed more absolute reliance on the fidelity of his dependant. young craig, that was the name of the youth, maintained a punctual correspondence with his family, and confided to his patron, not only copies of all the letters which he himself wrote, but those which, from time to time, he received. he had several correspondents, but the chief of those were his mother and his eldest sister. the sentiments contained in their letters breathed the most appropriate simplicity and, tenderness, and flowed with the nicest propriety, from the different relationships of mother and sister. the style, and even the penmanship, were distinct and characteristical. one of the first of these epistles was written by the mother to mr. dudley, on being informed by her son of his present engagement. it was dictated by that concern for the welfare of her child befitting the maternal character. gratitude, for the ready acceptance of the youth's services, and for the benignity of his deportment towards him, a just representation of which had been received by her from the boy himself, was expressed with no inconsiderable elegance; as well as her earnest wishes that mr. dudley should extend to him not only the indulgence, but the moral superintendence of a parent. to this mr. dudley conceived it incumbent upon him to return a consenting answer, and letters were in this manner occasionally interchanged between them. things remained in this situation for three years, during which period every day enhanced the reputation of craig, for stability and integrity. a sort of provisional engagement had been made between the parents, unattended however by any legal or formal act, that things should remain on their present footing for three years. when this period terminated, it seemed as if a new engagement had become necessary. craig expressed the utmost willingness to renew the former contract, but his master began to think that the services of his pupil merited a higher recompense. he ascribed the prosperity that had hitherto attended him to the disinterested exertions of his apprentice. his social and literary gratifications had been increased by the increase of his leisure. these were capable of being still more enlarged. he had not yet acquired what he deemed a sufficiency, and could not therefore wholly relieve himself from the turmoils and humiliation of a professional life. he concluded that he should at once consult his own interest, and perform no more than an act of justice to a faithful servant, by making craig his partner, and allowing him a share of the profits, on condition of his discharging all the duties of the trade. when this scheme was proposed to craig he professed unbounded gratitude, considered all that he had done as amply rewarded by the pleasure of performance, and as being nothing more than was prescribed by his duty. he promised that this change in his situation should have no other effect than to furnish new incitements to diligence and fidelity, in the promotion of an interest, which would then become in a still higher degree than formerly a common one. mr. dudley communicated his intention to craig's mother, who, in addition to many grateful acknowledgments, stated that a kinsman of her son had enabled him, in case of entering into partnership, to add a small sum to the common stock, and that for this sum craig was authorized to draw upon a london banker. the proposed arrangement was speedily effected. craig was charged with the management of all affairs, and mr. dudley retired to the enjoyment of still greater leisure. two years elapsed, and nothing occurred to interrupt the harmony that subsisted between the partners. mr. dudley's condition might be esteemed prosperous. his wealth was constantly accumulating. he had nearly attained all that he wished, and his wishes still aimed at nothing less than splendid opulence. he had annually increased the permanent sources of his revenue. his daughter was the only survivor of many children who perished in their infancy, before habit and maturity, had rendered the parental tie difficult to break. this daughter had already exhibited proofs of a mind susceptible of high improvement, and the loveliness of her person promised to keep pace with her mental acquisitions. he charged himself with the care of her education, and found no weariness or satiety in this task that might not be amply relieved by the recreations of science and literature. he flattered himself that his career, which had hitherto been exempt from any considerable impediment, would terminate in tranquillity. few men might with more propriety have discarded all apprehensions respecting futurity. craig had several sisters, and one brother younger than himself. mr. dudley, desirous of promoting the happiness of this family, proposed to send for this brother and have him educated to his own profession, insinuating to his partner that at the time when the boy should have gained sufficient stability and knowledge, he himself might be disposed to relinquish the profession altogether, on terms particularly advantageous to the two brothers, who might thenceforth conduct their business jointly. craig had been eloquent in praise of this lad, and his testimony had, from time to time, been confirmed by that of his mother and sister. he had often expressed his wishes for the prosperity of the lad; and, when his mother had expressed her doubts as to the best method of disposing of him, modestly requested mr. dudley's advice on this head. the proposal, therefore, might be supposed to be particularly acceptable, and yet craig expressed reluctance to concur with it. this reluctance was accompanied with certain tokens which sufficiently showed whence it arose. craig appeared unwilling to increase those obligations under which he already laboured; his sense of gratitude was too acute to allow him to heighten it by the reception of new benefits. it might be imagined that this objection would be easily removed; but the obstinacy of craig's opposition was invincible. mr. dudley could not relinquish a scheme to which no stronger objection could be made; and, since his partner could not be prevailed upon to make this proposal to the friends of the lad, he was determined to do it himself. he maintained an intercourse by letters with several of those friends which he formed in his youth. one of them usually resided in london. from him he received about this time a letter, in which, among other information, the writer mentioned his intention of setting out on a tour through yorkshire and the scottish highlands. mr. dudley thought this a suitable opportunity for executing his design in favour of young craig. he entertained no doubts about the worth and condition of this family, but was still desirous of obtaining some information on this head from one who would pass through the town where they resided, who would examine with his own eyes, and on whose discernment and integrity he could place an implicit reliance. he concealed this intention from his partner, and entrusted his letter to a friend who was just embarking for europe. in due season he received an answer, confirming, in all respects, craig's representations, but informing him that the lad had been lately disposed of in a way not equally advantageous with that which mr. dudley had proposed, but such as would not admit of change. if doubts could possibly be entertained respecting the character and views of craig, this evidence would have dispelled them. but plans, however skilfully contrived, if founded on imposture, cannot fail of being sometimes detected. craig had occasion to be absent from the city for some weeks. meanwhile a letter had been left at his lodgings by one who merely inquired if that were the dwelling of mr. dudley, and being answered by the servant in the affirmative, left the letter without further parley. it was superscribed with a name unknown to any of the family, and in a hand which its badness rendered almost illegible. the servant placed it in a situation to be seen by his master. mr. dudley allowed it to remain unopened for a considerable time. at length, deeming it excusable to discover by any means the person to whom it was addressed, he ventured to unseal it. it was dated at portsmouth in new-hampshire. the signature was mary mansfield. it was addressed to her son, and was a curious specimen of illiterateness. mary herself was unable to write, as she reminds her son, and had therefore procured the assistance of mrs. dewitt, for whose family she washed. the amanuensis was but little superior in the art of penmanship to her principal. the contents of the epistle were made out with some difficulty. this was the substance of it:-mary reproaches her son for deserting her, and letting five years pass away without allowing her to hear from him. she informed him of her distresses as they flowed from sickness and poverty, and were aggravated by the loss of her son who was so handsome and promising a lad. she related her marriage with zekel hackney, who first brought her tidings of her boy. he was master, it seems, of a fishing smack, and voyaged sometimes to new york. in one of his visits, to this city he met a mighty spry young man, in whom he thought he recognized his wife's son. he had traced him to the house of mr. dudley, and on inquiry discovered that the lad resided here. on his return he communicated the tidings to his spouse, who had now written to reproach him for his neglect of his poor old mother, and to entreat his assistance to relieve her from the necessity of drudging for her livelihood. this letter was capable of an obvious construction. it was, no doubt, founded in mistake, though it was to be acknowledged that the mistake was singular. such was the conclusion immediately formed by mr. dudley. he quietly replaced the letter on the mantel-piece, where it had before stood, and dismissed the affair from his thoughts. next day craig returned from his journey. mr. dudley was employed in examining some papers in a desk that stood behind the door in the apartment in which the letter was placed. there was no other person in the room when craig entered it. he did not perceive mr. dudley, who was screened from observation by his silence and by an open door. as soon as he entered, mr. dudley looked at him, and made no haste to speak. the letter, whose superscription was turned towards him, immediately attracted craig's attention. he seized it with some degree of eagerness, and observing the broken seal, thrust it hastily into his pocket, muttering at the same time, in a tone betokening a mixture of consternation and anger, "damn it!"--he immediately left the room, still uninformed of the presence of mr. dudley, who began to muse with some earnestness on what he had seen. soon after, he left this room, and went into another in which the family usually sat. in about twenty minutes craig made his appearance with his usual freedom and plausibility. complimentary and customary topics were discussed. mrs. dudley and her daughter were likewise present. the uneasiness which the incident just mentioned had occasioned in the mind of mr. dudley was at first dispelled by the disembarrassed behaviour of his partner, but new matter of suspicion was speedily afforded him. he observed that his partner spoke of his present entrance as of the first since his arrival, and that when the lady mentioned that he had been the subject of a curious mistake, a letter being directed to him by a strange name, and left there during his absence, he pretended total ignorance of the circumstance. the young lady was immediately directed by her mother to bring the letter, which lay, she said, on the mantle-tree in the next room. during this scene mr. dudley was silent. he anticipated the disappointment of the messenger, believing the letter to have been removed. what then was his surprise when the messenger returned bearing the letter in her hand! craig examined and read it, and commented with great mirth on the contents, acting all the while as if he had never seen it before. these appearances were not qualified to quiet suspicion; the more dudley brooded over them the more dissatisfied he became. he however concealed his thoughts, as well from craig himself as his family, impatiently waiting for some new occurrence to arise by which he might square his future proceedings. during craig's absence mrs. dudley had thought this a proper occasion for cleaning his apartment. the furniture, and among the rest, a large chest strongly fastened, was removed into an adjoining room which was otherwise unoccupied, and which was usually kept locked. when the cleansing was finished, the furniture was replaced, except this trunk, which its bulk, the indolence of the servant, and her opinion of its uselessness, occasioned her to leave in the closet. about a week after this, on a saturday evening, craig invited to sup with him a friend who was to embark on the ensuing monday for jamaica. during supper, at which the family were present, the discourse turned on the voyage on which the guest was about to enter. in the course of talk the stranger expressed how much he stood in need of a strong and commodious chest, in which he might safely deposit his cloths and papers. not being apprized of the early departure of the vessel, he had deferred till it was too late applying to an artizan. craig desired him to set himself at rest on that head, for that he had in his possession just such a trunk as he described. it was of no use to him, being long filled with nothing better than refuse and lumber, and that, if he would, he might send for it the next morning. he turned to mrs. dudley and observed, that the trunk to which he alluded was in her possession, and he would thank her to direct its removal into his own apartment, that he might empty it of its present contents, and prepare it for the service of his friend. to this she readily assented. there was nothing mysterious in this affair, but the mind of mr. dudley was pained with doubts. he was now as prone to suspect as he was formerly disposed to confidence. this evening he put the key of the closet in his own pocket. when inquired for the next day, it was, of course, missing. it could not be found on the most diligent search. the occasion was not of such moment as to justify breaking the door. mr. dudley imagined that he saw in craig more uneasiness at this disappointment than he was willing to express. there was no remedy. the chest remained where it was, and next morning the ship departed on her voyage. craig accompanied his friend on board, was prevailed upon to go to sea with him, designing to return with the pilot-boat, but when the pilot was preparing to leave the vessel, such was this man's complaisance to the wishes of his friend, that he concluded to perform the remainder of the voyage in his company. the consequences are easily seen. craig had gone with a resolution of never returning. the unhappy dudley was left to deplore the total ruin of his fortune, which had fallen a prey to the arts of a subtle imposture. the chest was opened, and the part which craig had been playing for some years, with so much success, was perfectly explained. it appeared that the sum which craig had contributed to the common stock, when first admitted into partnership, had been previously purloined from the daily receipts of his shop, of which an exact register was kept. craig had been so indiscreet as to preserve this accusing record, and it was discovered in this depository. he was the son of mary mansfield, and a native of portsmouth. the history of the wakefield family, specious and complicated as it was, was entirely fictitious. the letters had been forged, and the correspondence supported by his own dexterity. here was found the letter which mr. dudley had written to his friend requesting him to make certain inquiries at wakefield, and which he imagined that he had delivered with his own hands to a trusty bearer. here was the original draught of the answer he received. the manner in which this stratagem had been accomplished came gradually to light. the letter which was written to the yorkshire traveller had been purloined, and another with a similar superscription, in which the hand of dudley was exactly imitated, and containing only brief and general remarks, had been placed in its stead. craig must have suspected its contents, and by this suspicion have been incited to the theft. the answer which the englishman had really written, and which sufficiently corresponded with the forged letter, had been intercepted by craig, and furnished him a model from which he might construct an answer adapted to his own purposes. this imposture had not been sustained for a trivial purpose. he had embezzled a large share of the stock, and had employed the credit of the house to procure extensive remittances to be made to an agent at a distance, by whom the property was effectually secured. craig had gone to participate these spoils, while the whole estate of mr. dudley was insufficient to pay the demands that were consequently made upon him. it was his lot to fall into the grasp of men who squared their actions by no other standard than law, and who esteemed every claim to be incontestably just that could plead that sanction. they did not indeed throw him into prison. when they had despoiled him of every remnant of his property, they deemed themselves entitled to his gratitude for leaving his person unmolested. chapter ii. thus in a moment was this man thrown from the summit of affluence to the lowest indigence. he had been habituated to independence and ease. this reverse, therefore, was the harder to bear. his present situation was much worse than at his father's death. then he was sanguine with youth and glowing with health. he possessed a fund on which he could commence his operations. materials were at hand, and nothing was wanted but skill to use them. now he had advanced in life. his frame was not exempt from infirmity. he had so long reposed on the bosom of opulence, and enjoyed the respect attendant on wealth, that he felt himself totally incapacitated for a new station. his misfortune had not been foreseen. it was embittered by the consciousness of his own imprudence, and by recollecting that the serpent which had stung him was nurtured in his own bosom. it was not merely frugal fare and a humble dwelling to which he was condemned. the evils to be dreaded were beggary and contempt. luxury and leisure were not merely denied him. he must bend all his efforts to procure clothing and food, to preserve his family from nakedness and famine. his spirit would not brook dependence. to live upon charity, or to take advantage of the compassion of his friends, was a destiny far worse than any other. to this therefore he would not consent. however irksome and painful it might prove, he determined to procure hit bread by the labour of his hands. but to what scene or kind of employment should he betake himself? he could not endure to exhibit this reverse of fortune on the same theatre which had witnessed his prosperity. one of his first measures was to remove from new york to philadelphia. how should he employ himself in his new abode? painting, the art in which he was expert, would not afford him the means of subsistence. though no despicable musician, he did not esteem himself qualified to be a teacher of this art. this profession, besides, was treated by his new neighbours with general, though unmerited contempt. there were few things on which he prided himself more than on the facilities and elegances of his penmanship. he was besides well acquainted with arithmetic and accounting. he concluded therefore to offer his services, as a writer in a public office. this employment demanded little bodily exertion. he had spent much of his time at the book and the desk: his new occupation, therefore, was further recommended by its resemblance to his ancient modes of life. the first situation of this kind for which he applied he obtained. the duties were constant, but not otherwise toilsome or arduous. the emoluments were slender, but my contracting, within limits as narrow as possible, his expenses, they could be made subservient to the mere purposes of subsistence. he hired a small house in the suburbs of the city. it consisted of a room above and below, and a kitchen. his wife, daughter, and one girl, composed its inhabitants. as long as his mind was occupied in projecting and executing these arrangements, it was diverted from uneasy contemplations. when his life became uniform, and day followed day in monotonous succession, and the novelty of his employment had disappeared, his cheerfulness began likewise to fade, and was succeeded by unconquerable melancholy. his present condition was in every respect the contrast of his former. his servitude was intolerable. he was associated with sordid hirelings, gross and uneducated, who treated his age with rude familiarity, and insulted his ears with ribaldry and scurrilous jests. he was subject to command, and had his portion of daily drudgery allotted to him, to be performed for a pittance no more than would buy the bread which he daily consumed. the task assigned him was technical and formal. he was perpetually encumbered with the rubbish of law, and waded with laborious steps through its endless tautologies, its impertinent circuities, its lying assertions, and hateful artifices. nothing occurred to relieve or diversify the scene. it was one tedious round of scrawling and jargon; a tissue made up of the shreds and remnants of barbarous antiquity, polluted with the rust of ages, and patched by the stupidity of modern workmen into new deformity. when the day's task was finished, jaded spirits, and a body enfeebled by reluctant application, were but little adapted to domestic enjoyments. these indeed were incompatible with a temper like his, to whom the privation of the comforts that attended his former condition was equivalent to the loss of life. these privations were still more painful to his wife, and her death added one more calamity to those tinder which he already groaned. he had always loved her with the tenderest affection, and he justly regarded this evil as surpassing all his former woes. but his destiny seemed never weary of persecuting him. it was not enough that he should fall a victim to the most atrocious arts, that he should wear out his days in solitude and drudgery, that he should feel not only the personal restraints and hardships attendant upon indigence, but the keener pangs that result from negligence and contumely. he was imperfectly recovered from the shock occasioned by the death of his wife, when his sight was invaded by a cataract. its progress was rapid, and terminated in total blindness. he was now disabled from pursuing his usual occupation. he was shot out from the light of heaven, and debarred of every human comfort. condemned to eternal darkness, and worse than the helplessness of infancy, he was dependant for the meanest offices on the kindness of others; and he who had formerly abounded in the gifts of fortune, thought only of ending his days in a gaol or an almshouse. his situation however was alleviated by one circumstance. he had a daughter whom i have formerly mentioned, as the only survivor of many children. she was sixteen years of age when the storm of adversity fell upon her father's house. it may be thought that one educated as she had been, in the gratification of all her wishes, and at an age of timidity and inexperience, would have been less fitted than her father for encountering misfortune; and yet when the task of comforter fell upon her her strength was not found wanting. her fortitude was immediately put to the test. this reverse did not only affect her obliquely, and through the medium of her family, but directly, and in one way usually very distressful to female feelings. her fortune and character had attracted many admirers. one of them had some reason to flatter himself with success. miss dudley's notions had little in common with those around her. she had learned to square her conduct, in a considerable degree, not by the hasty impulses of inclination, but by the dictates of truth. she yielded nothing to caprice or passion. not that she was perfectly exempt from intervals of weakness, or from the necessity of painful struggles, but these intervals were transient, and these struggles always successful. she was no stranger to the pleadings of love from the lips of others, and in her own bosom; but its tumults were brief, and speedily gave place to quiet thoughts and steadfast purposes. she had listened to the solicitations of one not unworthy in himself, and amply recommended by the circumstances of family and fortune. he was young, and therefore impetuous. of the good that he sought, he was not willing to delay the acquisition for a moment. she had been taught a very different lesson. marriage included vows of irrevocable affection and obedience. it was a contract to endure for life. to form this connection in extreme youth, before time had unfolded and modelled the characters of the parties, was, in her opinion, a proof of pernicious and opprobrious temerity. not to perceive the propriety of delay in this case, or to be regardless of the motives that would enjoin upon us a deliberate procedure, furnished an unanswerable objection to any man's pretensions. she was sensible, however, that this, like other mistakes, was curable. if her arguments failed to remove it, time, it was likely, would effect this purpose. if she rejected a matrimonial proposal for the present, it was for reasons that might not preclude her future acceptance of it. her scruples, in the present case, did not relate to the temper or person, or understanding of her lover; but to his age, to the imperfectness of their acquaintance, and to the want of that permanence of character, which can flow only from the progress of time and knowledge. these objections, which so rarely exist, were conclusive with her. there was no danger of her relinquishing them in compliance with the remonstrances of her parents and the solicitations of her lover; though the one and the other were urged with all the force of authority and insinuation. the prescriptions of duty were too clear to allow her to hesitate and waver; but the consciousness of rectitude could not secure her from temporary vexations. her parents were blemished with some of the frailties of that character. they held themselves entitled to prescribe in this article, but they forbore to exert their power. they condescended to persuade, but it was manifest that they regarded their own conduct as a relaxation of right; and had not the lever's importunities suddenly ceased, it is not possible to tell how far the happiness of miss dudley might have been endangered. the misfortunes of her father were no sooner publicly known, than the youth forbore his visits, and embarked on a voyage which he had long projected, but which had been hitherto delayed by a superior regard to the interests of his passion. it must be allowed that the lady had not foreseen this event. she had exercised her judgment upon his character, and had not been deceived. before this desertion, had it been clearly stated to her apprehension, she would have readily admitted it to be probable. she knew the fascination of wealth, and the delusiveness of self-confidence. she was superior to the folly of supposing him exempt from sinister influences, and deaf to the whispers of ambition; and yet the manner in which she was affected by this event convinced her that her heart had a larger share than her reason in dictating her expectations. yet it must not be supposed that she suffered any very acute distress on this account. she was grieved less for her own sake than his. she had no design of entering into marriage in less than seven years from this period. not a single hope, relative to her own condition, had been frustrated. she had only been mistaken in her favourable conceptions of another. he had exhibited less constancy and virtue than her heart had taught her to expect. with those opinions, she could devote herself with a single heart to the alleviation of her parent's sorrows. this change in her condition she treated lightly, and retained her cheerfulness unimpaired. this happened because, in a rational estimate, and so far as it affected herself, the misfortune was slight, and because her dejection would only tend to augment the disconsolateness of her parents, while, on the other hand, her serenity was calculated to infuse the same confidence into them. she indulged herself in no fits of exclamation or moodiness. she listened in silence to their invectives and laments, and seized every opportunity that offered to inspire them with courage, to set before them the good as well as the ill to which they were reserved, to suggest expedients for improving their condition, and to soften the asperities of his new mode of life, to her father, by every species of blandishment and tenderness. she refused no personal exertion to the common benefit. she incited her father to diligence, as well by her example as by her exhortations; suggested plans, and superintended or assisted in the execution of them. the infirmities of sex and age vanished before the motives to courage and activity, flowing from her new situation. when settled in his new abode and profession, she began to deliberate what conduct was incumbent on herself, how she might participate with her father the burden of the common maintenance, and blunt the edge of this calamity by the resources of a powerful and cultivated mind. in the first place, she disposed of every superfluous garb and trinket she reduced her wardrobe to the plainest and cheapest establishment. by this means alone she supplied her father's necessities with a considerable sum. her music, and even her books were not spared,--not from the slight esteem in which these were held by her, but because she was thenceforth to become an economist of time as well as of money, because musical instruments are not necessary to the practice of this art in its highest perfection, and because books, when she could procure leisure to read, or money to purchase them, might be obtained in a cheaper and more commodious form, than those costly and splendid volumes with which her father's munificence had formerly supplied her. to make her expenses as limited as possible was her next care. for this end she assumed the province of cook, the washing of house and clothes, and the cleaning of furniture. their house was small; the family consisted of no more than four persons, and all formality and expensiveness were studiously discarded; but her strength was unequal to unavoidable tasks. a vigorous constitution could not supply the place of laborious habits, and this part of her plan must have been changed for one less frugal. the aid of a servant must have been hired, if it had not been furnished by gratitude. some years before this misfortune, her mother had taken under her protection a girl, the daughter of a poor woman, who subsisted by labour, and who dying, left this child without friend or protector. this girl possessed no very improvable capacity, and therefore could not benefit by the benevolent exertions of her young mistress so much as the latter desired; but her temper was artless and affectionate, and she attached herself to constantia with the most entire devotion. in this change of fortune she would not consent to be separated; and miss dudley, influenced by her affection for her lucy, and reflecting that on the whole it was most to her advantage to share with her at once her kindness and her poverty, retained her as her companion. with this girl she shared the domestic duties, scrupling not to divide with her the meanest and most rugged, as well as the lightest offices. this was not all. she in the next place considered whether her ability extended no farther than to save. could she not by the employment of her hands increase the income as well as diminish the expense? why should she be precluded from all lucrative occupation? she soon came to a resolution. she was mistress of her needle; and this skill she conceived herself bound to employ for her own subsistence. clothing is one of the necessaries of human existence. the art of the tailor is scarcely less use than that of the tiller of the ground! there are few the gains of which are better merited, and less infurious to the principles of human society. she resolved therefore to become a workwoman, and to employ in this way the leisure she possessed from household avocations. to this scheme she was obliged to reconcile not only herself but her parents. the conquest of their prejudices was no easy task, but her patience and skill finally succeeded, and she procured needlework in sufficient quantity to enable her to enhance in no trivial degree the common fund. it is one thing barely to comply with the urgencies of the case, and to do that which in necessitous circumstances is best. but to conform with grace and cheerfulness, to yield no place to fruitless recriminations and repinings, to contract the evils into as small a compass as possible, and extract from our condition all possible good, is a task of a different kind. mr. dudley's situation required from him frugality and diligence. he was regular and unintermitted in his application to his pen. he was frugal. his slender income was administered agreeably to the maxims of his daughter: but he was unhappy. he experienced in its full extent the bitterness of disappointment. he gave himself up for the most part to a listless melancholy. sometimes his impatience would produce effects less excusable, and conjure up an accusing and irascible spirit. his wife, and even his daughter, he would make the objects of peevish and absurd reproaches. these were moments when her heart drooped indeed, and her tears could not be restrained from flowing. these fits were transitory and rare, and when they had passed, the father seldom failed to mingle tokens of contrition and repentance with the tears of his daughter. her arguments and soothings were seldom disappointed of success. her mother's disposition was soft and pliant, but she could not accommodate herself to the necessity of her husband's affairs. she was obliged to endure the want of some indulgences, but she reserved to herself the liberty of complaining, and to subdue this spirit in her was found utterly impracticable. she died a victim to discontent. this event deepened the gloom that shrouded the soul of her father, and rendered the task of consolation still more difficult. she did not despair. her sweetness and patience was invincible by any thing that had already happened, but her fortitude did not exceed the standard of human nature. evils now began to menace her, to which it is likely she would have yielded, had not their approach been intercepted by an evil of a different kind. the pressure of grief is sometimes such as to prompt us to seek a refuge in voluntary death. we must lay aside the burden which we cannot sustain. if thought degenerate into a vehicle of pain, what remains but to destroy that vehicle? for this end, death is the obvious, but not the only, or morally speaking, the worst means. there is one method of obtaining the bliss of forgetfulness, in comparison with which suicide is innocent. the strongest mind is swayed by circumstances. there is no firmness of integrity, perhaps able to repel every species of temptation, which is produced by the present constitution of human affairs, and yet temptation is successful, chiefly by virtue of its gradual and invisible approaches. we rush into danger, because we are not aware of its existence, and have not therefore provided the means of safety, and the dæmon that seizes us is hourly reinforced by habit. our opposition grows fainter in proportion as our adversary acquires new strength, and the man becomes enslaved by the most sordid vices, whose fall would, at a former period, have been deemed impossible, or who would have been imagined liable to any species of depravity, more than to this. mr. dudley's education had entailed upon him many errors, yet who would have supposed it possible for him to be enslaved by a depraved appetite; to be enamoured of low debauchery, and to grasp at the happiness that intoxication had to bestow? this was a mournful period in constantia's history. my feelings will not suffer me to dwell upon it. i cannot describe the manner in which she was affected by the first symptoms of this depravity, the struggles which she made to counteract this dreadful infatuation, and the grief which she experienced from the repeated miscarriage of her efforts. i will not detail her various expedients for this end, the appeals which she made to his understanding, to his sense of honour and dread of infamy, to the gratitude to which she was entitled, and to the injunctions of parental duty. i will not detail his fits of remorse, his fruitless penitence end continual relapses, nor depict the heart-breaking scenes of uproar, and violence, and foul disgrace that accompanied his paroxysms of drunkenness. the only intellectual amusement which this lady allowed herself was writing. she enjoyed one distant friend, with whom she maintained an uninterrupted correspondence, and to whom she confided a circumstantial and copious relation of all these particulars. that friend is the writer of these memoirs. it is not impossible but that these letters may be communicated to the world, at some future period. the picture which they exhibit is hourly exemplified and realized, though in the many-coloured scenes of human life none surpasses it in disastrousness and horror. my eyes almost wept themselves dry over this part of her tale. in this state of things mr. dudley's blindness might justly be accounted, even in its immediate effects, a fortunate event. it dissolved the spell by which he was bound, and which it is probable would never have been otherwise broken. it restored him to himself, and showed him, with a distinctness which made him shudder, the gulf to which he was hastening. but nothing can compensate to the sufferers the evils of blindness. it was the business of constantia's life to alleviate those sufferings, to cherish and console her father, and to rescue him by the labour of her hands from dependence on public charity. for this end, her industry and solicitude were never at rest. she was able, by that industry, to provide him and herself with necessaries. their portion was scanty, and if it sometimes exceeded the standard of their wants, not less frequently fell short of it. for all her toils and disquietudes she esteemed herself fully compensated by the smiles of her father. he indeed could seldom be prompted to smile, or to suppress the dictates of that despair which flowed from his sense of this new calamity, and the aggravations of hardship which his recent insobrieties had occasioned to his daughter. she purchased what books her scanty stock would allow, and borrowed others. these she read to him when her engagements would permit. at other times she was accustomed to solace herself with her own music. the lute which her father had purchased in italy, and which had been disposed of among the rest of his effects, at public sale, had been gratuitously restored to him by the purchaser, on condition of his retaining it in his possession. his blindness and inoccupation now broke the long silence to which this instrument had been condemned, and afforded an accompaniment to the young lady's voice. her chief employment was conversation. she resorted to this as the best means of breaking the monotony of the scene; but this purpose was not only accomplished, but other benefits of the highest value accrued from it. the habits of a painter eminently tended to vivify and make exact her father's conceptions and delineations of visible objects. the sphere of his youthful observation comprised more ingredients of the picturesque than any other sphere. the most precious materials of the moral history of mankind are derived from the revolutions of italy. italian features and landscape constitute the chosen field of the artists. no one had more carefully explored this field than mr. dudley. his time, when abroad, had been divided between residence at rome, and excursions to calabria and tuscany. few impressions were effaced from his capacious register, and these were now rendered by his eloquence nearly as conspicuous to his companion as to himself. she was imbued with an ardent thirst of knowledge, and by the acuteness of her remarks, and the judiciousness of her inquiries, reflected back upon his understanding as much improvement as she received. these efforts to render his calamity tolerable, and inure him to the profiting by his own resources, were aided by time, and when reconciled by habit to unrespited gloom, he was sometimes visited by gleams of cheerfulness, and drew advantageous comparisons between his present and former situation. a stillness, not unakin to happiness, frequently diffused itself over their winter evenings. constantia enjoyed in their full extent the felicities of health and self approbation. the genius and eloquence of her father, nourished by perpetual exercise, and undiverted from its purpose by the intrusion of visible objects, frequently afforded her a delight in comparison with which all other pleasures were mean. chapter iii. this period of tranquillity was short. poverty hovered at their threshold, and in a state precarious as theirs could not be long excluded. the lady was more accustomed to anticipate good than evil, but she was not unconscious that the winter, which was hastening, would bring with it numerous inconveniences. wants during that season are multiplied, while the means of supplying them either fail or are diminished. fuel is alone a cause of expense equal to all other articles of subsistence. her dwelling was old, crazy, and full of avenues to air. it was evident that neither fire nor clothing would, in an habitation like that, attemper the chilling blasts. her scanty gains were equal to their needs during summer, but would probably fall short during the prevalence of cold. these reflections could not fail sometimes to intrude. she indulged them as long as they served, merely to suggest expedients and provisions for the future, but laboured to call away her attention when they merely produced anxiety. this she more easily effected, as some months of summer were still to come, and her knowledge of the vicissitudes to which human life is subject taught her to rely upon the occurrence of some fortunate though unforeseen event. accident suggested an expedient of this kind. passing through an alley in the upper part of the town, her eye was caught by a label on the door of a small house, signifying that it was to be let. it was smaller than that she at present occupied, but it had an aspect of much greater comfort and neatness. its situation near the centre of the city, in a quiet, cleanly, and well paved alley, was far preferable to that of her present habitation in the suburbs, scarcely accessible in winter for pools and gullies, and in a neighbourhood abounding with indigence and profligacy. she likewise considered that the rent of this might be less, and that the proprietor of this might have more forbearance and benignity than she had hitherto met with. unconversant as she was with the world, imbued with the timidity of her sex and her youth, many enterprises were arduous to her, which would, to age and experience, have been easy. her reluctances, however, when required by necessity, were overcome, and all the measures which her situation prescribed executed with address and dispatch. one, marking her deportment, would have perceived nothing but dignity and courage. he would have regarded these as the fruits of habitual independence and exertion, whereas they were merely the results of clear perceptions and inflexible resolves. the proprietor of this mansion was immediately sought out, and a bargain, favourable as she could reasonably desire, concluded. possession was to be taken in a week. for this end, carters and draymen were to be engaged, household implements to be prepared for removal, and negligence and knavery prevented by scrupulous attention. the duties of superintendence and execution devolved upon her. her father's blindness rendered him powerless. his personal ease required no small portion of care. household and professional functions were not to be omitted. she stood alone in the world; there was none whose services or counsel she could claim. tortured by a multiplicity of cares, shrinking from exposure to rude eyes, and from contention with refractory and insolent spirits, and overpowered with fatigue and disgust, she was yet compelled to retain a cheerful tone in her father's presence, and to struggle with his regrets and his peevishness. o, my friend, methinks i now see thee encountering the sneers and obstinacy of the meanest of mankind, subjecting that frame of thine, so exquisitely delicate, and therefore so feeble, to the vilest drudgery. i see thee leading thy unhappy father to his new dwelling, and stifling the sighs produced by his fruitless repinings and unseasonable scruples. why was i not partaker of thy cares and labours? why was i severed from thee by the ocean, and kept in ignorance of thy state? i was not without motives to anxiety, for i was friendless as thou, but how unlike to thine was my condition! i reposed upon down and tissue, never moved but with obsequious attendance and pompous equipage; painting and music were consolations ever at hand, and my cabinet was stored with poetry and science. these, indeed, were insufficient to exclude care; and with regard to the past i have no wish but that i had shared with my friend her toilsome and humiliating lot. however an erroneous world might judge, thy life was full of dignity, and thy moments of happiness not few, since happiness is only attendant on the performance of our duty. a toilsome and sultry week was terminated by a sabbath of repose. her new dwelling possessed indisputable advantages over her old. not the least of these benefits consisted in the vicinity of people, peaceable and honest, though poor. she was no longer shocked by the clamours of debauchery, and exposed, by her situation, to the danger of being mistaken by the profligate of either sex for one of their own class. it was reasonable to consider this change of abode as fortunate, and yet circumstances quickly occurred which suggested a very different conclusion. she had no intercourse, which necessity did not prescribe, with the rest of the world. she screened herself as much as possible from intercourse with prying and loquacious neighbours. her father's inclinations in this respect coincided with her own, though their love of seclusion was prompted by different motives. visitants were hated by the father, because his dignity was hurt by communication with the vulgar. the daughter set too much value upon time willingly to waste it upon trifles and triflers. she had no pride to subdue, and therefore never escaped from well-meant importunity at the expense of politeness and good humour. in her moments of leisure she betook herself to the poet and the moralist for relief. she could not at all times suppress the consciousness of the evils which surrounded and threatened her; she could not but rightly estimate the absorbing and brutifying nature of that toil to which she was condemned. literature had hitherto been regarded as her solace. she knew that meditation and converse, as well as books and the pen, are instruments of knowledge, but her musing thoughts were too often fixed upon her own condition. her father's soaring moods and luminous intervals grew less frequent. conversation was too rarely abstracted from personal considerations, and strayed less often than before into the wilds of fancy or the mazes of analysis. these circumstances led her to reflect whether subsistence might not be obtained by occupations purely intellectual. instruction was needed by the young of both sexes. females frequently performed the office of teachers. was there no branch of her present knowledge which she might claim wages for imparting to others? was there no art within her reach to acquire, convertible into means of gain? women are generally limited to what is sensual and ornamental: music and painting, and the italian and french languages, are bounds which they seldom pass. in these pursuits it is not possible--nor is it expected--that they should arrive at the skill of adepts. the education of constantia had been regulated by the peculiar views of her father, who sought to make her, not alluring and voluptuous, but eloquent and wise. he therefore limited her studies to latin and english. instead of familiarizing her with the amorous effusions of petrarcha and racine, he made her thoroughly conversant with tacitus and milton. instead of making her a practical musician or pencilist, he conducted her to the school of newton and hartley, unveiled to her the mathematical properties of light and sound, taught her as a metaphysician and anatomist the structure and power of the senses, and discussed with her the principles and progress of human society. these accomplishments tended to render her superior to the rest of women but in no degree qualified her for the post of a female instructor: she saw and lamented her deficiencies, and gradually formed the resolution of supplying them. her knowledge of the latin tongue and of grammatical principles rendered easy the acquisition of italian and french, these being merely scions from the roman stock. having had occasion, previous to her change of dwelling, to purchase paper at a bookseller's, the man had offered her at a very low price a second-hand copy of veneroni's grammar: the offer had been declined, her views at that time being otherwise directed. now, however, this incident was remembered, and a resolution instantly formed to purchase the book. as soon as the light declined, and her daily task at the needle had drawn to a close, she set out to execute this purpose. arriving at the house of the bookseller, she perceived that the doors and windows were closed. night having not yet arrived, the conjecture easily occurred that some one had died in the house. she had always dealt with this man for books and paper, and had always been treated with civility. her heart readily admitted some sympathy with his distress, and to remove her doubts she turned to a person who stood at the entrance of the next house, and who held a cloth steeped in vinegar to his nostrils. in reply to her question the stranger said in a tone of the deepest consternation--mr. watson do you mean? he is dead: he died last night of the _yellow fever_. the name of this disease was not absolutely new to her ears. she had been apprized of its rapid and destructive progress in one quarter of the city, but hitherto it had existed, with regard to her, chiefly in the form of rumour. she had not realized the nature or probable extent of the evil. she lived at no great distance from the seat of the malady, but her neighbourhood had been hitherto exempt. so wholly unused was she to contemplate pestilence, except at a distance, that its actual existence in the bosom of this city was incredible. contagious diseases she well knew periodically visited and laid waste the greek and egyptian cities. it constituted no small part of that mass of evil, political and physical, by which that portion of the world has been so long afflicted. that a pest equally malignant had assailed the metropolis of her own country--a town famous for the salubrity of its air and the perfection of its police--had something in it so wild and uncouth that she could not reconcile herself to the possibility of such an event. the death of watson, however, filled her mind with awful reflections. the purpose of her walk was forgotten amidst more momentous considerations. she bent her steps pensively homeward. she had now leisure to remark the symptoms of terror with which all ranks appeared to have been seized. the streets were as much frequented as ever, but there were few passengers whose countenances did not betray alarm, and who did not employ the imaginary antidote to infection--vinegar. having reached home, she quickly discovered in her father an unusual solemnity and thoughtfulness. he had no power to conceal his emotions from his daughter, when her efforts to discover them were earnestly exerted. she learned that during her absence he had been visited by his next neighbour--a thrifty, sober, and well meaning, but ignorant and meddling person, by name whiston. this person, being equally inquisitive into other men's affairs, and communicative of his own, was always an unwelcome visitant. on this occasion he had come to disburden on mr. dudley his fears of disease and death. his tale of the origin and progress of the epidemic, of the number and suddenness of recent deaths, was delivered with endless prolixity. with this account he mingled prognostics of the future, counselled mr. dudley to fly from the scene of danger, and stated his own schemes and resolutions. after having thoroughly affrighted and wearied his companion he took his leave. constantia endeavoured to remove the impression which had been thus needlessly made. she urged her doubts as to the truth of whiston's representations, and endeavoured, in various ways, to extenuate the danger. "nay, my child," said her father, "thou needest not reason on the subject; i am not afraid; at least, on my own account, i fear nothing. what is life to me that i should dread to lose it? if on any account i should tremble it is on thine, my angelic girl. thou dost not deserve thus early to perish: and yet if my love for thee were rational, perhaps i ought to wish it. an evil destiny will pursue thee to the close of thy life, be it ever so long. "i know that ignorance and folly breed the phantoms by which themselves are perplexed and terrified, and that whiston is a fool; but here the truth is too plain to be disguised. this malady is pestilential. havock and despair will accompany its progress, and its progress will be rapid. the tragedies of marseilles and messina will be reacted on this stage. "for a time we in this quarter shall be exempt, but it will surely reach us at last; and then, whither shall we fly? for the rich, the whole world is a safe asylum, but for us, indigent and wretched, what fate is reserved but to stay and perish? if the disease spare us, we must perish by neglect and famine. alarm will be far and wide diffused. fear will hinder those who supply the market from entering the city. the price of food will become exorbitant. our present source of subsistence, ignominious and scanty as it is, will be cut off. traffic and labour of every kind will be at an end. we shall die, but not until we have witnessed and endured horrors that surpass thy powers of conception. "i know full well the enormity of this evil. i have been at messina, and talked with many who witnessed the state of that city in 1743. i will not freeze thy blood with the recital. anticipation has a tendency to lessen or prevent some evils, but pestilence is not of that number. strange untowardness of destiny! that thou and i should be cast upon a scene like this!" mr. dudley joined with uncommon powers of discernment a species of perverseness not easily accounted for. he acted as if the inevitable evils of her lot were not sufficient for the trial of his daughter's patience. instead of comforter and counsellor he fostered impatience in himself, and endeavoured, with the utmost diligence, to undermine her fortitude and disconcert her schemes. the task was assigned to her, not only of subduing her own fears, but of maintaining the contest with his disastrous eloquence. in most cases she had not failed of success. hitherto their causes of anxiety her own observation had, in some degree, enabled her to estimate at their just value. the rueful pictures which his imagination was wont to portray affected her for a moment; but deliberate scrutiny commonly enabled her to detect and demonstrate their fallacy. now, however, the theme was new. panic and foreboding found their way to her heart in defiance of her struggles. she had no experience by which to counteract this impulse. all that remained was to beguile her own and her father's cares by counterfeiting cheerfulness, and introducing new topics. this panic, stifled for a time, renewed its sway when she retired to her chamber. never did futurity wear, to her fancy, so dark a hue: never did her condition appear to her in a light so dreary and forlorn. to fly from the danger was impossible. how should accommodation at a distance be procured? the means of subsistence were indissolubly connected with her present residence, but the progress of this disease would cut off these means, and leave her to be beset not only with pestilence but famine. what provision could she make against an evil like this? chapter iv. the terms on which she had been admitted into this house included the advance of one quarter's rent and the monthly payment of subsequent dues. the requisite sum had been with difficulty collected; the landlord had twice called to remind her of her stipulation, and this day had been fixed for the discharge of this debt. he had omitted, contrary to her expectations and her wishes, to come. it was probable, however, that they would meet on the ensuing day. if he should fail in this respect, it appeared to be her duty to carry the money to his house, and this it had been her resolution to perform. now, however, new views were suggested to her thoughts. by the payment of this debt she would leave herself nearly destitute. the flight and terror of the citizens would deprive her of employment. want of food was an immediate and inevitable evil which the payment of this sum would produce. was it just to incur this evil? to retain the means of luxurious gratification would be wrong, but to bereave herself and her father of bare subsistence was surely no dictate of duty. it is true the penalty of non-payment was always in the landlord's hands. he was empowered by the law to sell their movables end expel them from his house. it was now no time for a penalty like this to be incurred. but from this treatment it was reasonable to hope that his lenity would save them. was it not right to wait till the alternative of expulsion or payment was imposed? meanwhile, however, she was subjected to the torments of suspense, and to the guilt of a broken promise. these consequences were to be eluded only in one way: by visiting her landlord, and stating her true condition, it was possible that his compassion would remit claims which were in themselves unreasonable and uncommon. the tender of the money, accompanied by representations sufficiently earnest and pathetic, might possibly be declined. these reflections were the next morning submitted to her father. her decision in this case was of less importance in his eyes than in those of his daughter. should the money be retained, it was in his opinion a pittance too small to afford them effectual support. supposing provisions to be had at any price, which was itself improbable, that price would be exorbitant. the general confusion would probably last for months, and thirty dollars would be devoured in a few weeks, even in a time of safety. to give or to keep was indifferent for another reason. it was absurd for those to consult about means of subsistence for the next month, when it was fixed that they should die to-morrow. the true proceeding was obvious. the landlord's character was well known to him by means of the plaints and invectives of their neighbours, most of whom were tenants of the same man. if the money were offered his avarice would receive it, in spite of all the pleas that she should urge. if it were detained without leave, an officer of justice would quickly be dispatched to claim it. this statement was sufficient to take away from constantia the hope that she had fostered. "what then," said she, after a pause, "is my father's advice? shall i go forthwith and deliver the money?" "no," said he, "stay till he sends for it. have you forgotten that matthews resides in the very midst of this disease. there is no need to thrust yourself within in its fangs. they will reach us time enough. it is likely his messenger will be an agent of the law. no matter. the debt will be merely increased by a few charges. in a state like ours, the miserable remnant is not worth caring for." this reasoning did not impart conviction to the lady. the danger flowing from a tainted atmosphere was not small, but to incur that danger was wiser than to exasperate their landlord, to augment the debt, and to encounter the disgrace accruing from a constable's visits. the conversation was dropped, and presently after she set out on a visit to matthews. she fully estimated the importance to her happiness of the sum which she was going to pay. the general panic had already, in some degree, produced the effect she chiefly dreaded; the failure of employment for her needle. her father had, with his usual diligence at self-torment, supplied her with sufficient proofs of the covetous and obdurate temper of her creditor. insupportable, however, as the evil of payment was, it was better to incur it spontaneously, than by means of legal process. the desperateness of this proceeding, therefore, did not prevent her from adopting it, but it filled her heart with the bitterest sensations. absorbed, as she passed along, by these, she was nearly insensible to the vacancy which now prevailed in a quarter which formerly resounded with the din of voices and carriages. as she approached the house to which she was going, her reluctance to proceed increased. frequently she paused to recollect the motives that had prescribed this task, and to reinforce her purposes. at length she arrived at the house. now, for the first time, her attention was excited by the silence and desolation that surrounded her. this evidence of fear and of danger struck upon her heart. all appeared to have fled from the presence of this unseen and terrible foe. the temerity of adventuring thus into the jaws of the pest now appeared to her in glaring colours. appearances suggested a refection which had not previously occurred, and which tended to console her. was it not probable that matthews had likewise flown? his habits were calculated to endear to him his life: he would scarcely be among the last to shun perils like these: the omission of his promised visit on the preceding day might be owing to his absence from the city, and thus, without subjection to any painful alternative, she might be suffered to retain the money. to give certainty to this hope, she cast her eye towards the house opposite to which she now stood. her heart drooped on perceiving proofs that the dwelling was still inhabited. the door was open, and the windows in the second and third story were raised. near the entrance, in the street, stood a cart. the horse attached to it, in its form and furniture and attitude, was an emblem of torpor and decay. his gaunt sides, motionless limbs, his gummy and dead eyes, and his head hanging to the ground, were in unison with the craziness of the vehicle to which he belonged, and the paltry and bedusted harness which covered him. no attendant nor any human face was visible. the stillness, though at an hour customarily busy, was uninterrupted except by the sound of wheels moving at an almost indistinguishable distance. she paused for a moment to contemplate this unwonted spectacle. her trepidations were mingled with emotions not unakin to sublimity, but the consciousness of danger speedily prevailed, and she hastened to acquit herself of her engagement. she approached the door for this purpose, but before she could draw the bell, her motions were arrested by sounds from within. the staircase was opposite the door. two persons were now discovered descending the stairs. they lifted between them a heavy mass, which was presently discerned to be a coffin. shocked by this discovery, and trembling, she withdrew from the entrance. at this moment a door on the opposite side of the street opened, and a female came out. constantia approached her involuntarily, and her appearance not being unattractive, ventured more by gestures than by words, to inquire whose obsequies were thus unceremoniously conducted. the woman informed her that the dead was matthews, who, two days before was walking about, indifferent to and braving danger. she cut short the narrative which her companion seemed willing to prolong, and to embellish with all its circumstances, and hastened home with her utmost expedition. the mind of constantia was a stranger to pusillanimity. death, as the common lot of all, was regarded by her without perturbation. the value of life, though no annihilated, was certainly diminished by adversity. with whatever solemnity contemplated, it excited on her own account no aversion or inquietude. for her father's sake only death was an evil to be ardently deprecated. the nature of the prevalent disease, the limits and modes of its influence, the risk that is incurred by approaching the sick or the dead, or by breathing the surrounding element, were subjects foreign to her education. she judged like the mass of mankind from the most obvious appearances, and was subject like them to impulses which disdained the control of her reason. with all her complacency for death, and speculative resignation to the fate that governs the world, disquiet and alarm pervaded her bosom on this occasion. the deplorable state to which her father would be reduced by her death was seen and lamented, but her tremulous sensations flowed not from this source. they were, in some sort, inexplicable and mechanical. in spite of recollection and reflection, they bewildered and harassed her, and subsided only of their own accord. the death of matthews was productive of one desirable consequence. till the present tumult was passed, and his representatives had leisure to inspect his affairs, his debtors would probably remain unmolested. he likewise, who should succeed to the inheritance, might possess very different qualities, and be as much, distinguished for equity as matthews had been for extortion. these reflections lightened her footsteps as she hied homeward. the knowledge she had gained, she hoped, would counterpoise, in her father's apprehension, the perils which accompanied the acquisition of it. she had scarcely passed her own threshold, when she was followed by whiston. this man pursued the occupation of a cooper. he performed journeywork in a shop, which, unfortunately for him, was situated near the water, and at a small distance from the scene of original infection. this day his employer had dismissed his workmen, and whiston was at liberty to retire from the city,--a scheme which had been the theme of deliberation and discussion during the preceding fortnight. hitherto his apprehensions seemed to have molested others more than himself. the rumours and conjectures industriously collected during the day, were, in the the evening, copiously detailed to his neighbours, and his own mind appeared to be disburdened of its cares in proportion as he filled others with terror and inquietude. the predictions of physicians, the measure of precaution prescribed by the government, the progress of the malady, and the history of the victims who were hourly destroyed by it, were communicated with tormenting prolixity and terrifying minuteness. on these accounts, as well as on others, no one's visits were more unwelcome than his. as his deportment was sober and honest, and his intentions harmless, he was always treated by constantia with politeness, though his entrance always produced a momentary depression of her spirits. on this evening she was less fitted than ever to repel those anxieties which his conversation was qualified to produce. his entrance, therefore, was observed with sincere regret. contrary, however, to her expectation, whiston brought with him new manners and a new expression of countenance. he was silent, abstracted, his eye was full of inquietude, and wandered with perpetual restlessness. on these tokens being remarked, he expressed, in faltering accents, his belief that he had contracted this disease, and that now it was too late for him to leave the city. mr. dudley's education was somewhat medical. he was so far interested in his guest as to inquire into his sensations. they were such as were commonly the prelude to fever. mr dudley, while he endeavoured by cheerful tones to banish his dejection, exhorted him to go home, and to take some hot and wholesome draught, in consequence of which he might rise to-morrow with his usual health. this advice was gratefully received, and whiston put a period to his visit much sooner than was customary. mr. dudley entertained no doubts that whiston was seized with the reigning disease, and extinguished the faint hope which his daughter had cherished, that their district would escape. whiston's habituation was nearly opposite his own; but as they made no use of their front room, they had seldom an opportunity of observing the transactions of their neighbours. this distance and seclusion were congenial with her feelings, and she derived pleasure from her father's confession, that they contributed to personal security. constantia was accustomed to rise with the dawn, and traverse for an hour the state-house mall. as she took her walk the next morning, she pondered with astonishment on the present situation of the city. the air was bright and pure, and apparently salubrious. security and silence seemed to hover over the scene. she was only reminded of the true state of things by the occasional appearance of carriages loaded with household utensils tending towards the country, and by the odour of vinegar by which every passenger was accompanied. the public walk was cool and fragrant as formerly, skirted by verdure as bright, and shaded by foliage as luxuriant, but it was no longer frequented by lively steps and cheerful countenances. its solitude was uninterrupted by any but herself. this day passed without furnishing any occasion to leave the house. she was less sedulously employed than usual, as the clothes on which she was engaged belonged to a family who had precipitately left the city. she had leisure therefore to ruminate. she could not but feel some concern in the fate of whiston. he was a young man, who subsisted on the fruits of his labour, and divided his gains with an only sister who lived with him, and who performed every household office. this girl was humble and innocent, and of a temper affectionate and mild. casual intercourse only had taken place between her and constantia. they were too dissimilar for any pleasure to arise from communication, but the latter was sufficiently disposed to extend to her harmless neighbour the sympathy and succour which she needed. whiston had come from a distant part of the country, and his sister was the only person in the city with whom he was connected by ties of kindred. in case of his sickness, therefore, their condition would be helpless and deplorable. evening arrived, and whiston failed to pay his customary visit. she mentioned this omission to her father, and expressed her apprehension as to the cause of it. he did not discountenance the inference which she drew from this circumstance, and assented to the justice of the picture which she drew of the calamitous state to which whiston and his sister would be reduced by the indisposition of either. she then ventured to suggest the propriety of visiting the house, and of thus ascertaining the truth. to this proposal mr. dudley urged the most vehement objections. what purpose could be served by entering their dwelling? what benefit would flow but the gratification of a dangerous curiosity? constantia was disabled from furnishing pecuniary aid. she could not act the part of physician or nurse. her father stood in need of a thousand personal services, and the drudgery of cleaning and cooking already exceeded the bounds of her strength. the hazard of contracting the disease by conversing with the sick was imminent. what services was she able to render equivalent to the consequences of her own sickness and death? these representations had temporary influence. they recalled her for a moment from her purpose, but this purpose was speedily re-embraced. she reflected that the evil to herself, formidable as it was, was barely problematical. that converse with the sick would impart this disease was by no means certain. whiston might at least be visited. perhaps she would find him well. if sick, his disease might be unepidemical, or curable by seasonable assistance. he might stand in need of a physician, and she was more able than his sister to summon this aid. her father listened calmly to her reasonings. after a pause he gave his consent. in doing this he was influenced not by the conviction that his daughter's safety would be exposed to no hazard, but from a belief that, though she might shun infection for the present, it would inevitably seize her during some period of the progress of this pest. chapter v. it was now dusk, and she hastened to perform this duty. whiston's dwelling was wooden and of small dimensions. she lifted the latch softly and entered. the lower room was unoccupied. she advanced to the foot of a narrow staircase, and knocked and listened, but no answer was returned to the summons. hence there was reason to infer that no one was within, but this, from other considerations, was extremely improbable. the truth could be ascertained only by ascending the stairs. some feminine scruples were to be subdued before this proceeding could be adopted. after some hesitation, she determined to ascend. the staircase was terminated by a door, at which she again knocked for admission, but in vain. she listened and presently heard the motion as of some one in bed. this was succeeded by tokens of vehement exertions to vomit. these signs convincing her that the house was not without a tenant, she could not hesitate to enter the room. lying in a tattered bed, she now discovered mary whiston. her face was flushed and swelled, her eyes closed, and some power, appeared to have laid a leaden hand upon her faculties. the floor was moistened and stained by the effusion from her stomach. constantia touched her hand, and endeavoured to rouse her. it was with difficulty that her attention was excited. her languid eyes, were scarcely opened before they again closed, and she sunk into forgetfulness. repeated efforts, however, at length recalled her to herself, and extorted from her some account of her condition. on the day before, at noon, her stomach became diseased, her head dizzy, and her limbs unable to support her. her brother was absent, and her drowsiness, interrupted only by paroxysms of vomiting, continued till his return late in the evening. he had then shown himself, for a few minutes, at her bedside, had made some inquiries and precipitately retired, since when he had not reappeared. it was natural to imagine that whiston had gone to procure medical assistance. that he had not returned, during a day and a half, was matter of surprise. his own indisposition was recollected, and his absence could only be accounted for by supposing that sickness had disabled him from regaining his own house. what was his real destiny it was impossible to conjecture. it was not till some months after this period that satisfactory intelligence was gained upon this head. it appeared that whiston had allowed his terrors to overpower the sense of what was due to his sister and to humanity. on discovering the condition of the unhappy girl, he left the houses and, instead of seeking a physician, he turned his step towards the country. after travelling some hours, being exhausted by want of food, by fatigue; and by mental as well as bodily anguish, he laid himself down under the shelter of a hayrick, in a vacant field. here he was discovered in the morning by the inhabitants of a neighbouring farm house. these people had too much regard for their own safety to accommodate him under their roof, or even to approach within fifty paces of his person. a passenger whose attention and compassion had been excited by this incident was endowed with more courage. he lifted the stranger in his arms, and carried him from this unwholesome spot to a barn. this was the only service which the passenger was able to perform. whiston, deserted by every human creature, burning with fever, tormented into madness by thirst, spent three miserable days in agony. when dead, no one would cover his body with earth, but he was suffered to decay by piecemeal. the dwelling being at no great distance from the barn, could not be wholly screened from the malignant vapour which a corpse thus neglected, could not fail to produce. the inhabitants were preparing, on this account, to change their abode, but, on the eve of their departure, the master of the family became sick. he was, in a short time, followed to the grave by his mother, his wife, and four children. they probably imbibed their disease from the tainted atmosphere around them. the life of whiston, and their own lives, might have been saved by affording the wanderer an asylum and suitable treatment, or at least their own deaths might have been avoided by interring his remains. meanwhile constantia was occupied with reflecting on the scene before her. not only a physician but a nurse was wanting. the last province it was more easy for her to supply than the former. she was acquainted with the abode but of one physician. he lived at no small distance from this spot. to him she immediately hastened; but he was absent, and his numerous engagements left it wholly uncertain when he would return, and whether he would consent to increase the number of his patients. direction was obtained to the residence of another, who was happily disengaged; and who promised to attend immediately. satisfied with this assurance, she neglected to request directions; by which she might regulate herself on his failing to come. during her return her thoughts were painfully employed in considering the mode proper for her to pursue in her present perplexing situation. she was for the most part unacquainted with the character of those who compelled her neighbourhood. that any would be willing to undertake the attendance of this girl was by no means probable. as wives and mothers, it would perhaps be unjust to require or permit it. as to herself, there were labours and duties of her own sufficient to engross her faculties, yet, by whatever foreign cares or tasks she was oppressed, she felt that to desert this being was impossible. in the absence of her friend, mary's state exhibited no change. constantia, on regaining the house, lighted the remnant of a candle, and resumed her place by the bed side of the sick girl. she impatiently waited the arrival of the physician, but hour succeeded hour, and he came not. all hope of his coming being extinguished, she bethought herself that her father might be able to inform her of the best manner of proceeding. it was likewise her duty to relieve him from the suspense in which her absence would unavoidably plunge him. on entering her own apartment, she found a stranger in company with mr. dudley. the latter perceiving that she had returned, speedily acquainted her with the view of their guest. his name was m'crea; he was the nephew of their landlord, and was now become, by reversion, the proprietor of the house which they occupied. matthews had been buried the preceding day, and m'crea, being well acquainted with the engagements which subsisted between the deceased and mr. dudley, had come thus unreasonably to demand the rent. he was not unconscious of the inhumanity and sordidness of this proceeding, and therefore endeavoured to disguise it by the usual pretences. all his funds were exhausted. he came not only in his own name, but in that of mrs. matthews his aunt, who was destitute of money to procure daily and indispensable provision, and who was striving to collect a sufficient sum to enable her and the remains of her family to fly from a spot where their lives were in perpetual danger. these excuses were abundantly fallacious, but mr. dudley was too proud to solicit the forbearance of a man like this. he recollected that the engagement on his part was voluntary and explicit, and he disdained to urge his present exigences as reasons for retracting it. he expressed the utmost readiness to comply with the demand, and merely desired him to wait till miss dudley returned. from the inquietudes with which the unusual duration of her absence had filled him, he was now relieved by her entrance. with an indignant and desponding heart, she complied with her father's directions, and the money being reluctantly delivered, m'crea took an hasty leave. she was too deeply interested in the fate of mary whiston to allow her thoughts to be diverted for the present into a new channel. she described the desolate condition of the girl to her father, and besought him to think of something suitable to her relief. mr. dudley's humanity would not suffer him to disapprove of his daughter's proceeding. he imagined that the symptoms of the patient portended a fatal issue. there were certain complicated remedies which might possibly be beneficial, but these were too costly, and the application would demand more strength than his daughter could bestow. he was unwilling, however, to leave any thing within his power untried. pharmacy had been his trade, and he had reserved, for domestic use some of the most powerful evacuants. constantia was supplied with some of these, and he consented that she should spend the night with her patient and watch their operation. the unhappy mary received whatever was offered, but her stomach refused to retain it. the night was passed by constantia without closing her eyes. as soon as the day dawned, she prepared once more to summon the physician, who had failed to comply with his promise. she had scarcely left the house, however, before she met him. he pleaded his numerous engagements in excuse for his last night's negligence, and desired her to make haste to conduct him to the patient. having scrutinized her symptoms, he expressed his hopelessness of her recovery. being informed of the mode in which she had been treated, he declared his approbation of it, but intimated, that these being unsuccessful, all that remained was to furnish her with any liquid she might choose to demand, and wait patiently for the event. during this interview the physician surveyed the person and dress of constantia with an inquisitive eye. his countenance betrayed marks of curiosity and compassion, and, had he made any approaches to confidence and friendliness, constantia would not have repelled them. his air was benevolent and candid, and she estimated highly the usefulness of a counsellor and friend in her present circumstances. some motive, however, hindered him from tendering his services, and in a few moments he withdrew. mary's condition hourly grew worse. a corroded and gangrenous stomach was quickly testified by the dark hue and poisonous malignity of the matter which was frequently ejected from it. her stuper gave place to some degree of peevishness and restlessness. she drank the water that was held to her lips with unspeakable avidity, and derived from this source a momentary alleviation of her pangs. fortunately for her attendant her agonies were not of long duration. constantia was absent from her bedside as rarely and for periods as short as possible. on the succeeding night the sufferings of the patient terminated in death. this event took place at two o'clock, in the morning,--an hour whose customary stillness was, if possible, increased tenfold by the desolation of the city. the poverty of mary and of her nurse; had deprived the former of the benefits, resulting from the change of bed and clothes. every thing about her was in a condition noisome and detestable. her yellowish and haggard visage, conspicuous by a feeble light, an atmosphere freighted with malignant vapours, and reminding constantia at every instant of the perils which encompassed her, the consciousness of solitude and sensations of deadly sickness in her own frame, were sufficient to intimidate a soul of firmer texture than hers. she was sinking fast into helplessness, when a new train of reflections showed her the necessity of perseverance. all that remained was to consign the corpse to the grave. she knew that vehicles for this end were provided at the public expense; that, notice being given of the occasion there was for their attendance, at receptacle and carriage for the dead would be instantly provided. application at this hour, she imagined, would be unseasonable: it must be deferred till the morning, which was yet at some distance. meanwhile to remain at her present post was equally useless and dangerous. she endeavoured to stifle the conviction that some mortal sickness had seized upon her own frame. her anxieties of head and stomach she was willing to impute to extraordinary fatigue and watchfulness, and hoped that they would be dissipated by an hour's unmolested repose. she formed the resolution of seeking her own chamber. at this moment, however, the universal silence underwent a slight interruption. the sound was familiar to her ears. it was a signal frequently repeated at the midnight hour during this season of calamity. it was the slow movement of a hearse, apparently passing along the street in which the alley where mr. dudley resided terminated. at first this sound had no other effect than to aggravate the dreariness of all around her. presently it occurred to her that this vehicle might be disengaged. she conceived herself bound to see the last offices performed for the deceased mary. the sooner so irksome a duty was discharged the better: every hour might augment her incapacity for exertion. should she be unable when the morning arrived to go as far as the city-hall, and give the necessary information, the most shocking consequences would ensue. whiston's house and her own were opposite each other, and not connected with any on the same side. a narrow space divided them, and her own chamber was within the sphere of the contagion which would flow, in consequence of such neglect, from that of her neighbour. influenced by these considerations she passed into the street, and gained the corner of the alley just as the carriage, whose movements she had heard, arrived at the same spot. it was accompanied by two men, negroes, who listened to her tale with respect. having already a burden of this kind, they could not immediately comply with this request. they promised that, having disposed of their present charge, they would return forthwith, and be ready to execute her orders. happily one of these persons was known to her. at other seasons his occupation was that of _wood-carter_, and as such he had performed some services for mr. dudley. his temper was gentle and obliging. the character of constantia had been viewed by him with reverence, and his kindness had relieved her from many painful offices. his old occupation being laid aside for a time, he had betaken himself like many others of his colour and rank, to the conveyance and burial of the dead. at constantia's request, he accompanied her to whiston's house, and promised to bring with him such assistance as would render her further exertions and attendance unnecessary. glad to be absolved from any new task, she now retired to her own chamber. in spite of her distempered frame, she presently sunk into a sweet sleep. she awoke not till the day had made considerable progress, and found herself invigorated and refreshed. on re-entering whiston's house, she discovered that her humble friend had faithfully performed his promise, the dead body having disappeared. she deemed it unsafe, as well as unnecessary, to examine the clothes and other property remaining; but, leaving every thing in the condition in which it had been found, she fastened the windows and doors, and thenceforth kept as distant from the house as possible. chapter vi. constantia had now leisure to ruminate upon her own condition. every day added to the devastation and confusion of the city. the most populous streets were deserted and silent. the greater number of inhabitants had fled; and those who remained were occupied with no cares but those which related to their own safety. the labours of the artisan and the speculations of the merchant were suspended. all shops but those of the apothecaries were shut. no carriage but the hearse was seen, and this was employed night and day in the removal of the dead. the customary sources of subsistence were cut off. those whose fortunes enabled them to leave the city, but who had deferred till now their retreat, were denied an asylum by the terror which pervaded the adjacent country, and by the cruel prohibitions which the neighbouring towns and cities thought it necessary to adopt. those who lived by the fruits of their daily labour were subjected, in this total inactivity, to the alternative of starving, or of subsisting upon public charity. the meditations of constantia suggested no alternative but this. the exactions of m'crea had reduced her whole fortune to five dollars. this would rapidly decay, and her utmost ingenuity could discover no means of procuring a new supply. all the habits of their life had combined to fill both her father and herself with aversion to the acceptance of charity. yet this avenue, opprobrious and disgustful as it was, afforded the only means of escaping from the worst extremes of famine. in this state of mind it was obvious to consider in what way the sum remaining might be most usefully expended. every species of provision was not equally nutritious or equally cheap. her mind, active in the pursuit of knowledge and fertile of resources, had lately been engaged, in discussing with her father the best means of retaining health in a time of pestilence. on occasions, when the malignity of contagious diseases has been most signal, some individuals have escaped. for their safety they were doubtless indebted to some peculiarities in their constitution or habits. their diet, their dress, their kind and degree of exercise, must somewhat have contributed to their exemption from the common destiny. these, perhaps, could be ascertained, and when known it was surely proper to conform to them. in discussing these ideas, mr. dudley introduced the mention of a benedictine of messina, who, during the prevalence of the plague in that city, was incessantly engaged in administering assistance to those who needed. notwithstanding his perpetual hazards he retained perfect health, and was living thirty years after this event. during this period he fostered a tranquil, fearless, and benevolent spirit, and restricted his diet to water and polenta. spices, and meats, and liquors, and all complexities of cookery, were utterly discarded. these facts now occurred to constantia's reflections with new vividness, and led to interesting consequences. polenta and hasty-pudding, or samp, are preparations of the same substance,--a substance which she needed not the experience of others to convince her was no less grateful than nutritive. indian meal was procurable at ninety cents per bushel. by recollecting former experiments she knew that this quantity, with no accompaniment but salt, would supply wholesome and plentiful food for four months to one person[1]. the inference was palpable. three persons were now to be supplied with food, and this supply could be furnished during four months at the trivial expense of three dollars. this expedient was at once so uncommon and so desirable, as to be regarded with temporary disbelief. she was inclined to suspect some latent error in her calculation. that a sum thus applied should suffice for the subsistence of a year, which in ordinary cases is expended in a few days, was scarcely credible. the more closely, however, the subject was examined, the more incontestably did this inference flow. the mode of preparation was simple and easy, and productive of the fewest toils and inconveniences. the attention of her lucy was sufficient to this end, and the drudgery of marketing was wholly precluded. [1] see this useful fact explained and demonstrated in count rumford's essays. she easily obtained the concurrence of her father, and the scheme was found as practicable and beneficial as her fondest expectations had predicted. infallible security was thus provided against hunger. this was the only care that was urgent and immediate. while they had food and were exempt from disease, they could live, and were not without their portion of comfort. her hands were unemployed, but her mind was kept in continual activity. to seclude herself as much as possible from others was the best means of avoiding infection. spectacles of misery which she was unable to relieve would merely tend to harass her with useless disquietudes and make her frame more accessible to disease. her father's instructions were sufficient to give her a competent acquaintance with the italian and french languages. his dreary hours were beguiled by this employment, and her mind was furnished with a species of knowledge which she hoped, in future, to make subservient to a more respectable and plentiful subsistence than she had hitherto enjoyed. meanwhile the season advanced, and the havock which this fatal malady produced increased with portentous rapidity. in alleys and narrow streets, in which the houses were smaller, the inhabitants more numerous and indigent, and the air pent up within unwholesome limits, it raged with greatest violence. few of constantia's neighbours possessed the means of removing from the danger. the inhabitants of this alley consisted of three hundred persons: of these eight or ten experienced no interruption of their health. of the rest two hundred were destroyed in the course of three weeks. among so many victims it may be supposed that this disease assumed every terrific and agonizing shape. it was impossible for constantia to shut out every token of a calamity thus enormous and thus near. night was the season usually selected for the removal of the dead. the sound of wheels thus employed was incessant. this, and the images with which it was sure to be accompanied, bereaved her of repose. the shrieks and lamentations of survivors, who could not be prevented from attending the remains of a husband or child to the place of interment, frequently struck her senses. sometimes urged by a furious delirium, the sick would break from their attendants, rush into the street, and expire on the pavement, amidst frantic outcries and gestures. by these she was often roused from imperfect sleep, and called to reflect upon the fate which impended over her father and herself. to preserve health in an atmosphere thus infected, and to ward off terror and dismay in a scene of horrors thus hourly accumulating, was impossible. constantia found it vain to contend against the inroads of sadness. amidst so dreadful a mortality it was irrational to cherish the hope that she or her father would escape. her sensations, in no long time, seemed to justify her apprehensions. her appetite forsook her, her strength failed, the thirst and lassitude of fever invaded her, and the grave seemed to open for her reception. lucy was assailed by the same symptoms at the same time. household offices were unavoidably neglected. mr. dudley retained his health, but he was able only to prepare his scanty food, and supply the cravings of child with water from the well. his imagination marked him out for the next victim. he could not be blind to the consequences of his own indisposition at a period so critical. disabled from contributing to each other's assistance, destitute of medicine and food; and even of water to quench their tormenting thirst, unvisited, unknown and perishing in frightful solitude! these images had a tendency to prostrate the mind, and generate or ripen the seeds of this fatal malady, which, no doubt at this period of its progress every one had imbibed. contrary to all his fears, he awoke each morning free from pain, though not without an increase of debility. abstinence from food, and the liberal use of cold water, seemed to have a medicinal operation on the sick. their pulse gradually resumed its healthy tenor, their strength and their appetite slowly returned, and in ten days they were able to congratulate each other on their restoration. i will not recount that series of disastrous thoughts which occupied the mind of constantia during this period. her lingering and sleepless hours were regarded by her as preludes to death. though at so immature an age, she had gained large experience of the evils which are allotted to man. death, which in her prosperous state was peculiarly abhorrent to her feelings, was now disrobed of terror. as an entrance into scenes of lightsome and imperishable being it was the goal of all her wishes: as a passage to oblivion it was still desirable, since forgetfulness was better than the life which she had hitherto led, and which, should her existence be prolonged, it was likely that she could continue to lead. these gloomy meditations were derived from the languors of her frame: when these disappeared, her cheerfulness and fortitude revived. she regarded with astonishment and delight the continuance of her father's health and her own restoration. that trial seemed to have been safely undergone, to which the life of every one was subject. the air, which till now had been arid and sultry, was changed into cool and moist. the pestilence had reached its utmost height, and now symptoms of remission and decline began to appear. its declension was more rapid than its progress and every day added vigour to hope. when her strength was somewhat retrieved, constantia called to mind a good woman who lived in her former neighbourhood, and from whom she had received many proofs of artless affection. this woman's name was sarah baxter. she lived within a small distance of constantia's former dwelling. the trade of her husband was that of a porter, and she pursued, in addition to the care of a numerous family, the business of a laundress. the superior knowledge and address of constantia had enabled her to be serviceable to this woman in certain painful and perplexing circumstances. this service was repaid with the utmost gratitude. sarah regarded her benefactress with a species of devotion. she could not endure to behold one, whom every accent and gesture proved to have once enjoyed affluence and dignity, performing any servile office. in spite of her own multiplied engagements, she compelled constantia to accept her assistance on many occasions, and could scarcely be prevailed upon to receive any compensation for her labour. washing clothes was her trade, and from this task she insisted on relieving her lovely patroness. constantia's change of dwelling produced much regret in the kind sarah. she did not allow it to make any change in their previous arrangements, but punctually visited the dudleys once a week, and carried home with her whatever stood in need of ablution. when the prevalence of disease disabled constantia from paying her the usual wages, she would by no means consent to be absolved from this task. her earnestness on this head was not to be eluded; and constantia, in consenting that her work should, for the present, be performed gratuitously, solaced herself with the prospect of being able, by some future change of fortune, amply to reward her. sarah's abode was distant from danger, and her fears were turbulent. she was nevertheless punctual in her visits to the dudleys, and anxious for their safety. in case of their sickness, she had declared her resolution to be their attendant and nurse. suddenly, however, her visits ceased. the day on which her usual visit was paid was the same with that on which constantia sickened, but her coming was expected in vain. her absence was, on some accounts, regarded with pleasure, as it probably secured her from the danger connected with the office of a nurse; but it added to constantia's cares, inasmuch as her own sickness, or that of some of her family, was the only cause of her detention. to remove her doubts, the first use which constantia made of her recovered strength was to visit her laundress. sarah's house was a theatre of suffering. her husband was the first of his family assailed by the reigning disease. two daughters, nearly grown to womanhood, well-disposed and modest girls, the pride and support of their mother, and who lived at service, returned home, sick, at the same time, and died in a few days. her husband had struggled for eleven days with his disease, and was seized, just before constantia's arrival, with the pangs of death. baxter was endowed with great robustness and activity. this disease did not vanquish him but with tedious and painful struggles. his muscular force now exhausted itself in ghastly contortions, and the house resounded with his ravings. sarah's courage had yielded to so rapid a succession of evils. constantia found her shut up in a chamber, distant from that of her dying husband, in a paroxysm of grief, and surrounded by her younger children. constantia's entrance was like that of an angelic comforter. sarah was unqualified for any office but that of complaint. with great difficulty she was made to communicate the knowledge of her situation. her visitant then passed into baxter's apartment. she forced herself to endure this tremendous scene long enough to discover that it was hastening to a close. she left the house, and hastening to the proper office, engaged the immediate attendance of a hearse. before the lapse of an hour, baxter's lifeless remains were placed in a coffin, and conveyed away. constantia now exerted herself to comfort and encourage the survivors. her remonstrances incited sarah to perform with alacrity the measures which prudence dictates on these occasions. the house was purified by the admission of air and the sprinkling of vinegar. constantia applied her own hand to these tasks, and set her humble friend an example of forethought and activity. sarah would not consent to part with her till a late hour in the evening. these exertions had like to have been fatally injurious to constantia. her health was not sufficiently confirmed to sustain offices so arduous. in the course of the night her fatigue terminated in fever. in the present more salubrious state of the atmosphere, it assumed no malignant symptoms, and shortly disappeared. during her indisposition she was attended by sarah, in whose honest bosom no sentiment was more lively than gratitude. constantia having promised to renew her visit the next day, had been impatiently expected, and sarah had come to her dwelling in the evening, full of foreboding and anxiety, to ascertain the cause of her delay. having gained the bedside of her patroness, no consideration could induce her to retire from it. constantia's curiosity was naturally excited as to the causes of baxter's disease. the simple-hearted sarah was prolix and minute in the history of her own affairs. no theme was more congenial to her temper than that which was now proposed. in spite of redundance and obscurity in the style of the narrative, constantia found in it powerful excitements of her sympathy. the tale, on its own account, as well as from the connection of some of its incidents with a subsequent part of these memoirs, is worthy to be here inserted. however foreign the destiny of monrose may at present appear to the story of the dudleys, there will hereafter be discovered an intimate connection between them. chapter vii. adjacent to the house occupied by baxter was an antique brick tenement. it was one of the first erections made by the followers of william penn. it had the honour to be used as the temporary residence of that venerable person. its moss-grown penthouse, crumbling walls, and ruinous porch, made it an interesting and picturesque object. notwithstanding its age, it was still tenable. this house was occupied, during the preceding months, by a frenchman: his dress and demeanour were respectable: his mode of life was frugal almost to penuriousness, and his only companion was a daughter. the lady seemed not much less than thirty years of age, but was of a small and delicate frame. it was she that performed every household office. she brought water from the pump, and provisions from the market. their house had no visitants, and was almost always closed. duly as the morning returned a venerable figure was seen issuing from his door, dressed in the same style of tarnished splendour and old-fashioned preciseness. at the dinner-hour he as regularly returned. for the rest of the day he was invisible. the habitations in this quarter are few and scattered. the pestilence soon showed itself here, and the flight of most of the inhabitants augmented its desolateness and dreariness. for some time, monrose (that was his name) made his usual appearance in the morning. at length the neighbours remarked that he no longer came forth as usual. baxter had a notion that frenchmen were exempt from this disease. he was, besides, deeply and rancorously prejudiced against that nation. there will be no difficulty in accounting for this, when it is known that he had been an english grenadier at dettingen and minden. it must likewise be added, that he was considerably timid, and had sickness in his own family. hence it was that the disappearance of monrose excited in him no inquisitiveness as to the cause. he did not even mention this circumstance to others. the lady was occasionally seen as usual in the street. there were always remarkable peculiarities in her behaviour. in the midst of grave and disconsolate looks, she never laid aside an air of solemn dignity. she seemed to shrink from the observation of others, and her eyes were always fixed upon the ground. one evening baxter was passing the pump while she was drawing water. the sadness which her looks betokened, and a suspicion that her father might be sick, had a momentary effect upon his feelings. he stopped and asked how her father was. she paid a polite attention to his question and said something in french. this, and the embarrassment of her air, convinced him that his words were not understood. he said no more (what indeed could he say?) but passed on. two or three days after this, on returning in the evening to his family, his wife expressed her surprise in not having seen miss monrose in the street that day. she had not been at the pump, nor had she gone, as usual, to market. this information gave him some disquiet; yet he could form no resolution. as to entering the house and offering his aid, if aid were needed, he had too much regard for his own safety, and too little for that of a frog-eating frenchman, to think seriously of that expedient. his attention was speedily diverted by other objects, and monrose was, for the present, forgotten. baxter's profession was that of a porter. he was thrown out of employment by the present state of things. the solicitude of the guardians of the city was exerted on this occasion, not only in opposing the progress of disease, and furnishing provisions to the destitute, but in the preservation of property. for this end the number of nightly watchmen was increased. baxter entered himself in this service. from nine till twelve o'clock at night it was his province to occupy a certain post. on this night he attended his post as usual: twelve o'clock arrived, and he bent his steps homeward. it was necessary to pass by monrose's door. on approaching this house, the circumstance mentioned by his wife recurred to him. something like compassion was conjured up in his heart by the figure of the lady, as he recollected to have lately seen it. it was obvious to conclude that sickness was the cause of her seclusion. the same, it might be, had confined her father. if this were true, how deplorable might be their present condition! without food, without physician or friends, ignorant of the language of the country, and thence unable to communicate their wants or solicit succour; fugitives from their native land, neglected, solitary, and poor. his heart was softened by these images. he stopped involuntarily when opposite their door. he looked up at the house. the shutters were closed, so that light, if it were within, was invisible. he stepped into the porch, and put his eye to the key-hole. all was darksome and waste. he listened, add imagined that he heard the aspirations of grief. the sound was scarcely articulate, but had an electrical effect upon his feelings. he retired to his home full of mournful reflections. he was billing to do something for the relief of the sufferers, but nothing could be done that night. yet succour, if delayed till the morning, might be ineffectual. but how, when the morning came, should he proceed to effectuate his kind intentions? the guardians of the public welfare at this crisis were distributed into those who counselled and those who executed. a set of men, self-appointed to the generous office, employed themselves in seeking out the destitute or sick, and imparting relief. with this arrangement baxter was acquainted. he was resolved to carry tidings of what he had heard and seen to one of those persons early the next day. baxter, after taking some refreshment, retired to rest. in no long time, however, he was awakened by his wife, who desired him to notice a certain glimmering on the ceiling. it seemed the feeble and flitting ray of a distant and moving light, coming through the window. it did not proceed from the street, for the chamber was lighted from the side, and not from the front of the house. a lamp borne by a passenger, or the attendants of a hearse, could not be discovered in this situation. besides, in the latter case, it would be accompanied by the sound of the vehicle, and, probably by weeping and exclamations of despair. his employment as the guardian of property, naturally suggested to him the idea of robbery. he started from his bed, and went to the window. his house stood at the distance of about fifty paces from that of monrose. there was annexed to the latter a small garden or yard, bounded by a high wooden fence. baxter's window overlooked this space. before he reached the window, the relative situation of the two habitations, occurred to him. a conjecture was instantly formed that the glimmering proceeded from this quarter. his eye, therefore, was immediately fixed upon monrose's back door. it caught a glimpse of a human figure passing into the house through this door. the person had a candle in his hand. this appeared by the light which streamed after him, and which was perceived, though faintly, through a small window of the dwelling, after the back-door was closed. the person disappeared too quickly to allow him to say whether it was male or female. this scrutiny confirmed rather than weakened the apprehensions that first occurred. he reflected on the desolate and helpless condition of this family. the father might be sick, and what opposition could be made by the daughter to the stratagems of violence of midnight plunderers? this was an evil which it was his duty, in an extraordinary sense, to obviate. it is true, the hour of watching was passed, and this was not the district assigned to him; but baxter was, on the whole, of a generous and intrepid spirit. in the present case, therefore, he did not hesitate long in forming his resolution. he seized a hanger that hung at his bedside, and which had hewn many an hungarian and french hussar to pieces. with this he descended to the street. he cautiously approached monrose's house. he listened at the door, but heard nothing. the lower apartment, as he discovered through the key-hole, was deserted and dark. these appearances could not be accounted for. he was, as yet, unwilling to call or to knock. he was solicitous to obtain some information by silent means, and without alarming the persons within, who, if they were robbers, might thus be put upon their guard, and enabled to escape. if none but the family were there, they would not understand his signals, and might impute the disturbance to the cause which he was desirous to obviate. what could he do? must he patiently wait till some incident should happen to regulate his motions? in this uncertainty, he bethought himself of going round to the back part of the dwelling, and watching the door which had been closed. an open space, filled with rubbish and weeds, adjoined the house and garden on one side. hither he repaired, and, raising his head above the fence, at a point directly opposite the door, waited with considerable impatience for some token or signal, by which he might be directed in his choice of measures. human life abounds with mysterious appearances. a man perched on a fence at midnight, mute and motionless, and gazing at a dark and dreary dwelling, was an object calculated to rouse curiosity. when the muscular form and rugged visage, scared and furrowed into something like ferocity, were added,--when the nature of the calamity by which the city was dispeopled was considered,--the motives to plunder, and the insecurity of property arising from the pressure of new wants on the poor, and the flight or disease of the rich, were attended to, an observer would be apt to admit fearful conjectures. we know not how long baxter continued at this post. he remained here because he could not, as he conceived, change it for a better. before his patience were exhausted, his attention was called by a noise within the house. it proceeded from the lower room. the sound was that of steps, but this was accompanied with other inexplicable tokens. the kitchen door at length opened. the figure of miss monrose, pale, emaciated, and haggard, presented itself. within the door stood a candle. it was placed on a chair within sight, and its rays streamed directly against the face of baxter, as it was reared above the top of the fence. this illumination, faint as it was, bestowed a certain air of wildness on the features which nature, and the sanguinary habits of a soldier, had previously rendered, in an eminent degree, harsh and stern. he was not aware of the danger of discovery in consequence of this position of the candle. his attention was, for a few seconds, engrossed by the object before him. at length he chanced to notice another object. at a few yards' distance from the fence, and within it, some one appeared to have been digging. an opening was made in the ground, but it was shallow and irregular. the implement which seemed to have been used was nothing more than a fire-shovel, for one of these he observed lying near the spot. the lady had withdrawn from the door, though without closing it. he had leisure, therefore, to attend to this new circumstance, and to reflect upon the purpose for which this opening might have been designed. death is familiar to the apprehensions of a soldier. baxter had assisted at the hasty interment of thousands, the victims of the sword or of pestilence. whether it was because this theatre of human calamity was new to him, and death, in order to be viewed with his ancient unconcern, must be accompanied in the ancient manner, with halberts and tents, certain it is, that baxter was irresolute and timid in every thing that respected the yellow fever. the circumstances of the time suggested, that this was a grave, to which some victim of this disease was to be consigned. his teeth chattered when he reflected how near he might now be to the source of infection: yet his curiosity retained him at his post. he fixed his eyes once more upon the door. in a short time the lady again appeared at it. she was in a stooping posture, and appeared to be dragging something along the floor. his blood ran cold at this spectacle. his fear instantly figured to itself a corpse, livid and contagious. still he had no power to move. the lady's strength, enfeebled as it was by grief, and perhaps by the absence of nourishment, seemed scarcely adequate to the task which she had assigned herself. her burden, whatever it was, was closely wrapped in a sheet. she drew it forward a few paces, then desisted, and seated herself on the ground apparently to recruit her strength, and give vent to the agony of her thoughts in sighs. her tears were either exhausted or refused to flow, for none were shed by her. presently she resumed her undertaking. baxter's horror increased in proportion as she drew nearer to the spot where he stood; and yet it seemed as if some fascination had forbidden him to recede. at length the burden was drawn to the side of the opening in the earth. here it seemed as if the mournful task was finished. she threw herself once more upon the earth. her senses seemed for a time to have forsaken her. she sat buried in reverie, her eyes scarcely open, and fixed upon the ground, and every feature set to the genuine expression of sorrow. some disorder, occasioned by the circumstance of dragging, now took place in the vestment of what he had rightly predicted to be a dead body. the veil by accident was drawn aside, and exhibited, to the startled eye of baxter, the pale and ghastly visage of the unhappy monrose. this incident determined him. every joint in his frame trembled, and he hastily withdrew from the fence. his first motion in doing this produced a noise by which the lady was alarmed; she suddenly threw her eyes upward, and gained a full view of baxter's extraordinary countenance, just before it disappeared. she manifested her terror by a piercing shriek. baxter did not stay to mark her subsequent conduct, to confirm or to dissipate her fears, but retired in confusion to his own house. hitherto his caution had availed him. he had carefully avoided all employments and places from which he imagined imminent danger was to be dreaded. now, through his own inadvertency, he had rushed, as he believed, into the jaws of the pest. his senses had not been assailed by any noisome effluvia. this was no implausible ground for imagining that his death had some other cause than the yellow fever. this circumstance did not occur to baxter. he had been told that frenchmen were not susceptible of this contagion. he had hitherto believed this assertion, but now regarded it as having been fully confuted. he forgot that frenchmen were undoubtedly mortal, and that there was no impossibility in monrose's dying, even at this time, of a malady different from that which prevailed. before morning he began to feel very unpleasant symptoms. he related his late adventure to his wife. she endeavoured, by what argument her slender ingenuity suggested, to quiet his apprehensions, but in vain. he hourly grew worse, and as soon as it was light, dispatched his wife for a physician. on interrogating this messenger, the physician obtained information of last night's occurrences, and this being communicated to one of the dispensers of the public charity, they proceeded, early in the morning, to monrose's house. it was closed as usual. they knocked and called, but no one answered. they examined every avenue to the dwelling, but none of them were accessible. they passed into the garden, and observed, on the spot marked out by baxter, a heap of earth. a very slight exertion was sufficient to remove it, and discover the body of the unfortunate exile beneath. after unsuccessfully trying various expedients for entering the house, they deemed themselves authorised to break the door. they entered, ascended the staircase, and searched every apartment in the house, but no human being was discoverable. the furniture was wretched and scanty, but there was no proof that monrose had fallen a victim to the reigning disease. it was certain that the lady had disappeared. it was inconceivable whither she had gone. baxter suffered a long period of sickness. the prevailing malady appeared upon him in its severest form. his strength of constitution, and the careful attendance of his wife, were insufficient to rescue him from the grave. his case may be quoted as an example of the force of imagination. he had probably already received, through the medium of the air, or by contact of which he was not conscious, the seeds of this disease. they might have perhaps have lain dormant, had not this panic occurred to endow them with activity. chapter viii. such were the facts circumstantially communicated by sarah. they afforded to constantia a theme of ardent meditation. the similitude between her own destiny and that of this unhappy exile could not fail to be observed. immersed in poverty, friendless, burdened with the maintenance and nurture of her father, their circumstances were nearly parallel. the catastrophe of her tale was the subject of endless but unsatisfactory conjecture. she had disappeared between the flight of baxter and the dawn of day. what path had she taken? was she now alive? was she still an inhabitant of this city? perhaps there was a coincidence of taste as well as fortunes between them. the only friend that constantia ever enjoyed, congenial with her in principles, sex, and age, was at a distance that forbade communication. she imagined that ursula monrose would prove worthy of her love, and felt unspeakable regret at the improbability of their ever meeting. meanwhile the dominion of cold began to be felt, and the contagious fever entirely disappeared. the return of health was hailed with rapture by all ranks of people. the streets were once more busy and frequented. the sensation of present security seemed to shut out from all hearts the memory of recent disasters. public entertainments were thronged with auditors. a new theatre had lately been constructed, and a company of english comedians had arrived during the prevalence of the malady. they now began their exhibitions, and their audiences were overflowing. such is the motley and ambiguous condition of human society, such is the complexity of all effects, from what cause soever they spring, that none can tell whether this destructive pestilence was on, the whole, productive of most pain or most pleasure. those who had been sick and had recovered found in this circumstance a source of exultation. others made haste by new marriages to supply the place of wives, husbands, and children, whom the scarcely-extinguished pestilence had swept away. constantia, however, was permitted to take no share in the general festivity. such was the colour of her fate, that the yellow fever, by affording her a respite from toil, supplying leisure for the acquisition of a useful branch of knowledge, and leading her to the discovery of a cheaper, more simple, and more wholesome method of subsistence, had been friendly, instead of adverse to her happiness. its disappearance, instead of relieving her from suffering, was the signal for the approach of new cares. of her ancient customers, some were dead, and others were slow in resuming their ancient habitations, and their ordinary habits. meanwhile two wants were now created and were urgent. the season demanded a supply of fuel, and her rent had accumulated beyond her power to discharge. m'crea no sooner returned from the country than he applied to her for payment. some proprietors, guided by humanity, had remitted their dues, but m'crea was not one of these. according to his own representation, no man was poorer than himself, and the punctual payment of all that was owing to him was no more than sufficient to afford him a scanty subsistence. he was aware of the indigence of the dudleys, and was therefore extremely importunate for payment, and could scarcely be prevailed upon to allow them the interval of a day for the discovery of expedients. this day was passed by constantia in fruitless anxieties. the ensuing evening had been fixed for a repetition of his visit. the hour arrived, but her invention was exhausted in vain. m'crea was punctual to the minute. constantia was allowed no option. she merely declared that the money demanded she had not to give, nor could she foresee any period at which her inability would be less than it then was. these declarations were heard by her visitant with marks of unspeakable vexation. he did not fail to expatiate on the equity of his demands, the moderation and forbearance he had hitherto shown, notwithstanding the extreme urgency of his own wants, and the inflexible rigour with which he had been treated by _his_ creditors. this rhetoric was merely the prelude to an intimation that he must avail himself of any lawful means, by which he might gain possession of _his own_. this insinuation was fully comprehended by constantia, but it was heard without any new emotions. her knowledge of her landlord's character taught her to expect but one consequence. he paused to observe what effect would be produced by this indirect menace. she answered, without any change of tone, that the loss of habitation and furniture, however inconvenient at this season, must be patiently endured. if it were to be prevented only by the payment of money, its prevention was impossible. m'crea renewed his regrets that there should be no other alternative. the law sanctioned his claims, and justice to his family, which was already large, and likely to increase, required that they should not be relinquished; yet such was the mildness of his temper and his aversion to proceed to this extremity, that he was willing to dispense with immediate payment on two conditions. first, that they should leave his house within a week, and secondly, that they should put into his hands some trinket or movable, equal in value to the sum demanded, which should be kept by him as a pledge. this last hint suggested an expedient for obviating the present distress. the lute with which mr. dudley was accustomed to solace his solitude was, if possible, more essential to his happiness than shelter or food. to his daughter it possessed little direct power to please. it was inestimable merely for her father's sake. its intrinsic value was at least equal to the sum due, but to part with it was to bereave him of a good which nothing else could supply. besides, not being a popular and saleable instrument, it would probably be contemptuously rejected by the ignorance and avarice of m'crea. there was another article in her possession of some value in traffic, and of a kind which m'crea was far more likely to accept. it was the miniature portrait of her friend, executed by a german artist, and set in gold. this image was a precious though imperfect substitute for sympathy and intercourse with the original. habit had made this picture a source of a species of idolatry. its power over her sensations was similar to that possessed by a beautiful madonna over the heart of a juvenile enthusiast. it was the mother of the only devotion which her education had taught her to consider as beneficial or true. she perceived the necessity of parting with it, on this occasion, with the utmost clearness, but this necessity was thought upon with indescribable repugnance. it seemed as if she had not thoroughly conceived the extent of her calamity till now. it seemed as if she could have endured the loss of eyes with less reluctance than the loss of this inestimable relic. bitter were the tears which she shed over it as she took it from her bosom, and consigned it to those rapacious hands that were stretched out to receive it. she derived some little consolation from the promises of this man, that he would keep it safely till she was able to redeem it. the other condition--that of immediate removal from the house--seemed at first sight impracticable. some reflection, however, showed her that the change might not only be possible but useful. among other expedients for diminishing expense, that of limiting her furniture and dwelling to the cheapest standard had often occurred. she now remembered that the house occupied by monrose was tenantless; that its antiquity, its remote and unpleasant situation, and its small dimensions, might induce m'crea, to whom it belonged, to let it at a much lower price than that which he now exacted. m'crea would have been better pleased if her choice had fallen on a different house; but he had powerful though sordid reasons for desiring the possession of this tenement. he assented therefore to her proposal, provided her removal took place without delay. in the present state of her funds this removal was impossible. mere shelter would not suffice during this inclement season. without fuel, neither cold could be excluded, nor hunger relieved. there was nothing convertible into money but her lute. no sacrifice was more painful, but an irresistible necessity demanded it. her interview with m'crea took place while her father was absent from the room. on his return she related what had happened, and urged the necessity of parting with his favourite instrument. he listened to her tale with a sigh. "yes," said he, "do what thou wilt, my child. it is unlikely that any one will purchase it. it is certain that no one will give for it what i gave; but thou may'st try. "it has been to me a faithful friend. i know not how i should have lived without it. its notes have cheered me with the sweet remembrances of old times. it was, in some degree, a substitute for the eyes which i have lost; but now let it go, and perform for me perhaps the dearest of its services. it may help us to sustain the severities of this season." there was no room for delay. she immediately set out in search of a purchaser. such a one was most likely to be found in the keeper of a musical repository, who had lately arrived from europe. she entertained but slight hopes that an instrument scarcely known among her neighbours would be bought at any price, however inconsiderable. she found the keeper of the shop engaged in conversation with a lady, whose person and face instantly arrested the attention of constantia. a less sagacious observer would have eyed the stranger with indifference. but constantia was ever busy in interpreting the language of features and looks. her sphere of observation had been narrow, but her habits of examining, comparing, and deducing, had thoroughly exhausted that sphere. these habits were eminently strong with relation to this class of objects. she delighted to investigate the human countenance, and treasured up numberless conclusions as to the coincidence between mental and external qualities. she had often been forcibly struck by forms that were accidentally seen, and which abounded with this species of mute expression. they conveyed at a single glance what could not be imparted by volumes. the features and shape sunk, as it were, into perfect harmony with sentiments and passions. every atom of the frame was pregnant with significance. in some, nothing was remarkable but this power of the outward figure to exhibit the internal sentiments. in others, the intelligence thus unveiled was remarkable for its heterogeneous or energetic qualities; for its tendency to fill her heart with veneration or abhorrence, or to involve her in endless perplexities. the accuracy and vividness with which pictures of this kind presented themselves to her imagination resembled the operations of a sixth sense. it cannot be doubted, however, that much was owing to the enthusiastic tenor of her own conceptions, and that her conviction of the truth of the picture principally flowed from the distinctness and strength of its hues. the figure which she now examined was small, but of exquisite proportions. her complexion testified the influence of a torrid sun; but the darkness veiled, without obscuring, the glowing tints of her cheek. the shade was remarkably deep; but a deeper still was required to become incompatible with beauty. her features were irregular, but defects of symmetry were amply supplied by eyes that anticipated speech and positions which conveyed that to which language was inadequate. it was not the chief tendency of her appearance to seduce or to melt. hers were the polished cheek and the mutability of muscle, which belong to woman, but the genius conspicuous in her aspect was heroic and contemplative. the female was absorbed, so to speak, in the rational creature, and the emotions most apt to be excited in the gazer partook less of love than of reverence. such is the portrait of this stranger, delineated by constantia. i copy it with greater willingness, because, if we substitute a nobler stature, and a complexion less uniform and delicate, it is suited with the utmost accuracy to herself. she was probably unconscious of this resemblance; but this circumstance may be supposed to influence her in discovering such attractive properties in a form thus vaguely seen. these impressions, permanent and cogent as they were, were gained at a single glance. the purpose which led her thither was too momentous to be long excluded. "why," said the master of the shop, "this is lucky. here is a lady who has just been inquiring for an instrument of this kind. perhaps the one you have will suit her. if you will bring it to me, i will examine it, and, if it is complete, will make a bargain with you." he then turned to the lady who had first entered, and a short dialogue in french ensued between them. the man repeated his assurances to constantia, who, promising to hasten back with the instrument, took her leave. the lute, in its structure and ornaments, has rarely been surpassed. when scrutinised by this artist it proved to be complete, and the price demanded for it was readily given. by this means the dudleys were enabled to change their habitation, and to supply themselves with fuel. to obviate future exigences, constantia betook herself once more to the needle. they persisted in the use of their simple fare, and endeavoured to contract their wants, and methodize their occupations, by a standard as rigid as possible. she had not relinquished her design of adopting a new and more liberal profession, but though, when indistinctly and generally considered, it seemed easily effected, yet the first steps which it would be proper to take did not clearly or readily suggest themselves. for the present she was contented to pursue the beaten track, but was prepared to benefit by any occasion that time might furnish, suitable to the execution of her plan. chapter ix. it may be asked if a woman of this character did not attract the notice of the world. her station, no less than her modes of thinking, excluded her from the concourse of the opulent and the gay. she kept herself in privacy: her engagements confined her to her own fireside, and her neighbours enjoyed no means of penetrating through that obscurity in which she wrapt herself. there were, no doubt, persons of her own sex capable of estimating her worth, and who could have hastened to raise so much merit from the indigence to which it was condemned. she might, at least, have found associates and friends justly entitled to her affection. but whether she were peculiarly unfortunate in this respect, or whether it arose from a jealous and unbending spirit that would remit none of its claims to respect, and was backward in its overtures to kindness and intimacy, it so happened that her hours were, for a long period, enlivened by no companion but her father and her faithful lucy. the humbleness of her dwelling, her plain garb, and the meanness of her occupation, were no passports to the favour of the rich and vain. these, added to her youth and beauty, frequently exposed her to insults, from which, though productive for a time of mortification and distress, she, for the most part, extricated herself by her spirited carriage and presence of mind. one incident of this kind it will be necessary to mention. one evening her engagements carried her abroad. she had proposed to return immediately, finding by experience the danger that was to be dreaded by a woman young and unprotected. something occurred that unavoidably lengthened her stay, and she set out on her return at a late hour. one of the other sex offered her his guardianship; but this she declined, and proceeded homeward alone. her way lay through streets but little inhabited, and whose few inhabitants were of the profligate class. she was conscious of the inconveniences to which she was exposed, and therefore tripped along with all possible haste. she had not gone far before she perceived, through the dusk, two men standing near a porch before her. she had gone too far to recede or change her course without exciting observation, and she flattered herself that the persons would behave with decency. encouraged by these reflections, and somewhat hastening her pace, she went on. as soon as she came opposite the place where they stood, one of them threw himself round, and caught her arm, exclaiming, in a broad tone, "whither so fast, my love, at this time of night?" the other, at the same time, threw his arm round her waist, crying out, "a pretty prize, by g--: just in the nick of time." they were huge and brawny fellows, in whose grasp her feeble strength was annihilated. their motions were so sudden that she had not time to escape by flight. her struggles merely furnished them with a subject of laughter. he that held her waist proceeded to pollute her cheeks with his kisses, and drew her into the porch. he tore her from the grasp of him who first seized her, who seemed to think his property invaded, and said, in a surly tone, "what now, jemmy? damn your heart, d'ye think i'll be fobbed? have done with your slabbering, jemmy. first come, first served," and seemed disposed to assert his claims by force. to this brutality constantia had nothing to oppose but fruitless struggles and shrieks for help. succour was, fortunately, at hand. her exclamations were heard by a person across the street, who instantly ran, and with some difficulty disengaged her from the grasp of the ruffians. he accompanied her the rest of the way, bestowed on her every polite attention, and, though pressed to enter the house, declined the invitation. she had no opportunity of examining the appearance of her new friend: this the darkness of the night, and her own panic, prevented. next day a person called upon her whom she instantly recognized to be her late protector. he came with some message from his sister. his manners were simple and unostentatious and breathed the genuine spirit of civility. having performed his commission, and once more received the thanks which she poured forth with peculiar warmth for his last night's interposition, he took his leave. the name of this man was balfour. he was middle-aged, of a figure neither elegant nor ungainly, and an aspect that was mild and placid, but betrayed few marks of intelligence. he was an adventurer from scotland, whom a strict adherence to the maxims of trade had rendered opulent. he was governed by the principles of mercantile integrity in all his dealings, and was affable and kind, without being generous, in his treatment of inferiors. he was a stranger to violent emotions of any kind, and his intellectual acquisitions were limited to his own profession. his demeanour was tranquil and uniform. he was sparing of words, and these were uttered in the softest manner. in all his transactions he wad sedate and considerate. in his dress and mode of living there were no appearances of parsimony, but there were, likewise, as few traces of profusion. his sister had shared in his prosperity. as soon as his affairs would permit, he sent for her to scotland, where she had lived in a state little removed from penury, and had for some years been vested with the superintendence of his household. there was a considerable resemblance between them in person and character. her profession, or those arts in which her situation had compelled her to acquire skill, had not an equal tendency to enlarge the mind as those of her brother, but the views of each were limited to one set of objects. his superiority was owing, not to any inherent difference, but to accident. balfour's life had been a model of chasteness and regularity,--though this was owing more to constitutional coldness, and a frugal spirit, than to virtuous forbearance; but, in his schemes for the future, he did not exclude the circumstance of marriage. having attained a situation secure as the nature of human affairs will admit from the chances of poverty, the way was sufficiently prepared for matrimony. his thoughts had been for some time employed in the selection of a suitable companion, when this rencounter happened with miss dudley. balfour was not destitute of those feelings which are called into play by the sight of youth and beauty in distress. this incident was not speedily forgotten. the emotions produced by it were new to him. he reviewed them oftener, and with more complacency, than any which he had before experienced. they afforded him so much satisfaction, that, in order to preserve them undiminished, he resolved to repeat his visit. constantia treated him as one from whom she had received a considerable benefit. her sweetness and gentleness were uniform, and balfour found that her humble roof promised him more happiness than his own fireside, or the society of his professional brethren. he could not overlook, in the course of such reflections as these, the question relative to marriage, and speedily determined to solicit the honour of her hand. he had not decided without his usual foresight and deliberation; nor had he been wanting in the accuracy of his observations and inquiries. those qualifications, indeed, which were of chief value in his eyes, lay upon the surface. he was no judge of her intellectual character, or of the loftiness of her morality. not even the graces of person, or features or manners, attracted much of his attention. he remarked her admirable economy of time, and money, and labour, the simplicity of her dress, her evenness of temper, and her love of seclusion. these ware essential requisites of a wife, in his apprehension. the insignificance of his own birth, the lowness of his original fortune, and the efficacy of industry and temperance to confer and maintain wealth, had taught him indifference as to birth or fortune in his spouse. his moderate desires in this respect were gratified, and he was anxious only for a partner that would aid him in preserving rather than in enlarging his property. he esteemed himself eminently fortunate in meeting with one in whom every matrimonial qualification concentred. he was not deficient in modesty, but he fancied that, on this occasion, there was no possibility of miscarriage. he held her capacity in deep veneration, but this circumstance rendered him more secure of success. he conceived this union to be even more eligible with regard to her than to himself, and confided in the rectitude of her understanding for a decision favourable to his wishes. before any express declaration was made, constantia easily predicted the event from the frequency of his visits; and the attentiveness of his manners. it was no difficult task to ascertain this man's character. her modes of thinking were, in few respects, similar to those of her lover. she was eager to investigate, in the first place, the attributes of his mind. his professional and household maxims were not of inconsiderable importance, but they were subordinate considerations. in the poverty of his discourse and ideas she quickly found reasons for determining her conduct. marriage she had but little considered, as it is in itself. what are the genuine principles of that relation, and what conduct with respect to it is prescribed to rational beings by their duty, she had not hitherto investigated. but she was not backward to inquire what are the precepts of duty in her own particular case. she knew herself to be young; she was sensible of the daily enlargement of her knowledge: every day contributed to rectify some error, or confirm some truth. these benefits she owed to her situation, which, whatever were its evils, gave her as much freedom from restraint as is consistent with the state of human affairs. her poverty fettered her exertions, and circumscribed her pleasures. poverty, therefore, was an evil, and the reverse of poverty was to be desired. but riches were not barren of constraint, and its advantages might be purchased at too dear a rate. allowing that the wife is enriched by marriage, how humiliating were the conditions annexed to it in the present case! the company of one with whom we have no sympathy, nor sentiments in common, is, of all species of solitude, the most loathsome and dreary. the nuptial life is attended with peculiar aggravations, since the tie is infrangible, and the choice of a more suitable companion, if such a one should offer, is for ever precluded. the hardships of wealth are not incompensated by some benefits; but these benefits, false and hollow as they are, cannot be obtained by marriage. her acceptance of balfour would merely aggravate her indigence. now she was at least mistress of the product of her own labour. her tasks were toilsome, but the profits, though slender, were sure, and she administered her little property in what manner she pleased. marriage would annihilate this, power. henceforth she would he bereft even of personal freedom. so far from possessing property, she herself would become the property of another. she was not unaware of the consequences flowing from differences of capacity, and that power, to whomsoever legally granted, will be exercised by the most addressful; but she derived no encouragement from these considerations. she would not stoop to gain her end by the hateful arts of the sycophant, and was too wise to place an unbounded reliance on the influence of truth. the character, likewise, of this man, sufficiently exempted him from either of those influences. she did not forget the nature of the altar-vows. to abdicate the use of her own understanding was scarcely justifiable in any case; but to vow an affection that was not felt, and could not be compelled, and to promise obedience to one whose judgment was glaringly defective, were acts atrociously criminal. education, besides, had created in her an insurmountable abhorrence of admitting to conjugal privileges the man who had no claim upon her love. it could not be denied that a state of abundant accommodation was better than the contrary; but this consideration, though, in the most rational estimate, of some weight, she was not so depraved and effeminate as to allow to overweigh the opposite evils. homely liberty was better than splendid servitude. her resolution was easily formed, but there were certain impediments in the way of its execution. these chiefly arose from deference to the opinion, and compassion for the infirmities of her father. he assumed no control over her actions. his reflections in the present case were rather understood than expressed. when uttered, it was with the mildness of equality, and the modesty of persuasion. it was this circumstance that conferred upon them all their force. his decision on so delicate a topic was not wanting in sagacity and moderation; but, as a man, he had his portion of defects, and his frame was enfeebled by disease and care; yet he set no higher value on the ease and independence of his former condition than any man of like experience. he could not endure to exist on the fruits of his daughter's labour. he ascribed her decision to a spirit of excessive refinement, and was, of course, disposed to give little quarter to maiden scruples. they were phantoms, he believed, which experience would dispel. his morality, besides, was of a much more flexible kind; and the marriage vows were, in his opinion, formal and unmeaning, and neither in themselves, nor in the opinion of the world, accompanied with any rigorous obligation. he drew more favourable omens from the known capacity of his daughter, and the flexibility of her lover. she demanded his opinion and advice. she listened to his reasonings, and revolved them with candour and impartiality. she stated her objections with simplicity; but the difference of age and sex was sufficient to preclude agreement. arguments were of no use but to prolong the debate; but, happily, the magnanimity of mr. dudley would admit of no sacrifice. her opinions, it is true, were erroneous; but he was willing that she should regulate her conduct by her own conceptions of right, and not by those of another. to refuse balfour's offers was an evil, but an evil inexpressibly exceeded by that of accepting them contrary to her own sense of propriety. difficulties, likewise, arose from the consideration of what was due to the man who had already benefited her, and who, in this act, intended to confer upon her further benefit. these, though the source of some embarrassment, were not sufficient to shake her resolution. balfour could not understand her principal objections. they were of a size altogether disproportioned to his capacity. her moral speculations were quite beyond the sphere of his reflections. she could not expatiate, without a breach of civility, on the disparity of their minds, and yet this was the only or principal ground on which she had erected her scruples. her father loved her too well not to be desirous of relieving her from a painful task, though undertaken without necessity, and contrary to his opinion. "refer him to me," said he; "i will make the best of the matter, and render your refusal as palatable as possible; but do you authorize me to make it absolute, and without appeal." "my dear father! how good you are! but that shall be my province. if i err, let the consequences of my mistake be confined to myself. it would be cruel indeed to make you the instrument in a transaction which your judgment disapproves. my reluctance was a weak and foolish thing. strange, indeed, if the purity of my motives will not bear me out on this, as it has done on many more arduous occasions." "well, be it so; that is best i believe. ten to one but i, with my want of eyes would blunder, while yours will be of no small use in a contest with a lover. they will serve you to watch the transitions in his placid physiognomy, and overpower his discontents." she was aware of the inconveniences to which this resolution would subject her; but since they were unavoidable, she armed herself with the requisite patience. her apprehensions were not without reason. more than one conference was necessary to convince him of her meaning, and in order to effect her purpose she was obliged to behave with so much explicitness as to hazard giving him offence. this affair was productive of no small vexation. he had put too much faith in the validity of his pretensions, and the benefits of perseverance, to be easily shaken off. this decision was not borne by him with as much patience as she wished. he deemed himself unjustly treated, and his resentment exceeded those bounds of moderation which he prescribed to himself on all other occasions. from his anger, however, there was not much to be dreaded; but, unfortunately, his sister partook of his indignation and indulged her petulance, which was enforced by every gossiping and tattling propensity, to the irreparable disadvantage of constantia. she owed her support to her needle. she was dependent therefore on the caprice of customers. this caprice was swayable by every breath, and paid a merely subordinate regard, in the choice of workwomen, to the circumstances of skill, cheapness and diligence. in consequence of this, her usual sources of subsistence began to fail. indigence, as well as wealth, is comparative. he indeed must be wretched, whose food, clothing, and shelter, are limited, both in kind and quantity, by the standard of mere necessity; who, in the choice of food, for example, is governed by no consideration but its cheapness, and its capacity to sustain nature. yet to this degree of wretchedness was miss dudley reduced. as her means of subsistence began to decay, she reflected on the change of employment that might become necessary. she was mistress of no lucrative art but that which now threatened to be useless. there was but one avenue through which she could hope to escape from the pressure of absolute want. this she regarded with an aversion that nothing but extreme necessity, and the failure of every other expedient, would be able to subdue. this was the hiring herself as a servant. even that could not answer all her purposes. if a subsistence were provided by it for herself, whither should her father and her lucy betake themselves for support? hitherto her labour had been sufficient to shut out famine and the cold. it is true she had been cut off from all the direct means of personal or mental gratification; but her constitution had exempted her from the insalutary effects of sedentary application. she could not tell how long she could enjoy this exemption, but it was absurd to anticipate those evils which might never arrive. meanwhile, her situation was not destitute of comfort. the indirect means of intellectual improvement in conversation and reflection, the inexpensive amusement of singing, and, above all, the consciousness of performing her duty, and maintaining her independence inviolate, were still in her possession. her lodging was humble, and her fare frugal, but these temperance and a due regard to the use of money would require from the most opulent. now retrenchments must be made even from this penurious provision. her exertions might somewhat defer, but could not prevent, the ruin of her unhappy family. their landlord was a severe exacter of his dues. the day of quarterly payment was past, and he had not failed in his usual punctuality. she was unable to satisfy his demands, and mr. dudley was officially informed, that unless payment was made before a day fixed, resort would be had to the law, in that case made and provided. this seemed to be the completion of their misfortunes. it was not enough to soften the implacability of their landlord. a respite might possibly be obtained from this harsh sentence. entreaties might prevail upon him to allow of their remaining under this roof for some time longer; but shelter at this inclement season was not enough. without fire they must perish with the cold; and fuel could be procured only for money, of which the last shilling was expended. food was no less indispensable; and, their credit being gone, not a loaf could be extorted from the avarice of the bakers in the neighbourhood. the sensations produced by this accumulation of distress may be more easily conceived than described. mr. dudley sunk into despair, when lucy informed him that the billet of wood she was putting on the fire was the last. "well," said he, "the game is up. where is my daughter?" the answer was, that she was up-stairs. "why, there she has been this hour. tell her to come down and warm herself. she must needs be cold, and here is a cheerful blaze. i feel it myself. like the lightning that precedes death, it beams thus brightly, though in a few moments it will be extinguished forever. let my darling come and partake of its comforts before they expire." constantia had retired in order to review her situation and devise some expedients that might alleviate it. it was a sore extremity to which she was reduced. things had come to a desperate pass, and the remedy required must be no less desperate. it was impossible to see her father perish. she herself would have died before she would have condescended to beg. it was not worth prolonging a life which must subsist upon alms. she would have wandered into the fields at dusk, have seated herself upon an unfrequented bank, and serenely waited the approach of that death which the rigours of the season would have rendered sure. but as it was, it became her to act in a very different manner. during her father's prosperity, some mercantile intercourse had taken place between him and a merchant of this city. the latter on some occasion had spent a few nights at her father's house. she was greatly charmed with the humanity that shone forth in his conversation and behaviour. from that time to this all intercourse had ceased. she was acquainted with the place of his abode, and knew him to be affluent. to him she determined to apply as a suppliant in behalf of her father. she did not inform mr. dudley of this intention, conceiving it best to wait till the event had been ascertained, for fear of exciting fallacious expectations. she was further deterred by the apprehension of awakening his pride, and bringing on herself an absolute prohibition. she arrived at the door of mr. melbourne's house, and inquiring for the master of it, was informed that he had gone out of town, and was not expected to return for a week. her scheme, which was by no means unplausible, was thus completely frustrated. there was but one other resource, on which she had already deliberated, and to which she had determined to apply if that should fail. that was to claim assistance from the superintendants of the poor. she was employed in considering to which of them, and in what manner she should make her application, when she turned the corner of lombard and second streets. that had scarcely been done, when casting her eyes mournfully round her, she caught a glimpse of a person whom she instantly recognized passing into the market-place. she followed him with quick steps, and on a second examination found that she had not been mistaken. this was no other than thomas craig, to whose malignity and cunning all her misfortunes were imputable. she was at first uncertain what use to make of this discovery. she followed him instinctively, and saw him at length enter the indian queen tavern. here she stopped. she entertained a confused conception that some beneficial consequences might be extracted from this event. in the present hurry of her thoughts she could form no satisfactory conclusion; but it instantly occurred to her that it would at least be proper to ascertain the place of his abode. she stept into the inn, and made the suitable inquiries. she was informed that the gentleman had come from baltimore a month before, and had since resided at that house. how soon he meant to leave the city her informant was unable to tell. having gained this intelligence, she returned home, and once more shut herself in her chamber to meditate on this new posture of affairs. chapter x. craig was indebted to her father. he had defrauded him by the most atrocious and illicit arts. on either account he was liable to prosecution; but her heart rejected the thought of being the author of injury to any man. the dread of punishment, however, might induce him to refund, uncoercively, the whole or some part of the stolen property. money was at this moment necessary to existence, and she conceived herself justly entitled to that of which her father had been perfidiously despoiled. but the law was formal and circuitous. money itself was necessary to purchase its assistance. besides, it could not act with unseen virtue and instantaneous celerity. the co-operation of advocates and officers was required. they must be visited, and harangued, and importuned. was she adequate to the task? would the energy of her mind supply the place of experience, and with a sort of miraculous efficacy, afford her the knowledge of official processes and dues? as little on this occasion could be expected from her father as from her. he was infirm and blind. the spirit that animated his former days was flown. his heart's blood was chilled by the rigours of his fortune. he had discarded his indignation and his enmities, and together with them, hope itself had perished in his bosom. he waited in tranquil despair, for that stroke which would deliver him from life, and all the woes that it inherits. but these considerations were superfluous. it was enough that justice must be bought, and that she had not the equivalent. legal proceedings are encumbered with delay, and her necessities were urgent. succour, if withheld till the morrow, would be useless. hunger and cold would not be trifled with. what resource was there left in this her uttermost distress? must she yield, in imitation of her father, to the cowardly suggestions of despair? craig might be rich: his coffers might be stuffed with thousands. all that he had, according to the principles of social equity, was hers; yet he, to whom nothing belonged, rioted in superfluity, while she, the rightful claimant, was driven to the point of utmost need. the proper instrument of her restoration was law, but its arm was powerless, for she had not the means of bribing it into activity. but was law the only instrument? craig perhaps was accessible. might she not, with propriety, demand an interview, and lay before him the consequences of his baseness? he was not divested of the last remains of humanity. it was impossible that he should not relent at the picture of those distresses of which he was the author. menaces of legal prosecution she meant not to use, because she was unalterably resolved against that remedy. she confided in the efficacy of her pleadings to awaken his justice. this interview she was determined immediately to seek. she was aware that by some accident her purpose might be frustrated. access to his person might, for the present, be impossible, or might be denied. it was proper, therefore to write him a letter, which might be substituted in place of an interview. it behoved her to be expeditious, for the light was failing, and her strength was nearly exhausted by the hurry of her spirits. her fingers likewise were benumbed with the cold. she performed her task, under these disadvantages, with much difficulty. this was the purport of her letter:- "thomas craig, "an hour ago i was in second street, and saw you. i followed you till you entered the indian queen tavern. knowing where you are, i am now preparing to demand an interview. i may he disappointed in this hope, and therefore write you this. "i do not come to upbraid you, to call you to a legal, or any other account for your actions. i presume not to weigh your merits. the god of equity be your judge. may he be as merciful in the hour of retribution as i am disposed to be! "it is only to inform you that my father is on the point of perishing with want. you know who it was that reduced him to this condition. i persuade myself i shall not appeal to your justice in vain. learn of this justice to afford him instant succour. "you know who it was that took you in, an houseless wanderer, protected and fostered your youth, and shared with you his confidence and his fortune. it is he who now, blind and indigent, is threatened by an inexorable landlord to be thrust into the street, and who is, at this moment without fire and without bread. "he once did you some little service; now he looks to be compensated. all the retribution he asks is to be saved from perishing. surely you will not spurn at his claims. thomas craig has done nothing that shows him deaf to the cries of distress. he would relieve a dog from such sufferings. "forget that you have known my father in any character but that of a supplicant for bread. i promise you that on this condition i also will forget it. if you are so far just, you have nothing to fear. your property and reputation shall both be safe. my father knows not of your being in this city. his enmities are extinct, and if you comply with this request, he shall know you only as a benefactor. "c. dudley." having finished and folded this epistle, she once more returned to the tavern. a waiter informed her that craig had lately been in, and was now gone out to spend the evening. "whither had he gone?" she asked. "how was he to know where gentlemen eat their suppers? did she take him for a witch? what, in god's name, did she want with him at that hour? could she not wait, at least, till he had done his supper? he warranted her pretty face would bring him home time enough." constantia was not disconcerted at the address. she knew that females are subjected, through their own ignorance and cowardice, to a thousand mortifications. she set its true value on base and low-minded treatment. she disdained to notice this ribaldry, but turned away from the servant to meditate on this disappointment. a few moments after, a young fellow smartly dressed entered the apartment. he was immediately addressed by the other, who said to him, "well, tom, where's your master: there's a lady wants him," (pointing to constantia, and laying a grinning emphasis on the word "lady".) she turned to the new-comer: "friend, are you mr. craig's servant?" the fellow seemed somewhat irritated at the bluntness of her interrogatory. the appellation of servant sat uneasily, perhaps, on his pride, especially as coming from a person of her appearance. he put on an air of familiar ridicule, and surveyed her in silence. she resumed, in an authoritative tone:--"where does mr. craig spend this evening? i have business with him of the highest importance, and that will not bear delay. i must see him this night." he seemed preparing to make some impertinent answer, but she anticipated it: "you had better answer me with decency. if you do not, your master shall hear of it." this menace was not ineffectual. he began in perceive himself in the wrong, and surlily muttered, "why, if you must know, he is gone to mr. ormond's." and where lived mr. ormond? in arch street; he mentioned the number on her questioning him to that effect. being furnished with this information, she left them. her project was not to be thwarted by slight impediments, and she forthwith proceeded to ormond's dwelling. "who was this ormond?" she inquired of herself as she went along: "whence originated and of what nature is the connection between him and craig? are they united by unison of designs and sympathy of character, or is this stranger a new subject on whom craig is practising his arts? the last supposition is not impossible. is it not my duty to disconcert his machinations and save a new victim from his treachery? but i ought to be sure before i act. he may now be honest, or tending to honesty, and my interference may cast him backward, or impede his progress." the house to which she had been directed was spacious and magnificent. she was answered by a servant, whose uniform was extremely singular and fanciful, whose features and accents bespoke him to be english, with a politeness to which she knew that the simplicity of her dress gave her no title. craig, he told her, was in the drawing-room above stairs. he offered to carry him any message, and ushered her, meanwhile, into a parlour. she was surprised at the splendour of the room. the ceiling was painted with a gay design, the walls stuccoed in relief, and the floor covered with a persian carpet, with suitable accompaniments of mirrors, tables, and sofas. craig had been seated at the window above. his suspicions were ever on the watch. he suddenly espied a figure and face on the opposite side of the street, which an alteration of garb and the improvements of time could not conceal from his knowledge. he was startled at this incident, without knowing the extent of its consequences. he saw her cross the way opposite this house, and immediately after heard the bell ring. still he was not aware that he himself was the object of this visit, and waited with some degree of impatience for the issue of this adventure. presently he was summoned to a person below, who wished to see him. the servant shut the door as soon as he had delivered the message and retired. craig was thrown into considerable perplexity. it was seldom that he was wanting in presence of mind and dexterity, but the unexpectedness of this incident made him pause. he had not forgotten the awful charms of his summoner. he shrunk at the imagination of her rebukes. what purpose could be answered by admitting her? it was undoubtedly safest to keep at a distance; but what excuse should be given for refusing this interview? he was roused from his reverie by a second and more urgent summons. the person could not conveniently wait; her business was of the utmost moment, and would detain him but a few minutes. the anxiety which was thus expressed to see him only augmented his solicitude to remain invisible. he had papers before him, which he had been employed in examining. this suggested an excuse--"tell her that i am engaged just now, and cannot possibly attend to her. let her leave her business. if she has any message, you may bring it to me." it was plain to constantia that craig suspected the purpose of her visit. this might have come to his knowledge by means impossible for her to divine. she now perceived the wisdom of the precaution she had taken. she gave her letter to the servant with this message:--"tell him i shall wait here for an answer, and continue to wait till i receive one." her mind was powerfully affected by the criticalness of her situation. she had gone thus far, and saw the necessity of persisting to the end. the goal was within view, and she formed a sort of desperate determination not to relinquish the pursuit. she could not overlook the possibility that he might return no answer, or return an unsatisfactory one. in either case, she was resolved to remain in the house till driven from it by violence. what other resolution could she form? to return to her desolate home, pennyless, was an idea not to be endured. the letter was received, and perused. his conscience was touched, but compunction was a guest whose importunities he had acquired a peculiar facility of eluding. here was a liberal offer. a price was set upon his impunity. a small sum, perhaps, would secure him from all future molestation.--"she spoke, to-be-sure, in a damned high tone. 'twas a pity that the old man should be hungry before supper-time. blind too! harder still, when he cannot find his way to his mouth. rent unpaid, and a flinty-hearted landlord. a pretty pickle, to-be-sure. instant payment, she says. won't part without it. must come down with the stuff. i know this girl. when her heart is once set upon a thing, all the devils will not turn her out of her way. she promises silence. i can't pretend to bargain with her. i'd as lief be ducked, as meet her face to face. i know she'll do what she promises: that was always her grand failing. how the little witch talks! just the dreamer she ever was! justice! compassion! stupid fool! one would think she'd learned something of the world by this time." he took out his pocket-book. among the notes it contained the lowest was fifty dollars. this was too much, yet there was no alternative; something must be given. she had detected his abode, and he knew it was in the power of the dudleys to ruin his reputation, and obstruct his present schemes. it was probable that, if they should exert themselves, their cause would find advocates and patrons. still the gratuitous gift of fifty dollars sat uneasily upon his avarice. one idea occurred to reconcile him to the gift. there was a method he conceived of procuring the repayment of it with interest: he enclosed the note in a blank piece of paper, and sent it to her. she received the paper, and opened it with trembling fingers: when she saw what were its contents, her feelings amounted to rapture. a sum like this was affluence to her in her present condition; at least it would purchase present comfort and security. her heart glowed with exultation, and she seemed to tread with the lightness of air as she hied homeward. the languor of a long fast, the numbness of the cold, were forgotten. it is worthy of remark how much of human accommodation was comprised within this small compass; and how sudden was this transition from the verge of destruction to the summit of security. her first business was to call upon her landlord, and pay him his demand. on her return she discharged the little debts she had been obliged to contract, and purchased what was immediately necessary. wood she could borrow from her next neighbour, and this she was willing to do, now that she had the prospect of repaying it. end of vol. i. (http://www.freeliterature.org) from page images generously made available by the google books library project (http://books.google.com/) note: project gutenberg also has the other two volumes of this book. volume i: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36289 volume iii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36291 images of the original pages are available through the the google books library project. see http://books.google.com/books?id=rrggaaaaqaaj&oe=utf-8 ormond; or, the secret witness. by b. c. brown, author of wieland, or transformation. in three volumes. vol. ii. "sæpe intereunt aliis meditantes necem." phædrus "those who plot the destruction of others, very often fall, themselves the victims." philadelphia printed, london, re-printed for henry colburn, english and foreign public library, conduit-street, bond-street. 1811. ormond, or the secret witness chapter i. on leaving mr. ormond's house, constantia was met by that gentleman. he saw her as she came out, and was charmed with the simplicity of her appearance. on entering, he interrogated the servant as to the business that brought her thither. "so," said he, as he entered the drawing-room, where craig was seated, "you have had a visitant. she came, it seems, on a pressing occasion, and would be put off with nothing but a letter." craig had not expected this address, but it only precipitated the execution of a design that he had formed. being aware of this or similar accidents, he had constructed and related on a previous occasion to ormond a story suitable to his purpose. "ay," said he, in a tone of affected compassion, "it is a sad affair enough. i am sorry it is not in my power to help the poor girl. she is wrong in imputing her father's misfortunes to me, but i know the source of her mistake. would to heaven it was in my flower to repair the wrongs they have suffered not from me, but from one whose relationship is a disgrace to me." "perhaps," replied the other, "you are willing to explain this affair." "yes, i wish to explain it. i was afraid of some such accident as this. an explanation is due to my character. i have already told you my story. i mentioned to you a brother of mine. there is scarcely thirteen months difference in our ages. there is a strong resemblance between him and me in our exterior, though i hope there is none at all in our minds. this brother was a partner of a gentleman, the father of this girl, at new york. he was a long time nothing better than an apprentice to mr. dudley, but he advanced so much in the good graces of his master, that he finally took him into partnership. i did not know till i arrived on the continent the whole of his misconduct. it appears that he embezzled the property of the house, and fled away with it, and the consequence was, that his quondam master was ruined. i am often mistaken for my brother, to my no small inconvenience: but all this i told you formerly. see what a letter i just now received from this girl." craig was one of the most plausible of men. his character was a standing proof of the vanity of physiognomy. there were few men who could refuse their confidence to his open and ingenuous aspect. to this circumstance, perhaps, he owed his ruin. his temptations to deceive were stronger than what are incident to most other men. deception was so easy a task, that the difficulty lay, not in infusing false opinions respecting him, but in preventing them from being spontaneously imbibed. he contracted habits of imposture imperceptibly. in proportion as he deviated from the practice of truth, he discerned the necessity of extending and systematizing his efforts, and of augmenting the original benignity and attractiveness of his looks, by studied additions. the further he proceeded, the more difficult it was to return. experience and habit added daily to his speciousness, till at length the world perhaps might have been searched in vain for his competitor. he had been introduced to ormond under the most favourable auspices. he had provided against a danger which he knew to be imminent, by relating his own story as if it were his brother's. he had, however, made various additions to it, serving to aggravate the heinousness of his guilt. this arose partly from policy, and partly from the habit of lying, which was prompted by a fertile invention, and rendered inveterate by incessant exercise. he interwove in his tale an intrigue between miss dudley and his brother. the former was seduced, and this man had employed his skill in chirographical imitation, in composing letters from miss dudley to his brother, which sufficiently attested her dishonour. he and his brother, he related, to have met in jamaica, where the latter died, by which meant his personal property and papers came into his possession. ormond read the letter which his companion presented to him on this occasion. the papers which craig had formerly permitted him to inspect had made him familiar with her handwriting. the penmanship was, indeed, similar, yet this was written in a spirit not quite congenial with that which had dictated her letters to her lover. but he reflected that the emergency was extraordinary, and that the new scenes through which she had passed, had, perhaps, enabled her to retrieve her virtue and enforce it. the picture which she drew of her father's distresses affected him and his companion very differently. he pondered on it for some time in silence; he then looked up, and with his usual abruptness said, "i suppose you gave her something?" "no. i was extremely sorry that it was not in my power. i have nothing but a little trifling silver about me. i i have no more at home than will barely suffice to pay my board here, and my expenses to baltimore. till i reach there i cannot expect a supply. i was less uneasy i confess on this account, because i knew you to be equally willing and much more able to afford the relief she asks." this mr. ormond had predetermined to do. he paused only to deliberate in what manner it could, with most propriety, be done. he was always willing, when he conferred benefits, to conceal the author. he was not displeased when gratitude was misplaced, and readily allowed his instruments to act as if they were principals. he questioned not the veracity of craig, and was, therefore, desirous to free him from the molestation that was threatened in the way which had been prescribed. he put a note of one hundred dollars into his hand, and enjoined him to send it to the dudleys that evening, or early the next morning. "i am pleased," he added, "with the style of this letter: it can be of no service to you; leave it in my possession." craig would much rather have thrown it into the fire; but he knew the character of his companion, and was afraid to make any objection to his request. he promised to send, or carry the note the next morning, before he set out on his intended journey. this journey was to baltimore, and was undertaken so soon merely to oblige his friend, who was desirous of remitting to baltimore a considerable sum in english guineas, and who had been for some time in search of one who might execute this commission with fidelity. the offer of craig had been joyfully accepted, and next morning had been the time fixed for his departure, a period the most opportune for craig's designs that could be imagined. to return to miss dudley. the sum that remained to her after the discharge of her debts would quickly be expended. it was no argument of wisdom to lose sight of the future in the oblivion of present care. the time would inevitably come when new resources would be necessary. every hour brought nearer the period without facilitating the discovery of new expedients. she related the recent adventure to her father. he acquiesced in the propriety of her measures, but the succour that she had thus obtained consoled him but little. he saw how speedily it would again be required, and was hopeless of a like fortunate occurrence. some days had elapsed, and constantia had been so fortunate as to procure some employment. she was thus engaged in the evening when they were surprised by a visit from their landlord. this was an occurrence that foreboded them no good. he entered with abruptness, and scarcely noticed the salutations that he received. his bosom swelled with discontent, which seemed ready to be poured out upon his two companions. to the inquiry as to the condition of his health and that of his family, he surlily answered: "never mind how i am: none the better for my tenants i think. never was a man so much plagued as i have been; what with one putting me off from time to time; what with another quarrelling about terms, and denying his agreement, and another running away in my debt, i expect nothing but to come to poverty--god help me!--at last. but this was the worst of all. i was never before treated so in all my life. i don't know what or when i shall get to the end of my troubles. to be fobbed out of my rent and twenty-five dollars into the bargain! it is very strange treatment, i assure you, mr. dudley." "what is it you mean?" replied that gentleman. "you have received your dues, and--" "received my dues, indeed! high enough too! i have received none of my dues. i have been imposed upon. i have been put to very great trouble, and expect some compensation. there is no knowing the character of one's tenants. there is nothing but knavery in the world one would think. i'm sure no man has suffered more by bad tenants than i have. but this is the strangest treatment i ever met with. very strange indeed, dudley, and i must be paid without delay. to lose my rent and twenty-five dollars into the bargain, is too hard. i never met with the equal of it--not i. besides, i wou'dn't be put to all this trouble for twice the sum." "what does all this mean, mr. m'crea? you seem inclined to scold; but i cannot conceive why you came here for that purpose. this behaviour is improper--" "no, it is very proper, and i want payment of my money. fifty dollars you owe me. miss comes to pay me my rent as i thought. she brings me a fifty-dollar note; i changes it for her, for i thought to be sure i was quite safe: but, behold, when i sends it to the bank to get the money, they sends me back word that it's forged, and calls on me, before a magistrate, to tell them where i got it from. i'm sure i never was so flustered in my life. i would not have such a thing for ten times the sum." he proceeded to descant on his loss without any interruption from his auditors, whom this intelligence had struck dumb. mr. dudley instantly saw the origin and full extent of this misfortune. he was, nevertheless, calm, and indulged in no invectives against craig. "it is all of a piece," said he: "our ruin is inevitable. well then, let it come." after m'crea had railed himself weary, he flung out of the house, warning them that next morning he should distrain for his rent, and, at the same time, sue them for the money that constantia had received in exchange for her note. miss dudley was unable to pursue her task. she laid down her needle, and fixed her eyes upon her father. they had been engaged in earnest discourse when their landlord entered. now there was a pause of profound silence, till the affectionate lucy, who sufficiently comprehended this scene, gave vent to her affliction in sobs. her mistress turned to her:-"cheer up, my lucy. we shall do well enough, my girl. our state is bad enough, without doubt, but despair will make it worse." the anxiety that occupied her mind related less to herself than to her father. he, indeed in the present instance, was exposed to prosecution. it was he who was answerable for the debt, and whose person would be thrown into durance by the suit that was menaced. the horrors of a prison had not hitherto been experienced or anticipated. the worst evil that she had imagined was inexpressibly inferior to this. the idea had in it something of terrific and loathsome. the mere supposition of its being possible was not to be endured. if all other expedients should fail, she thought of nothing less than desperate resistance. no. it was better to die than to go to prison. for a time she was deserted of her admirable equanimity. this, no doubt, was the result of surprise. she had not yet obtained the calmness necessary to deliberation. during this gloomy interval, she would, perhaps, have adapted any scheme, however dismal and atrocious, which her father's despair might suggest. she would not refuse to terminate her own and her father's unfortunate existence by poison or the cord. this confusion of mind could not exist long; it gradually gave place to cheerful prospects. the evil perhaps was not without its timely remedy. the person whom she had set out to visit, when her course was diverted by craig, she once more resolved to apply to; to lay before him, without reserve, her father's situation, to entreat pecuniary succour, and to offer herself as a servant in his family, or in that of any of his friends who stood in need of one. this resolution, in a slight degree, consoled her; but her mind had been too thoroughly disturbed to allow her any sleep during that night. she equipped herself betimes, and proceeded with a doubting heart to the house of mr. melbourne. she was informed that he had risen, but was never to be seen at so early an hour. at nine o'clock he would be disengaged, and she would be admitted. in the present state of her affairs this delay was peculiarly unwelcome. at breakfast, her suspense and anxieties would not allow her to eat a morsel; and when the hour approached she prepared herself for a new attempt. as she went out, she met at the door a person whom she recognized, and whose office she knew to be that of a constable. constantia had exercised, in her present narrow sphere, that beneficence which she had formerly exerted in a larger. there was nothing, consistent with her slender means, that she did not willingly perform for the service of others. she had not been sparing of consolation and personal aid in many cases of personal distress that had occurred in her neighbourhood hence, as far as she was known, he was reverenced. the wife of their present visitant had experienced her succour and sympathy, on occasion of the death of a favourite child. the man, notwithstanding his office, was not of a rugged or ungrateful temper. the task that was now imposed upon him he undertook with extreme reluctance. he was somewhat reconciled to it by the reflection that another might not perform it with that gentleness and lenity which he found in himself a disposition to exercise on all occasions, but particularly on the present. she easily guessed at his business, and having greeted him with the utmost friendliness, returned with him into the house. she endeavoured to remove the embarrassment that hung about him, but in vain. having levied what the law very properly calls a distress, he proceeded, after much hesitation, to inform dudley that he was charged with a message from a magistrate, summoning him to come forthwith, and account for having a forged banknote in his possession. m'crea had given no intimation of this. the painful surprise that it produced soon yielded to a just view of this affair. temporary inconvenience and vexation was all that could be dreaded from it. mr. dudley hated to be seen or known. he usually walked out in the dusk of evening, but limited his perambulations to a short space. at all other times he was obstinately recluse. he was easily persuaded by his daughter to allow her to perform this unwelcome office in his stead. he had not received, nor even seen the note. he would have willingly spared her the mortification of a judicial examination, but he knew that this was unavoidable. should he comply with this summons himself, his daughter's presence would be equally necessary. influenced by these considerations, he was willing that his daughter should accompany the messenger, who was content that they should consult their mutual convenience in this respect. this interview was to her not without its terrors; but she cherished the hope that it might ultimately conduce to good. she did not foresee the means by which this would be effected, but her heart was lightened by a secret and inexplicable faith in the propitiousness of some event that was yet to occur. this faith was powerfully enforced when she reached the magistrate's door, and found that he was no other than melbourne, whose succour she intended to solicit. she was speedily ushered, not into his office, but into a private apartment, where he received her alone. he had been favourably prepossessed with regard to her character by the report of the officer who, on being charged with the message, had accounted for the regret which he manifested, by dwelling on the merits of miss dudley. he behaved with grave civility, requested her to be seated, and accurately scrutinized her appearance. she found herself not deceived in her preconceptions of this gentleman's character, and drew a favourable omen as to the event of this interview by what had already taken place. he viewed her in silence for some time, and then, in a conciliating tone, said:-"it seems to me, madam, as if i had seen you before. your face, indeed, is of that kind which, when once seen, is not easily forgotten. i know it is a long time since, but i cannot tell when or where. if you will not deem me impertinent, i will venture to ask you to assist my conjectures. your name, as i am informed, is acworth."--(i ought to have mentioned that mr. dudley, on his removal from new york, among other expedients to obliterate the memory of his former condition, and conceal his poverty from the world, had made this change in his name.) "that, indeed," said the lady, "is the name which my father at present bears. his real name is dudley. his abode was formerly in queen street, new york. your conjecture, sir, is not erroneous. this is not the first time we have seen each other. i well recollect your having been at my father's house in the days of his prosperity." "is it possible?" exclaimed mr. melbourne, starting from his seat in the first impulse of his astonishment. "are you the daughter of my friend dudley, by whom i have so often been hospitably entertained? i have heard of his misfortunes, but knew not that he was alive, or in what part of the world he resided. "you are summoned on a very disagreeable affair, but i doubt not you will easily exculpate your father. i am told that he is blind, and that his situation is by no means as comfortable as might be wished. i am grieved that he did not confide in the friendship of those that knew him. what could prompt him to conceal himself?" "my father has a proud spirit. it is not yet broken by adversity. he disdains _to beg_, but i must now assume _that office_ for his sake. i came hither this morning to lay before you his situation, and to entreat your assistance to save him from a prison. he cannot pay for the poor tenement he occupies; and our few goods are already under distress. he has, likewise, contracted a debt. he is, i suppose, already sued on this account, and must go to gaol, unless saved by the interposition of some friend." "it is true," said melbourne, "i yesterday granted a warrant against him at the suit of malcolm m'crea. little did i think that the defendant was stephen dudley; but you may dismiss all apprehensions on that score. that affair shall be settled to your father's satisfaction: meanwhile we will, if you please, despatch this unpleasant business respecting a counterfeit note received in payment from you by this m'crea." miss dudley satisfactorily explained that affair. she stated the relation in which craig had formerly stood to her father, and the acts of which he had been guilty. she slightly touched on the distresses which the family had undergone during their abode in this city, and the means by which she had been able to preserve her father from want. she mentioned the circumstances which compelled her to seek his charity as the last resource, and the casual encounter with craig, by which she was for the present diverted from that design. she laid before him a copy of the letter she had written, and explained the result in the gift of the note which now appeared to be a counterfeit. she concluded with stating her present views, and soliciting him to receive her into his family, in quality of a servant, or use his interest with some of his friends to procure a provision of this kind. this tale was calculated deeply to affect a man of mr. melbourne's humanity. "no," said he, "i cannot listen to such a request. my inclination is bounded by my means. these will not allow me to place you in an independent situation; but i will do what i can. with your leave, i will introduce you to my wife in your true character. her good sense will teach her to set a just value on your friendship. there is no disgrace in earning your subsistence by your own industry. she and her friends will furnish you with plenty of materials; but if there ever be a deficiency, look to them for a supply." constantia's heart overflowed at this declaration. her silence was more eloquent than any words could have been. she declined an immediate introduction to his wife, and withdrew; but not till her new friend had forced her to accept some money. "place it to account," said he. "it is merely paying you before hand, and discharging a debt at the time when it happens to be most useful to the creditor." to what entire and incredible reverses is the tenor of human life subject! a short minute shall effect a transition from a state utterly destitute of hope to a condition where, all is serene and abundant. the path, which we employ all our exertions to shun, is often found, upon trial, to be the true road to prosperity. constantia retired from this interview with a heart bounding with exultation. she related to her father all that had happened. he was pleased on her account, but the detection of his poverty by melbourne was the parent of new mortification. his only remaining hope relative to himself was that he should die in his obscurity, whereas, it was probable that his old acquaintance would trace him to his covert. this prognostic filled him with the deepest inquietude, and all the reasonings of his daughter were insufficient to appease him. melbourne made his appearance in the afternoon. he was introduced by constantia to her father. mr. dudley's figure was emaciated, and his features corroded by his ceaseless melancholy. his blindness produced in them a woeful and wildering expression. his dress betokened his penury, and was in unison with the meanness of his habitation and furniture. the visitant was struck with the melancholy contrast, which these appearances exhibited, to the joyousness and splendour that he had formerly witnessed. mr. dudley received the salutations of his guest with an air of embarrassment and dejection. he resigned to his daughter the task of sustaining the conversation, and excused himself from complying with the urgent invitations of melbourne, while, at the same time, he studiously forebore all expressions tending to encourage any kind of intercourse between them. the guest came with a message from his wife, who entreated miss dudley's company to tea with her that evening, adding that she should be entirely alone. it was impossible to refuse compliance with this request. she cheerfully assented, and in the evening was introduced to mrs. melbourne by her husband. constantia found in this lady nothing that called for reverence or admiration, though she could not deny her some portion of esteem. the impression which her own appearance and conversation made upon her entertainer was much more powerful and favourable. a consciousness of her own worth, and disdain of the malevolence of fortune, perpetually shone forth in her behaviour. it was modelled by a sort of mean between presumption on the one hand, and humility on the other. she claimed no more than what was justly due to her, but she claimed no less. she did not soothe our vanity nor fascinate our pity by diffident reserves and fluttering. neither did she disgust by arrogant negligence, and uncircumspect loquacity. at parting she received commissions in the way of her profession, which supplied her with abundant and profitable employment. she abridged her visit on her father's account, and parted from her new friend just early enough to avoid meeting with ormond, who entered the house a few minutes after she had left it. "what pity," said melbourne to him, "you did not come a little sooner. you pretend to be a judge of beauty. i should like to have heard your opinion of a face that has just left us." "describe it," said the other. "that is beyond my capacity. complexion, and hair, and eyebrows may be painted, but these are of no great value in the present case. it is in the putting them together that nature has here shown her skill, and not in the structure of each of the parts, individually considered. perhaps you may at some time meet each other here. if a lofty fellow like you, now, would mix a little common sense with his science, this girl might hope for a husband, and her father for a natural protector." "are they ill search of one or the other?" "i cannot say they are. nay, i imagine they would hear any imputation with more patience than that, but certain i am, they stand in need of them. how much would it be to the honour of a man like you rioting in wealth, to divide it with one, lovely and accomplished as this girl is, and struggling with indigence!" melbourne then related the adventure of the morning. it was easy for ormond to perceive that this was the same person of whom he already had some knowledge; but there were some particulars in the narrative that excited surprise. a note had been received from craig, at the first visit in the evening, and this note was for no more than fifty dollars. this did not exactly tally with the information received from craig. but this note was forged. might not this girl mix a little imposture with her truth? who knows her temptations to hypocrisy? it might have been a present from another quarter, and accompanied with no very honourable conditions. exquisite wretch! those whom honesty will not let live must be knaves. such is the alternative offered by the wisdom of society. he listened to the tale with apparent indifference. he speedily shifted the conversation to new topics, and put an end to his visit sooner than ordinary. chapter ii. i know no task more arduous than a just delineation of the character of ormond. to scrutinize and ascertain our own principles is abundantly difficult. to exhibit these principles to the world with absolute sincerity can hardly be expected. we are prompted to conceal and to feign by a thousand motives; but truly to portray the motives, and relate the actions of another, appears utterly impossible. the attempt, however, if made with fidelity and diligence, is not without its use. to comprehend the whole truth with regard to the character and conduct of another, may be denied to any human being, but different observers will have, in their pictures, a greater or less portion of this truth. no representation will be wholly false, and some, though not perfectly, may yet be considerably exempt from error. ormond was of all mankind the being most difficult and most deserving to be studied. a fortunate concurrence of incidents has unveiled his actions to me with more distinctness than to any other. my knowledge is far from being absolute, but i am conscious of a kind of duty, first to my friend, and secondly to mankind, to impart the knowledge i possess. i shall omit to mention the means by which i became acquainted with his character, nor shall i enter, at this time, into every part of it. his political projects are likely to possess an extensive influence on the future condition of this western world. i do not conceive myself authorized to communicate a knowledge of his schemes, which i gained, in some sort, surreptitiously, or at least, by means of which he was not apprised. i shall merely explain the maxims by which he was accustomed to regulate his private deportment. no one could entertain loftier conceptions of human capacity than ormond, but he carefully distinguished between men in the abstract, and men as they are. the former were beings to be impelled, by the breath of accident, in a right or a wrong road, but whatever direction they should receive, it was the property of their nature to persist in it. now this impulse had been given. no single being could rectify the error. it was the business of the wise man to form a just estimate of things, but not to attempt, by individual efforts, so chimerical an enterprise as that of promoting the happiness of mankind. their condition was out of the reach of a member of a corrupt society to control. a mortal poison pervaded the whole system, by means of which every thing received was converted into bane and purulence. efforts designed to ameliorate the condition of an individual were sure of answering a contrary purpose. the principles of the social machine must be rectified, before men can be beneficially active. our motives may be neutral or beneficent, but our actions tend merely to the production of evil. the idea of total forbearance was not less delusive. man could not be otherwise than a cause of perpetual operation and efficacy. he was part of a machine, and as such had not power to withhold his agency. contiguousness to other parts, that is, to other men, was all that was necessary to render him a powerful concurrent. what then was the conduct incumbent on him? whether he went forward, or stood still, whether his motives were malignant, or kind, or indifferent, the mass of evil was equally and necessarily augmented. it did not follow from these preliminaries that virtue and duty were terms without a meaning, but they require us to promote our own happiness and not the happiness of others. not because the former end is intrinsically preferable, not because the happiness of others is unworthy of primary consideration, but because it is not to be attained. our power in the present state of things is subjected to certain limits. a man may reasonably hope to accomplish his end when he proposes nothing but his own good: any other point is inaccessible. he must not part with benevolent desire: this is a constituent of happiness. he sees the value of general and particular felicity; he sometimes paints it to his fancy, but if this be rarely done, it is in consequence of virtuous sensibility, which is afflicted on observing that his pictures are reversed in the real state of mankind. a wise man will relinquish the pursuit of general benefit, but not the desire of that benefit, or the perception of that in which this benefit consists, because these are among the ingredients of virtue and the sources of his happiness. principles, in the looser sense of that term, have little influence on practice. ormond was, for the most part, governed, like others, by the influences of education and present circumstances. it required a vigilant discernment to distinguish whether the stream of his actions flowed from one or the other. his income was large, and he managed it nearly on the same principles as other men. he thought himself entitled to all the splendour and ease which it would purchase, but his taste was elaborate and correct. he gratified his love of the beautiful, because the sensations it afforded were pleasing, but made no sacrifices to the love of distinction. he gave no expensive entertainments for the sake of exciting the admiration of stupid gazers, or the flattery or envy of those who shared them. pompous equipage and retinue were modes of appropriating the esteem of mankind which he held in profound contempt. the garb of his attendants was fashioned after the model suggested by his imagination, and not in compliance with the dictates of custom. he treated with systematic negligence the etiquette that regulates the intercourse of persons of a certain class. he every where acted, in this respect, as if he were alone, or among familiar associates. the very appellations of sir, and madam, and mister, were, in his apprehension, servile and ridiculous, and as custom or law had annexed no penalty to the neglect of these, he conformed to his own opinions. it was easier for him to reduce his notions of equality to practice than for most others. to level himself with others was an act of condescension and not of arrogance. it was of requisite to descend rather than to risk,--a task the most easy, if we regard the obstacle flowing from the prejudice of mankind, but far most difficult if the motive of the agent be considered. that in which he chiefly placed his boast, was his sincerity. to this he refused no sacrifice. in consequence of this, his deportment was disgusting to weak minds, by a certain air of ferocity and haughty negligence. he was without the attractions of candour, because he regarded not the happiness of others, but in subservience to his sincerity. hence it was natural to suppose that the character of this man was easily understood. he affected to conceal nothing. no one appeared more exempt from the instigations of vanity. he set light by the good opinions of others, had no compassion for their prejudices and hazarded assertions in their presence which he knew would be, in the highest degree, shocking to their previous notions. they might take it, he would say, as they list. such were his conceptions, and the last thing he would give up was the use of his tongue. it was his way to give utterance to the suggestions of his understanding. if they were disadvantageous to him, the opinions of others, it was well. he did not want to be regarded in any light but the true one. he was contented to be rated by the world at his just value. if they esteemed him for qualities which he did not possess, was he wrong in rectifying their mistake: but in reality, if they valued him for that to which he had no claim, and which he himself considered as contemptible, he must naturally desire to show them their error, and forfeit that praise which, in his own opinion, was a badge of infamy. in listening to his discourse, no one's claim to sincerity appeared less questionable. a somewhat different conclusion would be suggested by a survey of his actions. in early youth he discovered in himself a remarkable facility in imitating the voice and gestures of others. his memory was eloquently retentive, and these qualities would have rendered his career, in the theatrical profession, illustrious, had not his condition raised him above it. his talents were occasionally exerted for the entertainment of convivial parties and private circles, but he gradually withdrew from such scenes as he advanced in age, and devoted his abilities to higher purposes. his aversion to duplicity had flowed from experience of its evils. he had frequently been made its victim; inconsequence of this his temper had become suspicious, and he was apt to impute deceit on occasions when others, of no inconsiderable sagacity, were abundantly disposed to confidence. one transaction had occurred in his life, in which the consequences of being misled by false appearances were of the utmost moment to his honour and safety. the usual mode of salving his doubt he deeded insufficient, and the eagerness of his curiosity tempted him, for, the first time, to employ, for this end, his talent at imitation. he therefore assumed a borrowed character and guise, and performed his part with so much skill as fully to accomplish life design. he whose mask would have secured him from all other attempts, was thus taken through an avenue which his caution had overlooked, and the hypocrisy of his pretensions unquestionably ascertained. perhaps, in a comprehensive view, the success of this expedient was unfortunate. it served to recommend this method of encountering deceit, and informed him of the extent of those powers which are so liable to be abused. a subtlety much inferior to ormond would suffice to recommend this mode of action. it was defensible on no other principle than necessity. the treachery of mankind compelled him to resort to it. if they should deal in a manner as upright and explicit as himself, it would be superfluous. but since they were in the perpetual use of stratagems and artifices, it was allowable, he thought, to wield the same arms. it was easy to perceive, however, that this practice was recommended to him by other considerations. he was delighted with the power it conferred. it enabled him to gain access, as if by supernatural means, to the privacy of others, and baffle their profoundest contrivances to hide themselves from his view. it flattered him with the possession of something like omniscience. it was besides an art, in which, as in others, every accession of skill was a source of new gratification. compared with this, the performance of the actor is the sport of children. this profession he was accustomed to treat with merciless ridicule, and no doubt some of his contempt arose from a secret comparison between the theatrical species of imitation and his own. he blended in his own person the functions of poet and actor, and his dramas were not fictitious but real. the end that he proposed was not the amusement of a playhouse mob. his were scenes in which hope and fear exercised a genuine influence, and in which was maintained that resemblance to truth so audaciously and grossly violated on the stage. it is obvious how many singular conjunctures must have grown out of this propensity. a mind of uncommon energy like ormond's, which had occupied a wide sphere of action, and which could not fail of confederating its efforts with those of minds like itself, must have given birth to innumerable incidents, not unworthy to be exhibited by the most eloquent historian. it is not my business to relate any of these. the fate of miss dudley is intimately connected with him. what influence he obtained over her destiny, in consequence of this dexterity, will appear in the sequel. it arose from these circumstances, that no one was more impenetrable than ormond, though no one's real character seemed more easily discerned. the projects that occupied his attention were diffused over an ample space; and his instruments and coadjutors were culled from a field, whose bounds were those of the civilized world. to the vulgar eye, therefore, he appeared a man of speculation and seclusion, and was equally inscrutable in his real and assumed characters. in his real, his intents were too lofty and comprehensive, as well as too assiduously shrouded from profane inspection for them to scan. in the latter, appearances were merely calculated to mislead and not to enlighten. in his youth he had been guilty of the usual excesses incident to his age and character. these had disappeared and yielded place to a more regular and circumspect system of action. in the choice of his pleasures he still exposed himself to the censure of the world. yet there was more of grossness and licentiousness in the expression of his tenets, than in the tenets themselves. so far as temporance regards the maintenance of health, no man adhered to its precepts with more fidelity, but he esteemed some species of connection with the other sex as venial, which mankind in general are vehement in condemning. in his intercourse with women he deemed himself superior to the allurements of what is called love. his inferences were drawn from a consideration of the physical propensities of a human being. in his scale of enjoyments the gratifications which belonged to these were placed at the bottom. yet he did not entirely disdain them, and when they could be purchased without the sacrifice of superior advantages, they were sufficiently acceptable. his mistake on this head was the result of his ignorance. he had not hitherto met with a female worthy of his confidence. their views were limited and superficial, or their understandings were betrayed by the tenderness of their hearts. he found in them no intellectual energy, no superiority to what he accounted vulgar prejudice, and no affinity with the sentiments which he cherished with most devotion. their presence had been capable of exciting no emotion which he did not quickly discover to be vague and sensual; and the uniformity of his experience at length instilled into him a belief, that the intellectual constitution of females was essentially defective. he denied the reality of that passion which claimed a similitude or sympathy of minds as one of its ingredients. chapter iii. he resided in new york some time before he took up his abode in philadelphia. he had some pecuniary concerns with a merchant of that place. he occasionally frequented his house, finding, in the society which it afforded him, scope for amusing speculation, and opportunities of gaining a species of knowledge of which at that time he stood in need. there was one daughter of the family, who of course constituted a member of the domestic circle. helena cleves was endowed with every feminine and fascinating quality. her features were modified by the most transient sentiments, and were the seat of a softness at all times blushful and bewitching. all those graces of symmetry, smoothness, and lustre, which assemble in the imagination of the painter when he calls from the bosom of her natal deep the paphian divinity, blended their perfections in the shape, complexion, and hair of this lady. her voice was naturally thrilling and melodious, and her utterance clear and distinct. a musical education had added to all these advantages the improvements of art, and no one could swim in the dance with such airy and transporting elegance. it is obvious to inquire whether her mental were, in any degree, on a level with her exterior accomplishments. should you listen to her talk, you would be liable to be deceived in this respect. her utterance was so just, her phrases so happy, and her language so copious and correct, that the hearer was apt to be impressed with an ardent veneration of her abilities, but the truth is, she was calculated to excite emotions more voluptuous than dignified. her presence produced a trance of the senses rather than an illumination of the soul. it was a topic of wonder how she should have so carefully separated the husk from the kernel, and he so absolute a mistress of the vehicle of knowledge, with so slender means of supplying it: yet it is difficult to judge but from comparison. to say that helena cleves was silly or ignorant would be hatefully unjust. her understanding bore no disadvantageous comparison with that of the majority of her sex; but when placed in competition with that of some eminent females or of ormond, it was exposed to the risk of contempt. this lady and ormond were exposed to mutual examination. the latter was not unaffected by the radiance that environed this girl, but her true character was easily discovered, and he was accustomed to regard her merely as an object charming to the senses. his attention to her was dictated by this principle. when she sung or talked, it was not unworthy of the strongest mind to be captivated with her music and her elocution: but these were the limits which he set to his gratifications. that sensations of a different kind never ruffled his tranquillity must not be supposed, but he too accurately estimated their consequences to permit himself to indulge them. unhappily the lady did not exercise equal fortitude. during a certain interval ormond's visits were frequent, and the insensibly contracted for him somewhat more than reverence. the tenor of his discourse was little adapted to cherish her hopes. in the declaration of his opinions he was never withheld by scruples of decorum, or a selfish regard to his own interest. his matrimonial tenets were harsh and repulsive. a woman of keener penetration would have predicted from them the disappointment of her wishes, but helena's mind was uninured to the discussion of logical points and the tracing of remote consequences. his presence inspired feelings which would not permit her to bestow an impartial attention on his arguments. it is not enough to say that his reasonings failed to convince her: the combined influence of passion, and an unenlightened understanding hindered her from fully comprehending them. all she gathered was a vague conception of something magnificent and vast in his character. helena was destined to experience the vicissitudes of fortune. her father died suddenly and left her without provision. she was compelled to accept the invitations of a kinswoman, and live, in some sort, a life of dependence. she was not qualified to sustain this reverse of fortune in a graceful manner. she could not bear the diminution of her customary indulgences, and to these privations were added the inquietudes of a passion which now began to look with an aspect of hopelessness. these events happened in the absence of ormond. on his return he made himself acquainted with them. he saw the extent of this misfortune to a woman of helena's character, but knew not in what manner it might be effectually obviated. he esteemed it incumbent on him to pay her a visit in her new abode. this token at least of respect or remembrance his duty appeared to prescribe. this visit was unexpected by the lady. surprise is the enemy of concealment. she was oppressed with a sense of her desolate situation. she was sitting in her own apartment in a museful posture. her fancy was occupied with the image of ormond, and her tears were flowing at the thought of their eternal separation, when he entered softly and unperceived by her. a tap upon the shoulder was the first signal of his presence. so critical an interview could not fail of unveiling the true state of the lady's heart. ormond's suspicions were excited, and these suspicions speedily led to an explanation. ormond retired to ruminate on this discovery. i have already mentioned his sentiments respecting love. his feelings relative to helena did not contradict his principles, yet the image which had formerly been exquisite in loveliness had now suddenly gained unspeakable attractions. this discovery had set the question in a new light. it was of sufficient importance to make him deliberate. he reasoned somewhat in the following manner:-"marriage is absurd. this flows from the general and incurable imperfection of the female character. no woman can possess that worth which would induce me to enter into this contract, and bind myself, without power of revoking the decree, to her society. this opinion may possibly be erroneous, but it is undoubtedly true with respect to helena, and the uncertainty of the position in general will increase the necessity of caution in the present case. that woman may exist whom i should not fear to espouse. this is not her. some accident may cause our meeting. shall i then disable myself, by an irrevocable obligation, from profiting by so auspicious an occurrence?" this girl's society was to be enjoyed in one of two ways. should he consult his inclination there was little room for doubt. he had never met with one more highly qualified for that species of intercourse which he esteemed rational. no man more abhorred the votaries of licentiousness. nothing was more detectable to him than a mercenary alliance. personal fidelity and the existence of that passion of which he had, in the present case, the good fortune to be the object, were indispensable in his scheme. the union was indebted for its value on the voluntariness with which it was formed, and the entire acquiescence of the judgement of both parties in its rectitude. dissimulation and artifice were wholly foreign to the success of his project. if the lady thought proper to assent to his proposal, it was well. she did so because assent was more eligible than refusal. she would, no doubt, prefer marriage. she would deem it more conducive to happiness. this was an error. this was an opinion, his reasons for which he was at liberty to state to her; at least it was justifiable in refusing to subject himself to loathsome and impracticable obligations. certain inconveniences attended women who set aside, on these occasions, the sanction of law; but these were imaginary. they owed their force to the errors of the sufferer. to annihilate them, it was only necessary to reason justly; but allowing these inconveniences their full weight and an indestructible existence, it was but a choice of evils. were they worse in this lady's apprehension than an eternal and hopeless separation? perhaps they were. if so, she would make her election accordingly. he did nothing but lay the conditions before her. if his scheme should obtain the concurrence of her unbiased judgement he should rejoice. if not, her conduct should be influenced by him. whatever way she should decide, he would assist her in adhering to her decision, but would, meanwhile, furnish her with the materials of a right decision. this determination was singular. many will regard it as incredible. no man it will be thought can put this deception on himself, and imagine that there was genuine beneficence in a scheme like this. would the lady more consult her happiness by adopting than by rejecting it? there can be but one answer. it cannot be supposed that ormond, in stating this proposal, acted with all the impartiality that he pretended; that he did not employ fallacious exaggerations and ambiguous expedients; that he did not seize every opportunity of triumphing over her weakness, and building his success rather on the illusions of her heart than the convictions of her understanding. his conclusions were specious but delusive, and were not uninfluenced by improper biases; but of this he himself was scarcely conscious, and it must be at least admitted that he acted with scrupulous sincerity. an uncommon degree of skill was required to introduce this topic so as to avoid the imputation of an insult. this scheme was little in unison with all her preconceived notions. no doubt the irksomeness of her present situation, the allurements of luxury and ease which ormond had to bestow, and the revival of her ancient independence and security, had some share in dictating her assent. her concurrence was by no means cordial and unhesitating. remorse and the sense of dishonour pursued her to her retreat, though chosen with a view of shunning their intrusions; and it was only when the reasonings and blandishments of her lover were exhibited, that she was lulled into temporary tranquillity. she removed to philadelphia. here she enjoyed all the consolations of opulence. she was mistress of a small but elegant mansion. she possessed all the means of solitary amusement, and frequently enjoyed the company of ormond. these however were insufficient to render her happy. certain reflections might, for a time, be repressed as divested of their sting, but they insinuated themselves at every interval, and imparted to her mind a hue of rejection from which she could not entirely relieve herself. she endeavoured to acquire a relish for the pursuits of literature, by which her lonely hours might be cheered; but of this, even in the blithsomeness and serenity of her former days, she was incapable; --much more so now when she was the prey of perpetual inquietude. ormond perceived this change, not without uneasiness. all his efforts to reconcile her to her present situation were fruitless. they produced a momentary effect upon her. the softness of her temper and her attachment to him would, at his bidding, restore her to vivacity and ease, but the illumination seldom endured longer than his presence and the novelty of some amusement with which he had furnished her. at his next visit, perhaps, he would find that a new task awaited him. she indulged herself in no recriminations or invectives. she could not complain that her lover had deceived her. she had voluntarily and deliberately accepted the conditions prescribed. she regarded her own disposition to repine as a species of injustice. she laid no claim to an increase of tenderness. she hinted not a wish for a change of situation; yet she was unhappy. tears stole into her eyes, and her thoughts wandered into gloomy reverie, at moments when least aware of their reproach, and least willing to indulge them. was a change to be desired? yes; provided that change was equally agreeable to ormond, and should be seriously proposed by him: of this she had no hope. as long as his accents rung in her ears, she even doubted whether it were to be wished. at any rate, it was impossible to gain his approbation to it. her destiny was fixed. it was better than the cessation of all intercourse, yet her heart was a stranger to all permanent tranquillity. her manners were artless and ingenuous. in company with ormond her heart was perfectly unveiled. he was her divinity, to whom every sentiment was visible, and to whom she spontaneously uttered what she thought, because the employment was pleasing; because he listened with apparent satisfaction; and because, in fine, it was the same thing to speak and to think in his presence. there was no inducement to conceal from him the most evanescent and fugitive ideas. ormond was not an inattentive or indifferent spectator of those appearances. his friend was unhappy. she shrunk aghast from her own reproaches and the censure of the world. this morbid sensibility he had endeavoured to cure, but hitherto in vain. what was the amount of her unhappiness? her spirits had formerly been gay; but her gaiety was capable of yielding place to soul-ravishing and solemn tenderness, after sedateness was, at those times, the offspring not of reflection but of passion. there still remained much of her former self. he was seldom permitted to witness more than the traces of sorrow. in answer to his inquiries, she, for the most part, described sensations that were gone, and which she flattered herself and him would never return; but this hope was always doomed to disappointment. solitude infallibly conjured up the ghost which had been laid, and it was plain that argument was no adequate remedy for this disease. how far would time alleviate its evils? when the novelty of her condition should disappear, would she not regard it with other eyes? by being familiar with contempt, it will lose its sting; but is that to be wished? must not the character be thoroughly depraved before the scorn of our neighbours shall become indifferent? indifference, flowing from a sense of justice, and a persuasion that our treatment is unmerited, is characteristic of the noblest minds; but indifference to obloquy, because we are habituated to it is a token of peculiar baseness. this, therefore, was a remedy to be ardently deprecated. he had egregiously overrated the influence of truth and his own influence. he had hoped that his victory was permanent. in order to the success of truth, he was apt to imagine that nothing was needful but opportunities for a complete exhibition of it. they that inquire and reason with sufficient deliberateness and caution must inevitably accomplish their end. these maxims were confuted in the present case. he had formed no advantageous conceptions of helena's capacity. his aversion to matrimony arose from those conceptions; but experience had shown him that his conclusions, unfavourable as they were, had fallen short of the truth. convictions, which he had conceived her mind to be sufficiently strong to receive and retain, were proved to have made no other than a momentary impression. hence his objections to ally himself to a mind inferior to his own were strengthened rather than diminished. but he could not endure the thought of being instrumental to her misery. marriage was an efficacious remedy, but he could not as yet bring himself to regard the aptitude of this cure as a subject of doubt. the idea of separation sometimes occurred to him. he was not unapprehensive of the influence of time and absence in curing the most vehement passion, but to this expedient the lady could not be reconciled. he knew her too well to believe that she would willingly adopt it. but the only obstacle to this scheme did not flow from the lady's opposition. he would probably have found upon experiment as strong an aversion to adopt it in himself as in her. it was easy to see the motives by which he would be likely to be swayed into a change of principles. if marriage were the only remedy, the frequent repetition of this truth must bring him insensibly to doubt the rectitude of his determinations against it. he deeply reflected on the consequences which marriage involves. he scrutinised with the utmost accuracy the character of his friend, and surveyed it in all its parts. inclination could not fail of having some influence on his opinions. the charms of this favourite object tended to impair the clearness of his view, and extenuate or conceal her defects. he entered on the enumeration of her errors with reluctance. her happiness, had it been wholly disconnected with his own, might have had less weight in the balance, but now, every time the scales were suspended, this consideration acquired new weight. most men are influenced in the formation of this contract, by regards purely physical. they are incapable of higher views. they regard with indifference every tie that binds them to their contemporaries, or to posterity. mind has no part in the motives that guide them. they choose a wife as they choose any household movable, and when the irritation of the senses has subsided, the attachment that remains is the offspring of habit. such were not ormond's modes of thinking. his creed was of too extraordinary a kind not to merit explication. the terms of this contract were, in his eyes, iniquitous and absurd. he could not think with patience of a promise which no time could annul, which pretended to ascertain contingencies and regulate the future. to forego the liberty of choosing his companion, and bind himself to associate with one whom he despised; to raise to his own level whom nature had irretrievably degraded; to avow and persist in his adherence to a falsehood, palpable and loathsome to his understanding; to affirm that he was blind, when in full possession of his senses; to shut his eyes and grope in the dark, and call upon the compassion of mankind on his infirmity, when his organs were in no degree impaired, and the scene around him was luminous and beautiful,--was an height of infatuation that he could never attain. and why should he be thus self-degraded? why should he take a laborious circuit to reach a point which, when attained, was trivial, and to which reason had pointed out a road short and direct? a wife is generally nothing more than a household superintendent. this function could not be more wisely vested than it was at present. every thing in his domestic system was fashioned on strict and inflexible principles. he wanted instruments and not partakers of his authority,--one whose mind was equal and not superior to the cogent apprehension and punctual performance of his will; one whose character was squared with mathematical exactness, to his situation. helena, with all her faults, did not merit to be regarded in this light. her introduction would destroy the harmony of his scheme, and be, with respect to herself, a genuine debasement. a genuine evil would thus be substituted for one that was purely imaginary. helena's intellectual deficiencies could not be concealed. she was a proficient in the elements of no science. the doctrine of lines and surfaces was as disproportionate with her intellects as with those of the mock-bird. she had not reasoned on the principles of human action, nor examined the structure of society. she was ignorant of the past or present condition of mankind. history had not informed her of the one, nor the narratives of voyagers, nor the deductions of geography of the other. the heights of eloquence and poetry were shut out from her view. she could not commune in their native dialect with the sages of rome and athens. to her those perennial fountains of wisdom and refinement were sealed. the constitution of nature, the attributes of its author, the arrangement of the parts of the external universe, and the substance, modes of operation, and ultimate destiny of human intelligence, were enigmas unsolved and insoluble by her. but this was not all. the superstructure could for the present be spared. nay, it was desirable that the province of rearing it should be reserved for him. all he wanted was a suitable foundation; but this helena did not possess. he had not hitherto been able to create in her the inclination or the power. she had listened to his precepts with docility. she had diligently conned the lessons which he had prescribed, but the impressions were as fleeting as if they had been made on water. nature seemed to have set impassable limits to her attainments. this indeed was an unwelcome belief. he struggled to invalidate it. he reflected on the immaturity of her age. what but crude and hasty views was it reasonable to expect at so early a period? if her mind had not been awakened, it had proceeded, perhaps from the injudiciousness of his plans, or merely from their not having been persisted in. what was wanting but the ornaments of mind to render this being all that poets have feigned of angelic nature? when he indulged himself in imaging the union of capacious understanding with her personal loveliness, his conceptions swelled to a pitch of enthusiasm, and it seemed as if no labour was too great to be employed in the production of such a creature. and yet, in the midst of his glowings, he would sink into sudden dejection at the recollection of that which passion had, for a time, excluded. to make her wise it would be requisite to change her sex. he had forgotten that his pupil was a female, and her capacity therefore limited by nature. this mortifying thought was outbalanced by nature. her attainments, indeed, were suitable to the imbecility of her sex; but did she not surpass in those attainments, the ordinary rate of women? they must not be condemned, because they are outshone by qualities that are necessarily male births. her accomplishments formed a much more attractive theme. he overlooked no article in the catalogue. he was confounded at one time, and encouraged at another, on remarking the contradictions that seemed to be included in her character. it was difficult to conceive the impossibility of passing that barrier which yet she was able to touch. she was no poet. she listened to the rehearsal without emotion, or was moved, not by the substance of the passage, by the dazzling image, or the magic sympathy, but by something adscititious; yet, usher her upon the stage, and no poet could wish for a more powerful organ of his conceptions. in assuming this office, she appeared to have drank in the very soul of the dramatist. what was wanting in judgement was supplied by memory, in the tenaciousness of which she has seldom been rivalled. her sentiments were trite and undigested, but were decorated with all the fluences and melodies of elocution. her musical instructor had been a sicilian, who had formed her style after the italian model. this man had likewise taught her his own language. he had supplied her chiefly with sicilian compositions, both in poetry and melody, and was content to be unclassical, for the sake of the feminine and voluptuous graces of his native dialect. ormond was an accurate judge of the proficiency of helena, and of the felicity with which these accomplishments were suited to her character. when his pupil personated the victims of anger and grief, and poured forth the fiery indignation of calista, or the maternal despair of constantia, or the self-contentions of ipsipile, he could not deny the homage which her talents might claim. her sicilian tutor had found her no less tractable as a votary of painting. she needed only the education of angelica to exercise as potent and prolific a pencil. this was incompatible with her condition, which limited her attainments to the element of this art. it was otherwise with music. here there was no obstacle to skill, and here the assiduities of many years in addition to a prompt and ardent genius, set her beyond the hopes of rivalship. ormond had often amused his fancy with calling up images of excellences in this art. he saw no bounds to the influence of habit, in augmenting the speed and multiplying the divisions of muscular motion. the fingers, by their form and size, were qualified to outrun and elude the most vigilant eye. the sensibility of keys and wires had limits; but these limits depended on the structure of the instrument, and the perfection of its structure was proportioned to the skill of the artist. on well-constructed keys and strings, was it possible to carry diversities of movement and pressure too far? how far they could be carried was mere theme of conjecture, until it was his fate to listen to the magical performances of helena, whose volant finger seemed to be self-impelled. her touches were creative of a thousand forms of _piano_, and of numberless transitions from grave to quick, perceptible only to ears like her own. in the selection and arrangement of notes there are no limits to luxuriance and celerity. helena had long relinquished the drudgery of imitation. she never played but when there were motives to fervour, and when she was likely to ascend without impediment, and to maintain for a suitable period her elevation, to the element of new ideas. the lyrics of milton and of metastasio she sung with accompaniments that never tired, because they were never repeated. her harp and clavichord supplied her with endless combinations, and these, in the opinion of ormond, were not inferior to the happiest exertions of handel and arne. chess was his favourite amusement. this was the only game which he allowed himself to play. he had studied it with so much zeal and success, that there were few with whom he deigned to contend. he was prone to consider it as a sort of criterion of human capacity. he who had acquired skill in this _science_ could not be infirm in mind; and yet he found in helena a competitor not unworthy of all his energies. many hours were consumed in this employment, and here the lady was sedate, considerate, extensive in foresight, and fertile in expedients. her deportment was graceful, inasmuch as it flowed from a consciousness of her defects. she was devoid of arrogance and vanity, neither imagining herself better than she was, and setting light by those qualifications which she unquestionably possessed. such was the mixed character of this woman. ormond was occupied with schemes of a rugged and arduous nature. his intimate associates and the partakers of his confidence were imbued with the same zeal and ardent in the same pursuits. helena could lay no claim to be exalted to this rank. that one destitute of this claim should enjoy the privileges of his wife was still a supposition truly monstrous. yet the image of helena, fondly loving him, and a model as he conceived of tenderness and constancy, devoured by secret remorse, and pursued by the scorn of mankind,--a mark for slander to shoot at, and an outcast of society,--did not visit his meditations in vain. the rigour of his principles began now to relent. he considered that various occupations are incident to every man. he cannot be invariably employed in the promotion of one purpose. he must occasionally unbend, if he desires that the springs of his mind should retain their full vigour. suppose his life were divided between business and amusement. this was a necessary distribution, and sufficiently congenial with his temper. it became him to select with skill his sources of amusement. it is true that helena was unable to participate in his graver occupations: what then? in whom were blended so many pleasurable attributes? in her were assembled an exquisite and delicious variety. as it was, he was daily in her company. he should scarcely be more so if marriage should take place. in that case, no change in their mode of life would be necessary. there was no need of dwelling under the same roof. his revenue was equal to the support of many household establishments. his personal independence would remain equally inviolable. no time, he thought, would diminish his influence over the mind of helena, and it was not to be forgotten that the transition would to her be happy. it would reinstate her in the esteem of the world, and dispel those phantoms of remorse and shame by which she was at present persecuted. these were plausible considerations. they tended at least to shake his resolutions. time would probably have completed the conquest of his pride, had not a new incident set the question in a new light. chapter iv. the narrative of melbourne made a deeper impression on the mind of his guest than was at first apparent. this man's conduct was directed by the present impulse; and, however elaborate his abstract notions, he seldom stopped to settle the agreement between his principles and actions. the use of money was a science like every other branch of benevolence, not reducible to any fixed principles. no man, in the disbursement of money, could say whether he was conferring a benefit or injury. the visible and immediate effects might be good, but evil was its ultimate and general tendency. to be governed by a view to the present rather than the future was a human infirmity from which he did not pretend to be exempt. this, though an insufficient apology for the conduct of a rational being, was suitable to his indolence, and he was content in all cases to employ it. it was thus that he reconciled himself to beneficent acts, and humourously held himself up as an object of censure, on occasions when most entitled to applause. he easily procured information as to the character and situation of the dudleys. neighbours are always inquisitive, and happily, in this case, were enabled to make no unfavourable report. he resolved without hesitation to supply their wants. this he performed in a manner truly characteristic. there was a method of gaining access to families, and marking them in their unguarded attitudes, more easy and effectual than any other: it required least preparation and cost least pains; the disguise, also, was of the most impenetrable kind. he had served a sort of occasional apprenticeship to the art, and executed its functions with perfect ease. it was the most entire and grotesque metamorphosis imaginable. it was stepping from the highest to the lowest rank in society, and shifting himself into a form as remote from his own as those recorded by ovid. in a word, it was sometimes his practice to exchange his complexion and habiliments for those of a negro and a chimney-sweep, and to call at certain doors for employment. this he generally secured by importunities, and the cheapness of his services. when the loftiness of his port, and the punctiliousness of his nicety were considered, we should never have believed--what yet could be truly asserted--that he had frequently swept his own chimneys, without the knowledge of his own servants.[1] it was likewise true, though equally incredible, that he had played at romps with his scullion, and listened with patience to a thousand slanders on his own character. [1] similar exploits are related of count de la lippe and wortley montague. in this disguise he visited the house of mr. dudley. it was nine o'clock in the morning. he remarked with critical eyes, the minutest circumstance in the appearance and demeanour of his customers, and glanced curiously at the house and furniture. every thing was new and every thing pleased. the walls, though broken into roughness by carelessness or time, were adorned with glistening white. the floor, though loose and uneven, and with gaping seams, had received all the improvements which cloth and brush could give. the pine tables, rush chairs, and uncurtained bed, had been purchased at half price, at vendue, and exhibited various tokens of decay; but care and neatness and order were displayed in their condition and arrangement. the lower apartment was the eating and sitting room. it was likewise mr. dudley's bed chamber. the upper room was occupied by constantia and lucy. ormond viewed every thing with the accuracy of an artist, and carried away with him a catalogue of every thing visible. the faded form of mr. dudley, that still retained its dignity, the sedateness, graceful condescension, and personal elegance of constantia, were new to the apprehension of ormond. the contrast between the house and its inhabitants rendered the appearance more striking. when he had finished his task he retired, but returning in a quarter of an hour, he presented a letter to the young lady. he behaved as if by no means desirous of eluding her interrogatories, and, when she desired him to stay, readily complied. the letter, unsigned, and without superscription, was to this effect:-"the writer of this is acquainted with the transaction between thomas craig and mr. dudley. the former is debtor to mr. dudley in a large sum. i have undertaken to pay as much of this debt, and at such times, as suits my convenience. i have had pecuniary engagements with craig. i hold myself, in the sum enclosed, discharging so much of his debt. the future payments are uncertain, but i hope they will contribute to relieve the necessities of mr. dudley." ormond had calculated the amount of what would be necessary for the annual subsistence of this family on the present frugal plan. he had regulated his disbursements accordingly. it was natural to feel curiosity as to the writer of this epistle. the bearer displayed a prompt and talkative disposition. he had a staring eye and a grin of vivacity forever at command. when questioned by constantia, he answered that the gentleman had forbidden him to mention his name or the place where he lived. had he ever met with the same person before? o yes. he had lived with him from a child. his mother lived with him still, and his brothers. his master had nothing for him to do at home, so he sent him out sweeping chimneys, taking from him only half the money that he earned that way. he was a very good master. "then the gentleman had been a long time in the city?" "o yes. all his life he reckoned. ho used to live in walnut street, but now he's moved down town." here he checked himself, and added,--"but i forgets. i must not tell where he livest. he told me i must'nt." "he has a family and children, i suppose?" "o yes. why, don't you know miss hetty and miss betsy? there again! i was going to tell the name, that he said i must not tell." constantia saw that the secret might be easily discovered, but she forbore. she disdained to take advantage of this messenger's imagined simplicity. she dismissed him with some small addition to his demand, and with a promise always to employ him in this way. by this mode ormond had effectually concealed himself. the lady's conjectures, founded on this delusive information, necessarily wandered widely from the truth. the observations that he had made during this visit afforded his mind considerable employment. the manner in which this lady had sustained so cruel a reverse of fortune, the cheerfulness with which she appeared to forego all the gratifications of affluence, the skill with which she selected her path of humble industry, and the steadiness with which she pursued it, were proofs of a moral constitution, from which he supposed the female sex to be debarred. the comparison was obvious between constantia and helena, and the result was by no means advantageous to the latter. was it possible that such a one descended to the level of her father's apprentice? that she sacrificed her honour to a wretch like that? this reflection tended to repress the inclination he would otherwise have felt for cultivating her society, but it did not indispose him to benefit her in a certain way. on his next visit to his "bella siciliana," as he called her, he questioned her as to the need in which she might stand of the services of a seamstress; and being informed that they were sometimes wanted, he recommended miss acworth to her patronage. he said that he had heard her spoken of in favourable terms by the gossips at melbourne's. they represented her as a good girl, slenderly provided for, and he wished that helena would prefer her to all others. his recommendation was sufficient. the wishes of ormond, as soon as they became known, became hers. her temper made her always diligent in search of novelty. it was easy to make work for the needle. in short, she resolved to send for her the next day. the interview accordingly took place on the ensuing morning, not without mutual surprise, and, on the part of the fair sicilian, not without considerable embarrassment. this circumstance arose from their having changed their respective names, though from motives of a very different kind. they were not strangers to each other, though no intimacy had ever subsisted between them. each was merely acquainted with the name, person, and general character of the other. no circumstance in constantia's situation tended to embarrass her. her mind had attained a state of serene composure, incapable of being ruffled by an incident of this kind. she merely derived pleasure from the sight of her old acquaintance. the aspect of things around her was splendid and gay. she seemed the mistress of the mansion, and her name was changed. hence it was unavoidable to conclude that she was married. helena was conscious that appearances were calculated to suggest this conclusion. the idea was a painful one. she sorrowed to think that this conclusion was fallacious. the consciousness that her true condition was unknown to her visitant, and the ignominiousness of that truth, gave an air of constraint to her behaviour, which constantia ascribed to a principle of delicacy. in the midst of reflections relative to herself, she admitted some share of surprise at the discovery of constantia in a situation so inferior to that in which she had formerly known her. she had heard, in general terms of the misfortunes of mr dudley, but was unacquainted with particulars; but this surprise, and the difficulty of adapting her behaviour to circumstances, was only in part the source of her embarrassment, though by her companion it was wholly attributed to this cause. constantia thought it her duty to remove it by open and unaffected manners. she therefore said, in a sedate and cheerful tone, "you see me, madam, in a situation somewhat unlike that in which i formerly was placed. you will probably regard the change as an unhappy one; but, i assure you, i have found it far less so than i expected. i am thus reduced not by my own fault. it is this reflection that enables me to conform to it without a murmur. i shall rejoice to know that mrs. eden is as happy as i am." helena was pleased with this address, and returned an answer full of sweetness. she had not in her compassion for the fallen, a particle of pride. she thought of nothing but the contrast between the former situation of her visitant and the present. the fame of her great qualities had formerly excited veneration, and that reverence was by no means diminished by a nearer scrutiny. the consciousness of her own frailty meanwhile diffused over the behaviour of helena a timidity and dubiousness uncommonly fascinating. she solicited constantia's friendship in a manner that showed she was afraid of nothing but denial. an assent was eagerly given, and thenceforth a cordial intercourse was established between them. the real situation of helena was easily discovered. the officious person who communicated this information, at the same time cautioned constantia against associating with one of tainted reputation. this information threw some light upon appearances. it accounted for that melancholy which helena was unable to conceal. it explained that solitude in which she lived, and which constantia had ascribed to the death or absence of her husband. it justified the solicitous silence she had hitherto maintained respecting her own affairs, and which her friend's good sense forbade her to employ any sinister means of eluding. no long time was necessary to make her mistress of helena's character. she loved her with uncommon warmth, though by no means blind to her defects. she formed no expectations from the knowledge of her character, to which this intelligence operated as a disappointment. it merely excited her pity, and made her thoughtful how she might assist her in repairing this deplorable error. this design was of no ordinary magnitude. she saw that it was previously necessary to obtain the confidence of helena. this was a task of easy performance. she knew the purity of her own motives and the extent of her powers, and embarked in this undertaking with full confidence of success. she had only to profit by a private interview, to acquaint her friend with what she knew, to solicit a complete and satisfactory disclosure, to explain the impressions which her intelligence produced, and to offer her disinterested advice. no one knew better how to couch her ideas in words suitable to the end proposed by her in imparting them. helena was at first terrified, but the benevolence of her friend quickly entitled her to confidence and gratitude that knew no limits. she had been deterred from unveiling her heart by the fear of exciting contempt or abhorrence; but when she found that all due allowances were made,--that her conduct was treated as erroneous in no atrocious or inexpiable degree, and as far front being insusceptible of remedy,--that the obloquy with which she had been treated found no vindicator or participator in her friend, her heart was considerably relieved. she had been long a stranger to the sympathy and intercourse of her own sex. now this good, in its most precious form, was conferred upon her, and she experienced an increase rather than diminution of tenderness, in consequence of her true situation being known. she made no secret of any part of her history. she did full justice to the integrity of her lover, and explained the unforced conditions on which she had consented to live with him. this relation exhibited the character of ormond in a very uncommon light. his asperities wounded, and his sternness chilled. what unauthorised conceptions of matrimonial and political equality did he entertain! he had fashioned his treatment of helena on sullen and ferocious principles. yet he was able, it seemed, to mould her, by means of them, nearly into the creature that he wished. she knew too little of the man justly to estimate his character. it remained to be ascertained whether his purposes were consistent and upright, or were those of a villain and betrayer. meanwhile what was to be done by helena? marriage had been refused op plausible pretences. her unenlightened understanding made her no match for her lover. she would never maintain her claim to nuptial privileges in his presence, or, if she did, she would never convince him of their validity. were they indeed valid? was not the disparity between them incurable? a marriage of minds so dissimilar could only be productive of misery immediately to him, and, by a reflex operation, to herself. she could not be happy in a union that was the source of regret to her husband. marriage, therefore, was not possible, or if possible, was not, perhaps, to be wished. but what was the choice that remained? to continue in her present situation was not to be endured. disgrace was a dæmon that would blast every hope of happiness. she was excluded from all society but that of the depraved. her situation was eminently critical. it depended, perhaps, on the resolution she should now form whether she would be enrolled among the worst of mankind. infamy is the worst of evils. it creates innumerable obstructions in the paths of virtue. it manacles the hand, and entangles the feet that are active only to good. to the weak it is an evil of much greater magnitude. it determines their destiny; and they hasten to merit that reproach, which, at first it may be, they did not deserve. this connection is intrinsically flagitious. helena is subjected by it to the worst ills that are incident to humanity, the general contempt of mankind, and the reproaches of her own conscience. from these there is but one method from which she can hope to be relieved. the intercourse must cease. it wad easier to see the propriety of separation, than to project means for accomplishing it. it was true that helena loved; but what quarter was due to this passion when divorced from integrity? is it not in every bosom a perishable sentiment? whatever be her warmth, absence will congeal it. place her in new scenes, and supply her with new associates. her accomplishments will not fail to attract votaries. from these she may select a conjugal companion suitable to her mediocrity of talents. but alas! what power on earth can prevail on her to renounce ormond? others may justly entertain this prospect, but it must be invisible to her. besides, is it absolutely certain that either her peace of mind or her reputation will be restored by this means? in the opinion of the world her offences cannot, by any perseverance in penitence, be expiated. she will never believe that separation will exterminate her passion. certain it is that it will avail nothing to the re-establishment of her fame. but if it were conducive to these ends, how chimerical to suppose that she will ever voluntarily adopt it! if ormond refuse his concurrence, there is absolutely an end to hope. and what power on earth is able to sway his determinations? at least, what influence was it possible for her to obtain over them? should they separate, whither should she retire? what mode of subsistence should she adopt? she has never been accustomed to think beyond the day. she has eaten and drank, but another has provided the means. she scarcely comprehends the principle that governs the world, and in consequence of which nothing can be gained but by giving something in exchange for it. she is ignorant and helpless as a child, on every topic that relates to the procuring of subsistence. her education has disabled her from standing alone. but this was not all. she must not only be supplied by others, but sustained in the enjoyment of a luxurious existence. would you bereave her of the gratifications of opulence? you had better take away her life. nay, it would ultimately amount to this. she can live but in one way. at present she is lovely, and, to a certain degree, innocent; but expose her to the urgencies and temptations of want, let personal pollution be the price set upon the voluptuous affluences of her present condition, and it is to be feared there is nothing in the contexture of her mind to hinder her from making the purchase. in every respect therefore the prospect was an hopeless one,--so hopeless, that her mind insensibly returned to the question which she had at first dismissed with very slight examination,--the question relative to the advantages and probabilities of marriage. a more accurate review convinced her that this was the most eligible alternative. it was, likewise, most easily effected. the lady, of course, would be its fervent advocate. there did not want reasons why ormond should finally embrace it. in what manner appeals to his reason of his passion might most effectually be made she knew not. helena was not qualified to be her own advocate. her unhappiness could not but be visible to ormond. he had shown himself attentive and affectionate. was it impossible that, in time, he should reason himself into a spontaneous adoption of this scheme? this, indeed, was a slender foundation for hope, but there was no other on which she could build. such were the meditations of constantia on this topic. she was deeply solicitous for the happiness of her friend. they spent much of their time together. the consolations of her society were earnestly sought by helena; but to enjoy them, she was for the most part obliged to visit the former at her own dwelling. for this arrangement, constantia apologized by saying, "you will pardon my requesting you to favour me with your visits, rather than allowing you mine. every thing is airy and brilliant within these walls. there is, besides, an air of seclusion and security about you that is delightful. in comparison, my dwelling is bleak, comfortless, and unretired, but my father is entitled to all my care. his infirmity prevents him from amusing himself, and his heart is cheered by the mere sound of my voice, though not addressed to him. the mere belief of my presence seems to operate as an antidote to the dreariness of solitude; and, now you know my motives, i am sure you will not only forgive but approve of my request." chapter v. when once the subject had been introduced, helena was prone to descant upon her own situation, and listened with deference to the remarks and admonitions of her companion. constantia did not conceal from her any of her sentiments. she enabled her to view her own condition in its true light, and set before her the indispensable advantages of marriage, while she, at the same time, afforded her the best directions as to the conduct she ought to pursue in order to effect her purpose. the mind of helena was thus kept in a state of perpetual and uneasy fluctuation. while absent from ormond, or listening to her friend's remonstrances, the deplorableness of her condition arose in its most disastrous hues before her imagination. but the spectre seldom failed to vanish at the approach of ormond. his voice dissipated every inquietude. she was not insensible of this inconstancy. she perceived and lamented her own weakness. she was destitute of all confidence in her own exertions. she could not be in the perpetual enjoyment of his company. her intervals of tranquillity, therefore, were short, while those of anxiety and dejection were insupportably tedious. she revered, but believed herself incapable to emulate the magnanimity of her monitor. the consciousness of inferiority, especially in a case like this, in which her happiness so much depended on her own exertions, excited in her the most humiliating sensations. while indulging in fruitless melancholy, the thought one day occurred to her, why may not constantia be prevailed upon to plead my cause? her capacity and courage are equal to any undertaking. the reasonings that are so powerful in my eyes, would they he trivial and futile in those of ormond? i cannot have a more pathetic and disinterested advocate. this idea was cherished with uncommon ardour. she seized the first opportunity that offered itself to impart it to her friend. it was a wild and singular proposal, and was rejected at the first glance. this scheme, so romantic and impracticable as it at first seemed, appeared to helena in the most plausible colours. she could not bear to relinquish her new-born hopes. she saw no valid objection to it. every thing was easy to her friend, provided her sense of duty and her zeal could be awakened. the subject was frequently suggested to constantia's reflections. perceiving the sanguineness of her friend's confidence, and fully impressed with the value of the end to be accomplished, she insensibly veered to the same opinion. at least the scheme was worthy of a candid discussion before it was rejected. ormond was a stranger to her. his manners were repulsive and austere. she was a mere girl. her personal attachment to helena was all that she could plead in excuse for taking part in her concerns. the subject was delicate. a blunt and irregular character like ormond might throw an air of ridicule over the scene. she shrunk from the encounter of a boisterous and manlike spirit. but were not these scruples effeminate and puerile? had she studied so long in the school of adversity, without conviction of the duty of a virtuous independence? was she not a rational being, fully imbued with the justice of her cause? was it not ignoble to refuse the province of a vindicator of the injured, before any tribunal, however tremendous or unjust? and who was ormond, that his eye should inspire terror? the father or brother of helena might assume the office without indecorum. nay, a mother or sister might not be debarred from it. why then should she, who was actuated by equal zeal, and was engaged, by ties stronger than consanguinity, in the promotion of her friend's happiness. it is true she did not view the subject in the light in which it was commonly viewed by brothers and parents. it was not a gust of rage that should transport her into his presence. she did not go to awaken his slumbering conscience, and to abash him in the pride of guilty triumph, but to rectify deliberate errors, and to change his course by the change of his principles. it was her business to point out to him the road of duty and happiness, from which he had strayed with no sinister intentions. this was to be done without raving and fury; but with amicable soberness, and in the way of calm and rational remonstrance. yet, there were scruples that would not be shut out, and continually whispered to her, "what an office is this for a girl and a stranger to assume!" in what manner should it be performed? should an interview be sought, and her ideas be explained without confusion or faltering, undismayed by ludicrous airs or insolent frowns. but this was a point to be examined. was ormond capable of such behaviour? if he were, it would be useless to attempt the reformation of his errors. such a man is incurable and obdurate. such a man is not to be sought as the husband of helena; but this, surely, is a different being. the medium through which she had viewed his character was an ample one, but might not be very accurate. the treatment which helena had received from him, exclusive of his fundamental error, betokened a mind to which she did not disdain to be allied. in spite of his defects, she saw that their elements were more congenial, and the points of contact between this person and herself more numerous than between her and helena, whose voluptuous sweetness of temper, and mediocrity of understanding excited in her bosom no genuine sympathy. every thing is progressive in the human mind. when there is leisure to reflect, ideas will succeed each other in a long train, before the ultimate point be gained. the attention must shift from one side to the other of a given question many times before it settles. constantia did not form her resolutions in haste; but when once formed, they were exempt from fluctuation. she reflected before she acted, and therefore acted with consistency and vigour. she did not apprize her friend of her intention. she was willing that she should benefit by her interposition, before she knew it was employed. she sent her lucy with a note to ormond's house. it was couched in these terms:- "constantia dudley requests an interview with mr. ormond. her business being of some moment, she wishes him to name an hour when most disengaged." an answer was immediately returned that at three o'clock, in the afternoon, he should be glad to see her. this message produced no small surprise in ormond. he had not withdrawn his notice from constantia, and had marked, with curiosity and approbation, the progress of the connexion between the two women. the impressions which he had received from the report of helena were not dissimilar to those which constantia had imbibed, from the same quarter, respecting himself; but he gathered from them no suspicion of the purpose of a visit. he recollected his connection with craig. this lady had had an opportunity of knowing that some connection subsisted between them. he concluded that some information or inquiry respecting craig might occasion this event. as it was, it gave him considerable satisfaction. it would enable him more closely to examine one, with respect to whom he entertained great curiosity. ormond's conjecture was partly right. constantia did not forget her having traced craig to this habitation. she designed to profit by the occasion which this circumstance afforded her, of making some inquiry respecting craig, in order to introduce, by suitable degrees, a more important subject. the appointed hour having arrived, he received her in his drawing-room. he knew what was due to his guest. he loved to mortify, by his negligence, the pride of his equals and superiors, but a lower class had nothing to fear from his insolence. constantia took the seat that was offered to her, without speaking. she had made suitable preparations for this interview, and her composure was invincible. the manners of her host were by no means calculated to disconcert her. his air was conciliating and attentive. she began with naming craig, as one known to ormond, and desired to be informed of his place of abode. she was proceeding to apologise for this request, by explaining, in general terms, that her father's infirmities prevented him from acting for himself, that craig was his debtor to a large amount, that he stood in need of all that justly belonged to him, and was in pursuit of some means of tracing craig to his retreat. ormond interrupted her, examining, at the same time, with a vigilance somewhat too unsparing, the effects which his words should produce upon her:-"you may spare yourself the trouble of explaining. i am acquainted with the whole affair between craig and your family. he has concealed from me nothing. i know _all_ that has passed between you." in saying this, ormond intended that his looks and emphasis should convey his full meaning. in the style of her comments he saw none of those corroborating symptoms that he expected:-"indeed! he has been very liberal of his confidence. confession is a token of penitence; but, alas! i fear he has deceived you. to be sincere was doubtless his true interest, but he is too much in the habit of judging superficially. if he has told you all, there is, indeed, no need of explanation. this visit is, in that case, sufficiently accounted for. is it in your power, sir, to inform us whither he has gone?" "for what end should i tell you? i promise you you will not follow him. take my word for it, he is totally unworthy of you. let the past be no precedent for the future. if you have not made that discovery yourself, i have made it for you. i expect at least to be thanked for my trouble." this speech was unintelligible to constantia. her looks betokened a perplexity unmingled with fear or shame. "it is my way," continued he, "to say what i think. i care little for consequences. i have said that i know _all_. this will excuse me for being perfectly explicit. that i am mistaken is very possible; but i am inclined to place that matter beyond the reach of a doubt. listen to me, and confirm me in the opinion i have already formed of your good sense, by viewing, in a just light, the unreservedness with which you are treated. i have something to tell, which, if you are wise, you will not be offended at my telling so roundly. on the contrary you will thank me, and perceive that my conduct is a proof of my respect for you. the person whom you met here is named craig, but, as he tells me, is not the man you look for. this man's brother--the partner, of your father, and, as he assured me, your own accepted and illicitly-gratified lover--is dead." these words were uttered without any extenuating hesitation or depression of tone. on the contrary, the most offensive terms were drawn out in the most deliberate and emphatic manner. constantia's cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with indignation, but she forbore to interrupt. the looks with which she listened to the remainder of the speech showed that she fully comprehended the scene, and enabled him to comprehend it. he proceeded:-"this man is a brother of that. their resemblance in figure occasioned your mistake. your father's debtor died, it seems, on his arrival at jamaica. there he met with this brother, and bequeathed to him his property and papers. some of these papers are in my possession. they are letters from constantia dudley, and are parts of an intrigue, which, considering the character of the man, was not much to her honour. such was this man's narrative told to me some time before your meeting with him at his house. i have right to judge in this affair; that is, i have a right to my opinion. if i mistake, (and i half suspect myself,) you are able, perhaps, to rectify my error; and in a case like this doubtless you will not want the inclination." perhaps if the countenance of this man had not been characterized by the keenest intelligence, and a sort of careless and overflowing good-will, this speech might have produced different effects. she was prepared, though imperfectly, for entering into his character. he waited for an answer, which she gave without emotion:-"you were deceived. i am sorry for your own sake that you are. he must have had some end in view, in imposing these falsehoods upon you, which perhaps they have enabled him to accomplish. as to myself, this man can do me no injury. i willingly make you my judge. the letters you speak of will alone suffice to my vindication. they never were received from me, and are forgeries. that man always persisted till he made himself the dupe of his own artifices. that incident in his plot, on the introduction of which he probably the most applauded himself, will most powerfully operate to defeat it. "those letters never were received from me, and are forgeries. his skill in imitation extended no farther in the present case than my handwriting. my model of thinking and expression were beyond the reach of his mimicry." when she had finished, osmond spent a moment in ruminating. "i perceive you are right," said he. "i suppose he has purloined from me two hundred guineas, which i entrusted to his fidelity. and yet i received a letter; but that may likewise be a forgery. by my soul," continued he, in a tone that had more of satisfaction than disappointment in it, "this fellow was an adept at his trade. i do not repine. i have bought the exhibition at a cheap rate. the pains that he took did not merit a less recompense. i am glad that he was contented with so little. had he persisted he might have raised the price far above its value. 'twill be lamentable if he receive more than he stipulated for,--if, in his last purchase, the gallows should be thrown into the bargain. may he have the wisdom to see that a halter, though not included in his terms, is only a new instance of his good fortune! but his cunning will hardly carry him thus far. his stupidity will, no doubt, prefer a lingering to a sudden exit. "but this man and his destiny are trifles. let us leave them to themselves. your name is constantia. 'twas given you, i suppose, that you might be known by it. pr'ythee, constantia was this the only purpose that brought you hither? if it were, it has received as ample a discussion as it merits. you _came_ for this end, but will remain, i hope, for a better one. haying dismissed craig and his plots, let us now talk of each other." "i confess," said the lady, with an hesitation she could not subdue, "this was not my only purpose. one much more important has produced this visit." "indeed! pray let me know it. i am glad that so trivial an object as craig did not occupy the first place in your thoughts. proceed, i beseech you." "it is a subject on which i cannot enter without hesitation,--a hesitation unworthy of me." "stop," cried ormond, rising and touching the bell; "nothing like time to make a conquest of embarrassment. we will defer this conference six minutes, just while we eat our dinner." at the same moment a servant entered, with two plates and the usual apparatus for dinner. on seeing this she rose, in some hurry, to depart:--"i thought, sir, you were disengaged? i call at some other hour." he seized her hand, and held her from going, but with an air by no means disrespectful. "nay," said he, "what is it that scares you away? are you terrified at the mention of victuals? you must have fasted long when it comes to that. i told you true. i am disengaged, but not from the obligation of eating and drinking. no doubt _you_ have dined. no reason why _i_ should go without my dinner. if you do not choose to partake with me, so much the better. your temperance ought to dispense with two meals in an hour. be a looker-on; or, if that will not do, retire into my library, where in six minutes, i will be with you, and lend you my aid in the arduous task of telling me what you came with an intention of telling." this singular address disconcerted and abashed her. she was contented to follow the servant silently into an adjoining apartment. here she reflected with no small surprise on the behaviour of this man. though ruffled, she was not heartily displeased with it. she had scarcely time to collect herself, when he entered. he immediately seated her, and himself opposite to her. he fixed his eyes without scruple on her face. his gaze was steadfast, but not insolent or oppressive. he surveyed her with the looks with which he would have eyed a charming portrait. his attention was occupied with what he saw, as that of an artist is occupied when viewing a madonna of rafaello. at length he broke silence:-"at dinner i was busy in thinking what it was you had to disclose. i will not fatigue you with my guesses. they would he impertinent, as long as the truth is going to be disclosed." he paused, and then continued:--"but i see you cannot dispense with my aid. perhaps your business relates to helena. she has done wrong, and you wish me to rebuke the girl." constantia profited by this opening, and said, "yes, she has done wrong. it is true my business relates to her. i came hither as a suppliant in her behalf. will you not assist her in recovering the path from which she has deviated? she left it from confiding more in the judgement of her guide than her own. there is one method of repairing the evil. it lies with you to repair that evil." during this address the gaiety of ormond disappeared. he fixed his eyes on constantia with new and even pathetic earnestness. "i guessed as much," said he. i have often been deceived in my judgement of characters. perhaps i do not comprehend yours. yet it is not little that i have heard respecting you. something i have seen. i begin to suspect a material error in my theory of human nature. happy will it be for helena if my suspicions be groundless. "you are helena's friend. be mine also, and advise me. shall i marry this girl or not? you know on what terms we live. are they suitable to our respective characters? shall i wed this girl, or shall things remain as they are? "i have an irreconcilable aversion to a sad brow and a sick bed. helena is grieved, because her neighbours sneer and point at her. so far she is a fool; but that is a folly of which she never will be cured. marriage, it seems, will set all right. answer me, constantia, shall i marry?" there was something in the tone, but more in the tenor of this address that startled her. there was nothing in this man but what came upon her unaware. this sudden effusion of confidence was particularly unexpected and embarrassing. she scarcely knew whether to regard it as serious or a jest. on observing her indisposed to speak, he continued:-"away with these impertinent circuities and scruples. i know your meaning. why should i pretend ignorance, and put you to the trouble of explanation? you came hither with no other view than to exact this question, and furnish an answer. why should not we come at once to the point? i have for some time been dubious on this head. there is something wanting to determine the balance. if you have that something, throw it into the proper scale. "you err if you think this manner of addressing you is wild or improper. this girl is the subject of discourse. if she was not to be so, why did you favour me with this visit? you have sought me, and introduced yourself. i have, in like manner, overlooked ordinary forms,--a negligence that has been systematic with me, but, in the present case, particularly justifiable by your example. shame upon you, presumptuous girl, to suppose yourself the only rational being among mankind. and yet, if you thought so, why did you thus unceremoniously intrude upon my retirements? this act is of a piece with the rest. it shows you to be one whose existence i did not believe possible. "take care. you know not what you have done. you came hither as helena's friend. perhaps time may show that in this visit you have performed the behest of her bitterest enemy. but that is out of season. this girl is our mutual property. you are her friend; i am her lover. her happiness is precious in my eyes and in yours. to the rest of mankind she is a noisome weed that cannot be shunned too cautiously, nor trampled on too much. if we forsake her, infamy, that is now kept at bay, will seize upon her, and, while it mangles her form, will tear from her her innocence. she has no arms with which to contend against that foe. marriage will place her at once in security. shall it be? you have an exact knowledge of her strength and her weakness. of me you know little. perhaps, before that question can be satisfactorily answered, it is requisite to know the qualities of her husband. be my character henceforth the subject of your study. i will furnish you with all the light in my power. be not hasty in deciding; but, when your decision is formed, let me know it." he waited for an answer, which she, at length, summoned resolution enough to give:-"you have come to the chief point which i had in view in making this visit. to say truth, i came hither to remonstrate with you on withholding that which helena may justly claim from you. her happiness will be unquestionably restored, and increased by it. yours will not be impaired. matrimony will not produce any essential change in your situation. it will produce no greater or different intercourse than now exists. helena is on the brink of a gulf which i shudder to look upon. i believe that you will not injure yourself by snatching her from it. i am sure that you will confer an inexpressible benefit upon her. let me then persuade you to do her and yourself justice." "no persuasion," said ormond, after recovering from a fit of thoughtfulness, "is needful for this end: i only want to be convinced. you have decided, but, i fear hastily. by what inscrutable influences are our steps guided! come, proceed in your exhortations. argue with the utmost clearness and cogency. arm yourself with all the irresistibles of eloquence. yet you are building nothing. you are only demolishing. your argument is one thing. its tendency is another; and is the reverse of all you expect and desire. my assent will be refused with an obstinacy proportioned to the force that you exert to obtain it, and to the just application of that force." "i see," replied the lady, smiling and leaving her seat, "you can talk in riddles, as well as other people. this visit has been too long. i shall, indeed, be sorry, if my interference, instead of serving my friend, has injured her. i have acted an uncommon, and, as it may seem, an ambiguous part. i shall be contented with construing my motives in my own way. i wish you a good evening." "'tis false," cried he, sternly, "you do not wish it!" "how?" exclaimed the astonished constantia. "i will put your sincerity to the test. allow me to spend this evening in your company; then it will be well spent, and i shall believe your wishes sincere. else," continued he, changing his affected austerity into a smile, "constantia is a liar." "you are a singular man. i hardly know how to understand you." "well. words are made to carry meanings. you shall have them in abundance. your house is your citadel. i will not enter it without leave. permit me to visit it when i please. but that is too much. it is more than i would allow you. when will you permit me to visit you?" "i cannot answer when i do not understand. you clothe your thoughts in a garb so uncouth, that i know not in what light they are to be viewed." "well, now, i thought you understood my language, and were an englishwoman, but i will use another. shall i have the honour" (bowing with a courtly air of supplication) "of occasionally paying my respects to you at your own dwelling? it would be cruel to condemn those who have the happiness of knowing miss dudley, to fashionable restraints. at what hour will she be least incommoded by a visitant?" "i am as little pleased with formalities," replied the lady, "as you are. my friends i cannot see too often. they need to consult merely their own convenience. those who are not my friends i cannot see too seldom. you have only to establish your title to that name, and your welcome at all times is sure. till then you must not look for it." chapter vi. here ended this conference. she had by no means suspected the manner in which it would be conducted. all punctilios were trampled under foot by the impetuosity of ormond. things were, at once, and without delay, placed upon a certain footing. the point, which ordinary persons would have employed months in attaining, was reached in a moment. while these incidents were fresh in her memory, they were accompanied with a sort of trepidation, the offspring at once of pleasure and surprise. ormond had not deceived her expectations; but hearsay and personal examination, however uniform their testimony may be, produce a very different impression. in her present reflections, helena and her lover approached to the front of the stage, and were viewed with equal perspicuity. one consequence of this was, that their characters were more powerfully contrasted with each other, and the eligibility of marriage appeared not quite so incontestable as before. was not equality implied in this compact? marriage is an instrument of pleasure or pain in proportion as this equality is more or less. what but the fascination of his senses is it that ties ormond to helena. is this a basis en which marriage may properly be built? if things had not gone thus far, the impropriety of marriage could not be doubted; but, at present, there is a choice of evils, and that may now be desirable which at a former period, and in different circumstances, would have been clearly otherwise. the evils of the present connection are known; those of marriage are future and contingent. helena cannot be the object of a genuine and lasting passion; another may; this is not merely possible; nothing is more likely to happen. this event, therefore, ought to be included in our calculation. there would be a material deficiency without it. what was the amount of the misery that would in this case ensue? constantia was qualified, beyond most others, to form an adequate conception of this misery. one of the ingredients in her character was a mild and steadfast enthusiasm. her sensibilities to social pleasure, and her conceptions of the benefits to flow from the conformity and concurrence of intentions and wishes, heightening and refining the sensual passion, were exquisite. there, indeed, were evils, the foresight of which tended to prevent them; but was there wisdom in creating obstacles in the way of a suitable alliance. before we act, we must consider not only the misery produced, but the happiness precluded by our measures. in no case, perhaps, is the decision of a human being impartial, or totally uninfluenced by sinister and selfish motives. if constantia surpassed others, it was not because her motives were pure, but because they possessed more of purity than those of others. sinister considerations flow in upon us through imperceptible channels, and modify our thoughts in numberless ways, without our being truly conscious of their presence. constantia was young, and her heart was open at a thousand pores, to the love of excellence. the image of ormond occupied the chief place in her fancy, and was endowed with attractive and venerable qualities. a bias was hence created that swayed her thoughts, though she knew not that they were swayed. to this might justly be imputed some part of that reluctance which she now felt to give ormond to helena. but this was not sufficient to turn the scale. that which had previously mounted was indeed heavier than before; but this addition did not enable it to outweigh its opposite. marriage was still the best upon the whole; but her heart was tortured to think that, best as it was, it abounded with so many evils. on the evening of the next day, ormond entered, with careless abruptness, constantia's sitting-apartment. he was introduced to her father. a general and unrestrained conversation immediately took place. ormond addressed mr. dudley with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. in three minutes, all embarrassment was discarded. the lady and her visitant were accurate observers of each other. in the remarks of the latter, (and his vein was an abundant one) there was a freedom and originality altogether new to his hearers. in his easiest and sprightliest sallies were tokens of a mind habituated to profound and extensive views. his associations were forced on a comprehensive scale. he pretended to nothing, and studied the concealments of ambiguity more in reality than in appearance. constantia, however, discovered a sufficient resemblance between their theories of virtue and duty. the difference between them lay in the inferences arbitrarily deduced, and in which two persons may vary without end, and yet never be repugnant. constantia delighted her companions by the facility with which she entered into his meaning, the sagacity she displayed in drawing out his hints, circumscribing his conjectures, and thwarting or qualifying his maxims. the scene was generally replete with ardour and contention, and yet the impression left on the mind of ormond was full of harmony. her discourse tended to rouse him from his lethargy, to furnish him with powerful excitements; and the time spent in her company seemed like a doubling of existence. the comparison could not but suggest itself between this scene and that exhibited by helena. with the latter, voluptuous blandishments, musical prattle, and silent but expressive homage, composed a banquet delicious fur awhile, but whose sweetness now began to pall upon his taste. it supplied him with no new ideas, and hindered him, by the lulling sensations it inspired, from profiting by his former acquisitions. helena was beautiful. apply the scale, and not a member was found inelegantly disposed, or negligently moulded. not a curve that was blemished by an angle or ruffled by asperities. the irradiations of her eyes were able to dissolve the knottiest fibres, and their azure was serene beyond any that nature had elsewhere exhibited. over the rest of her form the glistening and rosy hues were diffused with prodigal luxuriance, and mingled in endless and wanton variety. yet this image had fewer attractions even to the senses than that of constantia. so great is the difference between forms animated by different degrees of intelligence. the interviews of ormond and constantia grew more frequent. the progress which they made in acknowledgement of each other was rapid. two positions, that were favourite ones with him, were quickly subverted. he was suddenly changed, from being one of the calumniators of the female sex, to one of its warmest eulogists. this was a point on which constantia had ever been a vigorous disputant; but her arguments, in their direct tendency, would never have made a convert of this man. their force, intrinsically considered, was nothing. he drew his conclusions from incidental circumstances. her reasonings might be fallacious or valid, but they were composed, arranged, and delivered, were drawn from such sources, and accompanied with such illustrations, as plainly testified a manlike energy in the reasoner. in this indirect and circuitous way her point was unanswerably established. "your reasoning is bad," he would say: "every one of your conclusions is false. not a single allegation but may be easily confuted; and yet i allow that your position is incontrovertibly proved by them. how bewildered is that man who never thinks for himself! who rejects a principle merely because the arguments brought in support of it are insufficient! i must not reject the truth because another has unjustifiably adopted it. i want to reach a certain hill-top. another has reached it before me, but the ladder he used is too weak to bear me. what then? am i to stay below on that account? no; i have only to construct one suitable to the purpose, and of strength sufficient." a second maxim had never been confuted till now. it inculcated the insignificance and hollowness of love. no pleasure he thought was to be despised for its own sake. every thing was good in its place, but amorous gratifications were to be degraded to the bottom of the catalogue. the enjoyments of music and landscape were of a much higher order. epicurism itself was entitled to more respect. love, in itself, was in his opinion of little worth, and only of importance as the source of the most terrible of intellectual maladies. sexual sensations associating themselves, in a certain way, with our ideas, beget a disease, which has, indeed, found no place in the catalogue, but is a case of more entire subversion and confusion of mind than any other. the victim is callous to the sentiments of honour and shame, insensible to the most palpable distinctions of right and wrong, a systematic opponent of testimony and obstinate perverter of truth. ormond was partly right. madness like death can be averted by no foresight or previous contrivance; this probably is one of its characteristics. he that witnesses its influence on another with most horror, and most fervently deprecates its ravages, is not therefore more safe. this circumstance was realized in the history of ormond. this infatuation, if it may so be called, was gradual in its progress. the sensations which helena was now able to excite were of a new kind. her power was not merely weakened, but her endeavours counteracted their own end. her fondness was rejected with disdain, or borne with reluctance. the lady was not slow in perceiving this change. the stroke of death would have been more acceptable. his own reflections were too tormenting to make him willing to discuss them in words. he was not aware of the effects produced by this change in his demeanour, till informed of it by herself. one evening he displayed symptoms of uncommon dissatisfaction. her tenderness was unable to dispel it. he complained of want of sleep. this afforded a hint which she drew forth in one of her enchanting ditties. habit had almost conferred upon her the power of spontaneous poesy, and, while she pressed his forehead to her bosom, she warbled forth a strain airy and exuberant in numbers, tender and ecstatic in its imagery:- sleep, extend thy downy pinion hasten from thy cell with speed; spread around thy soft dominion; much those brows thy balmy presence need. wave thy wand of slumberous power, moistened in lethean dews, to charm the busy spirits of the hour, and brighten memory's malignant hues. thy mantle, dark and starless, cast over my selected youth; bury in thy womb the mournful past, and soften with thy dreams th' asperities of truth. the changeful hues of his impassioned sleep, my office it shall be to watch the while; with thee, my love, when fancy prompts, to weep, and when thou smil'st, to smile. but sleep! i charge thee, visit not these eyes, nor raise thy dark pavilion here, 'till morrow from the cave of ocean arise, and whisper tuneful joy in nature's ear. but mutely let me lie, and sateless gaze at all the soul that in his visage sits, while spirits of harmonious air-here her voice sunk, and the line terminated in a sigh. her museful ardours were chilled by the looks of ormond. absorbed in his own thoughts, he appeared scarcely to attend to this strain. his sternness was proof against her accustomed fascinations. at length she pathetically complained of his coldness, and insinuated her suspicions that his affection was transferred to another object. he started from her embrace, and after two or three turns across the room, he stood before her. his large eyes were steadfastly fixed upon her face. "aye," said he, "thou hast guessed right. the love, poor as it was, that i had for thee, is gone: henceforth thou art desolate indeed. would to god thou wert wise. thy woes are but beginning; i fear they will terminate fatally; if so, the catastrophe cannot come too quickly. "i disdain to appeal to thy justice, helena, to remind thee of conditions solemnly and explicitly assumed. shall thy blood be upon thy own head? no. i will bear it myself. though the load would crush a mountain, i will bear it. "i cannot help it; i make not myself; i am moulded by circumstances; whether i shall love thee or not is no longer in my own choice. marriage if indeed still in my power. i may give thee any name, and share with thee my fortune. will these content thee? thou canst not partake of my love. thou canst have no part in my tenderness. these, are reserved for another more worthy than thou. "but no. thy state is to the last degree forlorn, even marriage is denied thee. thou wast contented to take me without it,--to dispense with the name of wife; but the being who has displaced thy image in thy heart is of a different class. she will be to me a wife, or nothing; and i must be her husband, or perish. "do not deceive thyself, helena. i know what it is in which thou hast placed thy felicity. life is worth retaining by thee but on one condition. i know the incurableness of thy infirmity; but be not deceived. thy happiness is ravished from thee. the condition on which thou consentedst to live is annulled. i love thee no longer. "no truth was ever more delicious; none was ever more detestable. i fight against conviction, and i cling to it. that i love thee no longer is at once a subject of joy, and of mourning. i struggle to believe thee superior to this shock; that thou wilt be happy, though deserted by me. whatever be thy destiny, my reason will not allow me to be miserable on that account. yet i would give the world--i would forfeit every claim but that which i hope upon the heart of constantia--to be sure that thy tranquillity will survive this stroke. "but let come what will, look no longer to me for offices of love. henceforth all intercourse of tenderness ceases,--perhaps all personal intercourse whatever. but though this good be refused, thou art sure of independence. i will guard thy ease and thy honour with a father's scrupulousness. would to heaven a sister could be created by adoption! i am willing, for thy sake, to be an impostor. i will own thee to the world for my sister, and carry thee whither the cheat shall never be detected. i would devote my whole life to prevarication and falsehood for thy sake, if that would suffice to make thee happy." to this speech helena had nothing to answer: her sobs and tears choked all utterance. she hid her face with her handkerchief, and sat powerless and overwhelmed with despair. ormond traversed the room uneasily, sometimes moving to and fro with quick steps, sometimes standing and eyeing her with looks of compassion. at length he spoke:-"it is time to leave you. this is the first night that you will spend in dreary solitude. i know it will be sleepless and full of agony; but the sentence cannot be recalled. henceforth regard me as a brother. i will prove myself one. all other claims are swallowed up in a superior affection." in saying this, he left the house, and, almost without intending it, found himself in a few minutes at mr. dudley's door. chapter vii. the politeness of melbourne had somewhat abated mr. dudley's aversion to society. he allowed himself sometimes to comply with urgent invitations. on this evening he happened to be at the house of that gentleman. ormond entered, and found constantia alone. an interview of this kind was seldom enjoyed, though earnestly wished for, by constantia, who was eager to renew the subject of her first conversation with ormond. i have already explained the situation of her mind. all her wishes were concentred in the marriage of helena. the eligibility of this scheme, in every view which she took of it, appeared in a stronger light. she was not aware that any new obstacle had arisen. she was free from the consciousness of any secret bias. much less did her modesty suspect that she herself would prove an insuperable impediment to this plan. there was more than usual solemnity in ormond's demeanour. after he was seated, he continued, contrary to his custom, to be silent. these singularities were not unobserved by constantia. they did not, however, divert her from her purpose. "i am glad to see you," said she. "we so seldom enjoy the advantage of a private interview. i have much to say to you. you authorize me to deliberate on your actions, and, in some measure, to prescribe to you. this is a province which i hope to discharge with integrity and diligence. i am convinced that helena's happiness and your own can be secured in one way only. i will emulate your candour, and come at once to the point. why have you delayed so long the justice that is due to this helpless and lovely girl? there are a thousand reasons why you should think of no other alternative. you have been pleased to repose some degree of confidence in my judgement. hear my full and deliberate opinion. make helena your wife. this is the unequivocal prescription of your duty." this address was heard by ormond without surprise; but his countenance betrayed the acuteness of his feelings. the bitterness that overflowed his heart was perceptible in his tone when he spoke:-"most egregiously are you deceived. such is the line with which human capacity presumes to fathom futurity. with all your discernment you do not see that marriage would effectually destroy me. you do not see that, whether beneficial or otherwise in its effects, marriage is impossible. you are merely prompting me to suicide: but how shall i inflict the wound? where is the weapon? see you not that i am powerless? leap, say you, into the flames. see you not that i am fettered? will a mountain move at your bidding? sooner than i in the path which you prescribe to me." this speech was inexplicable. she pressed him to speak less enigmatically. had he formed his resolution? if so, arguments and remonstrances were superfluous. without noticing her interrogatories, he continued:-"i am too hasty in condemning you. you judge, not against, but without knowledge. when sufficiently informed, your decision will be right. yet how can you be ignorant? can you for a moment contemplate yourself and me, and not perceive an insuperable bar to this union?" "you place me," said constantia, "in a very disagreeable predicament. i have not deserved this treatment from you. this is an unjustifiable deviation from plain dealing. of what impediment do you speak. i can safely say that i know of none." "well," resumed he, with augmented eagerness, "i must supply you with knowledge. i repeat, that i perfectly rely on the rectitude of your judgement. summon all your sagacity and disinterestedness and choose for me. you know in what light helena has been viewed by me. i have ceased to view her in this light. she has become an object of indifference. nay, i am not certain that i do not hate her,--not indeed for her own sake, but because i love another. shall i marry her whom i hate, when there exists one whom i love with unconquerable ardour?" constantia was thunderstruck with this intelligence. she looked at him with some expression of doubt. "how is this?" said she. "why did you not tell me this before?" "when i last talked with you on this subject i knew it not myself. it has occurred since. i have seized the first occasion that has offered to inform you of it. say now, since such is my condition, ought helena to be my wife?" constantia was silent. her heart bled for what she foresaw would be the sufferings and forlorn destiny of helena. she had not courage to inquire further into this new engagement. "i wait for your answer, constantia. shall i defraud myself of all the happiness which would accrue from a match of inclination? shall i put fetters on my usefulness? this is the style in which you speak. shall i preclude all the good to others that would flow from a suitable alliance? shall i abjure the woman i love, and marry her whom i hate?" "hatred," replied the lady, "is a harsh word. helena has not deserved that you should hate her. i own this is a perplexing circumstance. it would be wrong to determine hastily. suppose you give yourself to helena: will more than yourself be injured by it? who is this lady? will she be rendered unhappy by a determination in favour of another? this is a point of the utmost importance." at these words ormond forsook his seat, and advanced close up to constantia:--"you say true. this is a point of inexpressible importance. it would be presumption in me to decide. that is the lady's own province. and now, say truly, are you willing to accept ormond with all his faults? who but yourself could be mistress of all the springs of my soul? i know the sternness of your probity. this discovery will only make you more strenuously the friend of helena. yet why should you not shun either extreme? lay yourself out of view. and yet, perhaps the happiness of constantia is not unconcerned in this question. is there no part of me in which you discover your own likeness? am i deceived, or is it an incontrollable destiny that unites us?" this declaration was truly unexpected by constantia. she gathered from it nothing but excitements of grief. after some pause she said:--"this appeal to me has made no change in my opinion. i still think that justice requires you to become the husband of helena. as to me, do you think my happiness rests upon so slight a foundation? i cannot love but when my understanding points out to me the propriety of love. ever since i have known you i have looked upon you as rightfully belonging to another. love could not take place in my circumstances. yet i will not conceal from you my sentiments. i am not sure that, in different circumstances, i should not have loved. i am acquainted with your worth. i do not look for a faultless man. i have met with none whose blemishes were fewer. "it matters not, however, what i should have been. i cannot interfere, in this case, with the claims of my friend. i have no passion to struggle with. i hope, in every vicissitude, to enjoy your esteem, and nothing more. there is but one way in which mine can be secured, and that is by espousing this unhappy girl." "no!" exclaimed ormond. "require not impossibilities. helena can never be any thing to me. i should, with unspeakably more willingness, assail my own life." "what," said the lady, "will helena think of this sudden and dreadful change? i cannot bear to think upon the feelings that this information will excite." "she knows it already. i have this moment left her. i explained to her, in a few words, my motives, and assured her of my unalterable resolution. i have vowed never to see her more but as a brother; and this vow she has just heard." constantia could not suppress her astonishment and compassion at this intelligence:--"no surely; you could not be so cruel! and this was done with your usual abruptness, i suppose. precipitate and implacable man! cannot you foresee the effects of this madness? you have planted a dagger in her heart. you have disappointed me. i did not think you could act so inhumanly." "nay, beloved constantia, be not so liberal of your reproaches. would you have me deceive her? she must shortly have known it. could the truth be told too soon?" "much too soon," replied the lady, fervently. "i have always condemned the maxims by which you act. your scheme is headlong and barbarous. could not you regard with some little compassion that love that sacrificed, for your unworthy sake, honest fame and the peace of virtue? is she not a poor outcast, goaded by compunction, and hooted at by a malignant and misjudging world? and who was it that reduced her to this deplorable condition? for whose sake did she willingly consent to brave evils, by which the stoutest heart is appalled? did this argue no greatness of mind? who ever surpassed her in fidelity and tenderness? but thus has she been rewarded. i shudder to think what may be the event. her courage cannot possibly support her against treatment so harsh, so perversely and wantonly cruel. heaven grant that you are not shortly made bitterly to lament this rashness!" ormond was penetrated with these reproaches. they persuaded him for a moment that his deed was wrong; that he had not unfolded his intentions to helena with a suitable degree of gentleness and caution. little more was said on this occasion. constantia exhorted him, in the most earnest and pathetic manner, to return and recant, or extenuate, his former declarations. he could not be brought to promise compliance. when he parted from her, however, he was half resolved to act as she advised. solitary reflection made him change this resolution, and he returned to his own house. during the night he did little else than ruminate on the events of the preceding evening. he entertained little doubt of his ultimate success with constantia. she gratified him in nothing, but left him every thing to hope. she had hitherto, it seems, regarded him with indifference, but this had been sufficiently explained. that conduct would be pursued, and that passion be entertained, which her judgement should previously approve. what then was the obstacle? it originated in the claims of helena. but what were these claims? it was fully ascertained that he should never be united to this girl. if so, the end contemplated by constantia, and for the sake of which only his application was rejected, could never be obtained. unless her rejection of him could procure a husband for her friend, it would, on her own principles, be improper and superfluous. what was to be done with helena? it was a terrible alternative to which he was reduced:--to marry her or see her perish. but was this alternative quite sure? could not she, by time or by judicious treatment, be reconciled to her lot? it was to be feared that he had not made a suitable beginning: and yet, perhaps it was most expedient that a hasty and abrupt sentence should be succeeded by forbearance and lenity. he regretted his precipitation, and though unused to the melting mood, tears were wrung from him by the idea of the misery which he had probably occasioned. he was determined to repair his misconduct as speedily as possible, and to pay her a conciliating visit the next morning. he went early to her house. he was informed by the servant that her mistress had not yet risen. "was it usual," he asked, "for her to lie so late?" "no," he was answered, "she never knew it happen before, but she supposed her mistress was not well. she was just going into her chamber to see what was the matter." "why," said ormond, "do you suppose that she is sick?" "she was poorly last night. about nine o'clock she sent out for some physic to make her sleep." "to make her sleep?" exclaimed ormond, in a fettering and affrighted accent. "yes: she said she wanted it for that. so i went to the 'pothecary's. when i came back she was very poorly indeed. i asked her if i might not sit up with her. 'no,' she said, 'i do not want anybody. you may go to bed as soon as you please, and tell fabian to do the same. i shall not want you again.'" "what did you buy?" "some kind of water,--laud'num i think they call it. she wrote it down, and i carried the paper to mr. eckhart's, and he gave it to me in a bottle, and i gave it to my mistress." "'tis well: retire: i will see how she is myself." ormond had conceived himself fortified against every disaster: he looked for nothing but evil, and therefore, in ordinary cases, regarded its approach without fear or surprise. now, however, he found that his tremors would not be stilled: his perturbations increased with every step that brought him nearer to her chamber. he knocked, but no answer was returned. he opened the door, advanced to the bed side, and drew back the curtains. he shrunk from the spectacle that presented itself. was this the helena that, a few hours before, was blithesome with health and radiant with beauty? her visage was serene, but sunken and pale. death was in every line of it. to his tremulous and hurried scrutiny every limb was rigid and cold. the habits of ormond tended to obscure the appearances, if not to deaden the emotions of sorrow. he was so much accustomed to the frustration of well-intended efforts, and confided so much in his own integrity, that he was not easily disconcerted. he had merely to advert, on this occasion, to the tumultuous state of his feelings, in order to banish their confusion and restore himself to calm. "well," said he, as he dropped the curtain and turned towards another part of the room, "this, without doubt, is a rueful spectacle. can it be helped? is there in man the power of recalling her? there is none such in me. "she is gone: well then, she _is_ gone. if she were fool enough to die, i am not fool enough to follow her. i am determined to live and be happy notwithstanding. why not? "yet, this is a piteous night. what is impossible to undo, might be easily prevented. a piteous spectacle! but what else, on an ampler scale, is the universe? nature is a theatre of suffering. what corner is unvisited by calamity and pain? i have chosen as became me. i would rather precede thee to the grave, than live to be thy husband. "thou hast done my work for me. thou hast saved thyself and me from a thousand evils. thou hast acted as seemed to thee best, and i am satisfied. "hast thou decided erroneously? they that know thee need not marvel at that. endless have been the proofs of thy frailty. in favour of this last act something may be said. it is the last thou wilt ever commit. others only will experience its effects; thou hast, at least, provided for thy own safety. "but what is here? a letter for me? had thy understanding been as prompt as thy fingers, i could have borne with thee. i can easily divine the contents of this epistle." he opened it, and found the tenor to be as follows:- "you did not use, my dear friend, to part with me in this manner. you never before treated me so roughly. i am, sorry, indeed i am, that i ever offended you. could you suppose that i intended it? and if you knew that i meant not offence, why did you take offence? "i'm very unhappy, for i have lost you, my friend. you will never see me more, you say. that is very hard. i have deserved it to-be-sure, but i do not know how it has happened. nobody more desired to please than i have done. morning, noon, night, it was my only study; but you will love me no more; you will see me no more. forgive me, my friend, but i must say it is very hard. "you said rightly; i do not wish to live without my friend. i have spent my life happily heretofore. 'tis true, these have been transient uneasinesses, but your love was a reward and a cure for every thing. i desired nothing better in this world. did you ever hear me murmur? no; i was not so unjust. my lot was happy, infinitely beyond my deserving. i merited not to be loved by you. oh that i had suitable words to express my gratitude for your kindness! but this last meeting,--how different from that which went before? yet even then there was something on your brow like discontent, which i could not warble nor whisper away as i used to do. but sad as this was, it was nothing like the last. "could ormond be so stern and so terrible? you knew that i would die, but you need not have talked as if i were in the way, and as if you had rather i should die than live. but one thing i rejoice at; i am a poor silly girl, but constantia is a noble and accomplished one. most joyfully do i resign you to her, my dear friend. you say you love her. she need not be afraid of accepting you. there will be no danger of your preferring another to her. it was very natural and very right for you to prefer her to me. she and you will be happy in each other. it is this that sweetens the cup i am going to drink. never did i go to sleep with more good-will than i now go to death. fare you well, my dear friend." this letter was calculated to make a deeper impression on ormond than even the sight of helena's corpse. it was in vain, for some time, that he endeavoured to reconcile himself to this event. it was seldom that he was able to forget it. he was obliged to exert all his energies to enable him to support the remembrance. the task was of course rendered easier by time. it was immediately requisite to attend to the disposal of the corpse. he felt himself unfit for this mournful office. he was willing to relieve himself from it by any expedient. helena's next neighbour was an old lady, whose scruples made her shun all direct intercourse with this unhappy girl; yet she had performed many acts of neighbourly kindness. she readily obeyed the summons of ormond, on this occasion, to take charge of affairs till another should assert it. ormond returned home, and sent the following note to constantia:- "you have predicted aright. helena is dead. in a mind like your's every grief will be suspended, and every regard absorbed in the attention due to the remains of this unfortunate girl. _i_ cannot attend to them." constantia was extremely shocked by this intelligence, but she was not unmindful of her duty. she prepared herself, with mournful alacrity, for the performance of it. every thing that the occasion demanded was done with diligence and care. till this was accomplished, ormond could not prevail upon himself to appear upon the stage. he was informed of this by a note from constantia, who requested him to take possession of the unoccupied dwelling and its furniture. among the terms of his contract with helena, ormond had voluntarily inserted the exclusive property of a house and its furniture in this city, with funds adequate to her plentiful maintenance. these he had purchased and transferred to her. to this he had afterwards added a rural retreat, in the midst of spacious and well-cultivated fields, three miles from perth-amboy, and seated on the right bank of the sound. it is proper to mention that this farm was formerly the property of mr. dudley,--had been fitted up by him, and used as his summer abode during his prosperity. in the division of his property it had fallen to one of his creditors, from whom it had been purchased by ormond. this circumstance, in conjunction with the love which she bore to constantia, had suggested to helena a scheme, which her want of foresight would, in different circumstances, have occasioned her to overlook. it was that of making her testament, by which she bequeathed all that she possessed to her friend. this was not done without the knowledge and cheerful concurrence of ormond, who, together with melbourne and another respectable citizen, were named executors. melbourne and his friend were induced by their respect for constantia to consent to this nomination. this had taken place before ormond and constantia had been introduced to each other. after this event, ormond had sometimes been employed in contriving means for securing to his new friend and her father a subsistence, more certain than the will of helena could afford. her death he considered as an event equally remote and undesirable. this event, however unexpectedly, had now happened, and precluded the necessity of further consideration on this head. constantia could not but accept this bequest. had it been her wish to decline it, it was not in her power, but she justly regarded the leisure and independence thus conferred upon her, as inestimable benefits. it was a source of unbounded satisfaction on her father's account, who was once more seated in the bosom of affluence. perhaps, in a rational estimate, one of the most fortunate events that could have befallen those persons, was that period of adversity through which they had been doomed to pass. most of the defects that adhered to the character of mr. dudley, had, by this means, been exterminated. he was now cured of those prejudices which his early prosperity had instilled, and which had flowed from luxurious indigencies. he had learned to estimate himself at his true value, and to sympathize with sufferings which he himself had partaken. it was easy to perceive in what light constantia was regarded by her father. he never reflected on his relation to her without rapture. her qualities were the objects of his adoration. he resigned himself with pleasure to her guidance. the chain of subordination and duties was reversed. by the ascendancy of her genius and wisdom the province of protection and the tribute of homage had devolved upon her. this had resulted from incessant experience of the wisdom of her measures, and the spectacle of her fortitude and skill in every emergency. it seemed as if but one evil adhered to the condition of this man. his blindness was an impediment to knowledge and enjoyment, of which, the utmost to be hoped was, that he should regard it without pungent regret, and that he should sometimes forget it; that his mind should occasionally stray into foreign paths, and lose itself in sprightly conversations, or benign reveries. this evil, however, was by no means remediless. a surgeon of uncommon skill had lately arrived from europe. he was one of the numerous agents and dependants of ormond and had been engaged to abdicate his native country for purposes widely remote from his profession. the first use that was made of him was to introduce him to mr. dudley. the diseased organs were critically examined, and the patient was, with considerable difficulty, prevailed upon to undergo the necessary operation. his success corresponded with constantia's wishes, and her father was once more restored to the enjoyment of light. these were auspicious events. constantia held herself amply repaid by them for all that she had suffered. these sufferings had indeed been light, when compared with the effects usually experienced by others in a similar condition. her wisdom had extracted its sting from adversity, and without allowing herself to feel much of the evils of its reign, had employed it as an instrument by which the sum of her present happiness was increased. few suffered less in the midst of poverty, than she. no one ever extracted more felicity from the prosperous reverse. chapter viii. when time had somewhat mitigated the memory of the late disaster, the intercourse between ormond and constantia was renewed. the lady did not overlook her obligations to her friend. it was to him that she was indebted for her father's restoration to sight, and to whom both owed, essentially, though indirectly, their present affluence. in her mind, gratitude was no perverse or ignoble principle. she viewed this man as the author of extensive benefits, of which her situation enabled her to judge with more accuracy than others. it created no bias on her judgement, or, at least, none of which she was sensible. her equity was perfectly unfettered; and she decided in a way contrary to his inclination, with as little scruple as if the benefits had been received, not by herself, but by him. she indeed intended his benefit, though she thwarted his inclinations. she had few visitants beside himself. their interviews were daily and unformal. the fate of helena never produced any reproaches on her part. she saw the uselessness of recrimination, not only because she desired to produce emotions different from those which infective is adapted to excite, but because it was more just to soothe than to exasperate the inquietudes which haunted him. she now enjoyed leisure. she had always been solicitous for mental improvement. any means subservient to this end were valuable. the conversation of ormond was an inexhaustible fund. by the variety of topics and the excitement to reflection it supplied, a more plenteous influx of knowledge was produced than could have flowed from any other source. there was no end to the detailing of facts, and the canvassing of theories. i have already said that ormond was engaged in schemes of an arduous and elevated nature. these were the topics of epistolary discussion between him and a certain number of coadjutors, in different parts of the world. in general discourse, it was proper to maintain a uniform silence respecting these, not only because they involved principles and views remote from vulgar apprehension, but because their success, in some measure, depended on their secrecy. he could not give a stronger proof of his confidence in the sagacity and steadiness of constantia than he now gave, by imparting to her his schemes, and requesting her advice and assistance in the progress of them. his disclosures, however, were imperfect. what knowledge was imparted, instead of appeasing, only tended to inflame her curiosity. his answers to her inquiries were prompt, and, at first sight, sufficiently explicit; but upon reconsideration, an obscurity seemed to gather round them, to be dispelled by new interrogatories. these, in like manner, effected a momentary purpose, but were sure speedily to lead into new conjectures, and reimmerse her in doubts. the task was always new, was always on the point of being finished, and always to be recommenced. ormond aspired to nothing more ardently than to hold the reins of opinion,--to exercise absolute power over the conduct of others, not by constraining their limbs, or by exacting obedience to his authority, but in a way of which his subjects should be scarcely conscious. he desired that his guidance should control their steps, but that his agency, when most effectual, should be least suspected. if he were solicitous to govern the thoughts of constantia, or to regulate her condition, the mode which he pursued had hitherto been admirably conducive to that end. to have found her friendless and indigent, accorded, with the most fortunate exactness, with his views. that she should have descended to this depth, from a prosperous height, and therefore be a stranger to the torpor which attends hereditary poverty, and be qualified rightly to estimate and use the competence to which, by this means, she was now restored, was all that his providence would have prescribed. her thoughts were equally obsequious to his direction. the novelty and grandeur of his schemes could not fail to transport a mind ardent and capacious as that of constantia. here his fortune had been no less propitious. he did not fail to discover, and was not slow to seize, the advantages flowing thence. by explaining his plans, opportunity was furnished to lead and to confine her meditations to the desirable tract. by adding fictitious embellishments, he adapted it with more exactness to his purpose. by piecemeal and imperfect disclosures her curiosity was kept alive. i have described ormond at having contracted a passion for constantia. this passion certainly existed in his heart, but it must not be conceived to be immutable, or to operate independently of all those impulses and habits which time had interwoven in his character. the person and affections of this woman were the objects sought by him, and which it was the dearest purpose of his existence to gain. this was his supreme good, though the motives to which it was indebted for its pre-eminence in his imagination were numerous and complex. i have enumerated his opinions on the subject of wedlock. the question will obviously occur, whether constantia was sought by him with upright or flagitious views. his sentiments and resolution on this head had for a time fluctuated, but were now steadfast. marriage was, in his eyes, hateful and absurd as ever. constantia was to be obtained by any means. if other terms were rejected, he was willing, for the sake of this good, to accept her as a wife; but this was a choice to be made only when every expedient was exhausted for reconciling her to a compact of a different kind. for this end he, prescribed to himself a path suited to the character of this lady. he made no secret of his sentiments and views. he avowed his love, and described, without scruple, the scope of his wishes. he challenged her to confute his principles, and promised a candid audience and profound consideration to her arguments. her present opinions he knew to be adverse to his own, but he hoped to change them by subtlety and perseverance. his further hopes and designs he concealed from her. she was unaware that if he were unable to effect a change in her creed, he was determined to adopt a system of imposture,--to assume the guise of a convert to her doctrines, and appear as devout as herself in his notions of the sanctity of marriage. perhaps it was not difficult to have foreseen the consequence of these projects. constantia's peril was imminent. this arose not only from the talents and address of ormond, but from the community of sentiment which already existed between them. she was unguarded in a point where, if not her whole yet doubtless her principal security and strongest bulwark would have existed. she was unacquainted with religion. she was unhabituated to conform herself to any standard but that connected with the present life. matrimonial as well as every other human duty, was disconnected in her mind with any awful or divine sanction. she formed her estimate of good and evil on nothing but terrestrial and visible consequences. this defect in her character she owed to her father's system of education. mr. dudley was an adherent to what he conceived to be true religion. no man was more passionate in his eulogy of his own form of devotion and belief, or in his invectives against atheistical dogmas; but he reflected that religion assumed many forms, one only of which is salutary or true, and that truth in this respect is incompatible with infantile and premature instruction. to this subject it was requisite to apply the force of a mature and unfettered understanding. for this end he laboured to lead away the juvenile reflections of constantia from religious topics, to detain them in the paths of history and eloquence,--to accustom her to the accuracy of geometrical deduction, and to the view of those evils that have flowed in all ages, from mistaken piety. in consequence of this scheme, her habits rather than her opinions, were undevout. religion was regarded by her not with disbelief, but with absolute indifference. her good sense forbade her to decide before inquiry, but her modes of study and reflection were foreign to, and unfitted her for this species of discussion. her mind was seldom called to meditate on this subject, and when it occurred, her perceptions were vague and obscure. no objects, in the sphere which she occupied, were calculated to suggest to her the importance of investigation and certainty. it becomes me to confess, however reluctantly, thus much concerning my friend. however abundantly endowed in other respects, she was a stranger to the felicity and excellence flowing from religion. in her struggles with misfortune, she was supported and cheered by the sense of no approbation but her own. a defect of this nature will perhaps be regarded as of less moment when her extreme youth is remembered. all opinion in her mind were mutable, inasmuch as the progress of her understanding was incessant. it was otherwise with ormond. his disbelief was at once unchangeable and strenuous. the universe was to him a series of events, connected by an undesigning and inscrutable necessity, and an assemblage of forms, to which no beginning or end can be conceived. instead of transient views and vague ideas, his meditations, on religious points, had been intense. enthusiasm was added to disbelief, and he not only dissented but abhorred. he deemed it prudent, however, to disguise sentiments which, if unfolded in their full force, would wear to her the appearance of insanity. but he saw and was eager to improve the advantage which his anti-nuptial creed derived from the unsettled state of her opinions. he was not unaware, likewise, of the auspicious and indispensable co-operation of love. if this advocate were wanting in her bosom, all his efforts would be in vain. if this pleader were engaged in his behalf, he entertained no doubts of his ultimate success. he conceived that her present situation, all whose comforts were the fruits of his beneficence, and which afforded her no other subject of contemplation than himself, was as favourable as possible to the growth of this passion. constantia was acquainted with his wishes. she could not fail to see that she might speedily be called upon to determine a momentous question. her own sensations, and the character of ormond were, therefore, scrutinized with suspicious attention. marriage could be justified in her eyes only by community of affections and opinions. she might love without the sanction of her judgement; but, while destitute of that sanction, she would never suffer it to sway her conduct. ormond was imperfectly known. what knowledge she had gained flowed chiefly from his own lips, and was therefore unattended with certainty. what portion of deceit or disguise was mixed with his conversation could be known only by witnessing his actions with her own eyes and comparing his testimony with that of others. he had embraced a multitude of opinions which appeared to her erroneous. till these were rectified, and their conclusions were made to correspond, wedlock was improper. some of these obscurities might be dispelled, and some of these discords be resolved into harmony by time. meanwhile it was proper to guard the avenues to her heart, and screen herself from self-delusion. there was no motive to conceal her reflections on this topic from her father. mr. dudley discovered, without her assistance, the views of ormond. his daughter's happiness was blended with his own. he lived but in the consciousness of her tranquillity. her image was seldom absent from his eyes, and never from his thoughts. the emotions which it excited sprung but in part from the relationship of father. it was gratitude and veneration which she claimed from him, and which filled him with rapture. he ruminated deeply on the character of ormond. the political and anti-theological tenets of this man were regarded, not merely with disapprobation, but antipathy. he was not ungrateful for the benefits which had been conferred upon him. ormond's peculiarities of sentiment excited no impatience, as long as he was regarded merely as a visitant. it was only as one claiming to possess his daughter that his presence excited, in mr. dudley, trepidation and loathing. ormond was unacquainted with what was passing in the mind of mr. dudley. the latter conceived his own benefactor and his daughter's friend to be entitled to the most scrupulous and affable urbanity. his objections to a nearer alliance were urged with frequent and pathetic vehemence only in his private interviews with constantia. ormond and he seldom met. mr. dudley, as soon as his sight was perfectly retrieved, betook himself with eagerness to painting,--an amusement which his late privations had only contributed to endear to him. things remained nearly on their present footing for some months. at the end of this period some engagement obliged ormond to leave the city. he promised to return with as much speed as circumstances would admit. meanwhile, his letters supplied her with topics of reflection. these were frequently received, and were models of that energy of style which results from simplicity of structure, from picturesque epithets, and from the compression of much meaning into few words. his arguments seldom imparted conviction, but delight never failed to flow from their lucid order and cogent brevity. his narratives were unequalled for rapidity and comprehensiveness. every sentence was a treasury to moralists and painters. chapter ix. domestic and studious occupations did not wholly engross the attention of constantia. social pleasures were precious to her heart, and she was not backward to form fellowships and friendships with those around her. hitherto she had met with no one entitled to an uncommon portion of regard, or worthy to supply the place of the friend of her infancy. her visits were rare, and, as yet, chiefly confined to the family of mr. melbourne. here she was treated with flattering distinctions, and enjoyed opportunities of extending as far as she pleased her connections with the gay and opulent. to this she felt herself by no means inclined, and her life was still eminently distinguished by love of privacy and habits of seclusion. one morning, feeling an indisposition to abstraction, she determined to drop in, for an hour, on mrs. melbourne. finding mrs. melbourne's parlour unoccupied, she proceeded unceremoniously to an apartment on the second floor, where that lady was accustomed to sit. she entered, but this room was likewise empty. here she cast her eyes on a collection of prints, copied from the farnese collection, and employed herself for some minutes in comparing the forms of titiano and the caracchi. suddenly, notes of peculiar sweetness were wafted to her ear from without. she listened with surprise, for the tones of her father's lute were distinctly recognized. she hied to the window, which chanced to look into a back court. the music was perceived to come from the window of the next house. she recollected her interview with the purchaser of her instrument at the music shop, and the powerful impression which the stranger's countenance had made upon her. the first use she had made of her recent change of fortune was to endeavour to recover this instrument. the music dealer, when reminded of the purchase, and interrogated as to the practicability of regaining the lute, for which she was willing to give treble the price, answered that he had no knowledge of the foreign lady beyond what was gained at the interview which took place in constantia's presence. of her name, residence, and condition, he knew nothing, and had endeavoured in vain to acquire knowledge. now, this incident seemed to have furnished her with the information she had so earnestly sought. this performer was probably the stranger herself. her residence so near the melbournes, and in a house which was the property of the magistrate, might be means of information as to her condition, and perhaps of introduction to a personal acquaintance. while engaged in these reflections, mrs. melbourne entered the apartment. constantia related this incident to her friend, and stated the motives of her present curiosity. her friend willingly imparted what knowledge she possessed relative to this subject. this was the sum. this house had been hired, previously to the appearance of the yellow fever, by an english family, who left their native soil with a view to a permanent abode in the new world. they had scarcely taken possession of the dwelling when they were terrified by the progress of the epidemic. they had fled from the danger; but this circumstance, in addition to some others, induced them to change their scheme. an evil so unwonted as pestilence impressed them with a belief of perpetual danger as long as they remained on this side of the ocean. they prepared for an immediate return to england. for this end their house was relinquished, and their splendid furniture destined to be sold by auction. before this event could take place, application was made to mr. melbourne by a lady whom his wife's description showed to be the same person of whom constantia was in search. she not only rented the house, but negotiated by means of her landlord for the purchase of the furniture. her servants were blacks, and all but one, who officiated as steward, unacquainted with the english language. some accident had proved her name to be beauvais. she had no visitants, very rarely walked abroad, and then only in the evening with a female servant in attendance. her hours appeared to be divided between the lute and the pen. as to her previous history or her present sources of subsistence, mrs. melbourne's curiosity had not been idle, but no consistent information was obtainable. some incidents had given birth to the conjecture that she was wife, or daughter, or sister of beauvais, the partizan of brissot, whom the faction of marat had lately consigned to the scaffold; but this conjecture was unsupported by suitable evidence. this tale by no means diminished constantia's desire of personal intercourse. she saw no means of effecting her purpose. mrs. melbourne was unqualified to introduce her, having been discouraged in all the advances she had made towards a more friendly intercourse. constantia reflected, that her motives to seclusion would probably induce this lady to treat others as her friend had been treated. it was possible, however, to gain access to her, if not as a friend, yet as the original proprietor of the lute. she determined to employ the agency of roseveldt, the music-shopman, for the purpose of rebuying this instrument. to enforce her application, she commissioned this person, whose obliging temper entitled him to confidence, to state her inducements for originally offering it for sale, and her motives for desiring the repossession on any terms which the lady thought proper to dictate. roseveldt fixed an hour in which it was convenient for him to execute her commission. this hour having passed, constantia, who was anxious respecting his success, hastened to his house. roseveldt delivered the instrument, which the lady, having listened to his pleas and offers, directed to be gratuitously restored to constantia. at first, she had expressed her resolution to part with it on no account, and at no price. its music was her only recreation, and this instrument surpassed any she had ever before seen, in the costliness and delicacy of its workmanship. but roseveldt's representations produced an instant change of resolution, and she not only eagerly consented to restore it, but refused to receive any thing in payment. constantia was deeply affected by this unexpected generosity. it was not her custom to be outstripped in this career. she now condemned herself for her eagerness to regain this instrument. during her father's blindness it was a powerful, because the only, solace of his melancholy. now he had no longer the same anxieties to encounter, and books and the pencil were means of gratification always at hand. the lute therefore, she imagined, could be easily dispensed with by mr. dudley, whereas its power of consoling might be as useful to the unknown lady as it had formerly been to her father. she readily perceived in what manner it became her to act. roseveldt was commissioned to redeliver the lute, and to entreat the lady's acceptance of it. the tender was received without hesitation, and roseveldt dismissed without any inquiry relative to constantia. these transactions were reflected on by constantia with considerable earnestness. the conduct of the stranger, her affluent and lonely slate, her conjectural relationship to the actors in the great theatre of europe, were mingled together in the fancy of constantia, and embellished with the conceptions of her beauty derived from their casual meeting at roseveldt's. she forgot not their similitude in age and sex, and delighted to prolong the dream of future confidence and friendship to take place between them. her heart sighed for a companion fitted to partake in all her sympathies. this strain, by being connected with the image of a being like herself, who had grown up with her from childhood, who had been entwined with her earliest affections, but from whom she had been severed from the period at which her father's misfortunes commenced, and of whose present condition she was wholly ignorant, was productive of the deepest melancholy. it filled her with excruciating, and, for a time, irremediable sadness. it formed a kind of paroxysm, which, like some febrile affections, approach and retire without warning, and against the most vehement struggles. in this mood her fancy was thronged with recollections of scenes in which her friend had sustained a part. their last interview was commonly revived in her remembrance so forcibly as almost to produce a lunatic conception of its reality. a ditty which they sung together on that occasion flowed to her lips. if ever human tones were qualified to convey the whole soul, they were those of constantia when she sang:- "the breeze awakes, the bark prepares, to waft me to a distant shore: but far beyond this world of cares we meet again to part no more." these fits were accustomed to approach and to vanish by degrees. they were transitory, but not unfrequent, and were pregnant with such agonizing tenderness, such heart-breaking sighs, and a flow of such bitter yet delicious tears, that it were not easily decided whether the pleasure or the pain surmounted. when symptoms of their coming were felt she hastened into solitude, that the progress of her feelings might endure no restraint. on the evening of the day on which the lute had been sent to the foreign lady, constantia was alone in her chamber immersed in desponding thoughts. from these she was recalled by fabian, her black servant, who announced a guest. she was loath to break off the thread of her present meditations, and inquired with a tone of some impatience, who was the guest. the servant was unable to tell; it was a young lady whom he had never before seen; she had opened the door herself, and entered the parlour without previous notice. constantia paused at this relation. her thoughts had recently been fixed upon sophia westwyn. since their parting four years before she had heard no tidings of this woman. her fears imagined no more probable cause of her friend's silence than her death. this, however, was uncertain. the question now occurred, and brought with it sensations that left her no power to move:--was this the guest? her doubts were quickly dispelled, for the stranger taking a light from the table, and not brooking the servant's delays, followed fabian to the chamber of his mistress. she entered with careless freedom, and presented to the astonished eyes of constantia the figure she had met at roseveldt's, and the purchaser of her lute. the stranger advanced towards her with quick steps, and mingling tones of benignity and sprightliness, said:-"i have come to perform a duty. i have received from you to-day a lute that i valued almost as my best friend. to find another in america, would not, perhaps, be possible; but, certainly, none equally superb and exquisite as this can be found. to show how highly i esteem the gift, i have come in person to thank you for it."--there she stopped. constantia could not suddenly recover from the extreme surprise into which the unexpectedness of this meeting had thrown her. she could scarcely sufficiently suppress this confusion to enable her to reply to these rapid effusions of her visitant, who resumed with augmented freedom:-"i came, as i said, to thank you, but to say the truth that was not all, i came likewise to see you. having done my errand, i suppose i must go. i would fain stay longer and talk to you a little. will you give me leave?" constantia, scarcely retrieving her composure, stammered out a polite assent. they seated themselves, and the visitant, pressing the hand she had taken, proceeded in a strain so smooth, so flowing, sliding from grave to gay, blending vivacity with tenderness, interpreting constantia's silence with such keen sagacity, and accounting for the singularities of her own deportment in a way so respectful to her companion, and so worthy of a steadfast and pure mind in herself, that every embarrassment and scruple were quickly banished from their interview. in an hour the guest took her leave. no promise of repeating her visit, and no request that constantia would repay it, was made. their parting seemed to be the last; whatever purpose having been contemplated appeared to be accomplished by this transient meeting. it was of a nature deeply to interest the mind of constantia. this was the lady who talked with roseveldt, and bargained with melbourne, and they had been induced by appearances to suppose her ignorant of any language but french; but her discourse, on the present occasion, was in english, and was distinguished by unrivalled fluency. her phrases and habits of pronouncing were untinctured by any foreign mixture, and bespoke the perfect knowledge of a native of america. on the next evening, while constantia was reviewing this transaction, calling up and weighing the sentiments which the stranger had uttered, and indulging some regret at the unlikelihood of their again meeting, martinette (for i will henceforth call her by her true name) entered the apartment as abruptly as before. she accounted for the visit merely by the pleasure it afforded her, and proceeded in a strain even more versatile and brilliant than before. this interview ended like the first, without any tokens on the part of the guest, of resolution or desire to renew it; but a third interview took place on the ensuing day. henceforth martinette became a frequent but hasty visitant, and constantia became daily more enamoured of her new acquaintance. she did not overlook peculiarities in the conversation and deportment of this woman. these exhibited no tendencies to confidence or traces of sympathy. they merely denoted large experience, vigorous faculties, and masculine attainments. herself was never introduced, except as an observer; but her observations on government and manners were profound and critical. her education seemed not widely different from that which constantia had received. it was classical and mathematical; but to this was added a knowledge of political and military transactions in europe during the present age, which implied the possession of better means of information than books. she depicted scenes and characters with the accuracy of one who had partaken and witnessed them herself. constantia's attention had been chiefly occupied by personal concerns. her youth had passed in contention with misfortune, or in the quietudes of study. she could not be unapprised of contemporary revolutions and wars, but her ideas concerning them were indefinite and vague. her views and her inferences on this head were general and speculative. her acquaintance with history was exact and circumstantial, in proportion as she retired backward from her own age. she knew more of the siege of mutina than that of lisle; more of the machinations of cataline and the tumults of clodius, than of the prostration of the bastile, and the proscriptions of marat. she listened, therefore, with unspeakable eagerness to this reciter, who detailed to her, as the occasion suggested, the progress of action and opinion on the theatre of france and poland. conceived and rehearsed as this was with the energy and copiousness of one who sustained a part in the scene, the mind of constantia was always kept at the pitch of curiosity and wonder. but, while this historian described the features, personal deportment, and domestic character of antoinette, mirabeau and robespierre, an impenetrable veil was drawn over her own condition. there was a warmth and freedom in her details, which bespoke her own co-agency in these events, but was unattended by transports of indignation or sorrow, or by pauses of abstraction, such as were likely to occur in one whose hopes and fears had been intimately blended with public events. constantia could not but derive humiliation from comparing her own slender acquirements with those of her companion. she was sensible that all the differences between them arose from diversities of situation. she was eager to discover in what particulars this diversity consisted. she was for a time withheld, by scruples not easily explained, from disclosing her wishes. an accident, however, occurred to remove these impediments. one evening this unceremonious visitant discovered constantia busily surveying a chart of the mediterranean sea. this circumstance led the discourse to the present state of syria and cyprus. martinette was copious in her details. constantia listened for a time; and, when a pause ensued, questioned her companion as to the means she possessed of acquiring so much knowledge. this question was proposed with diffidence, and prefaced by apologies. "instead of being offended by your question," replied the guest, "i only wonder that it never before occurred to you. travellers tell us much. volney and mariti would have told you nearly all that i have told. with these i have conversed personally, as well as read their books; but my knowledge is, in truth, a species of patrimony. i inherit it." "will you be good enough," said constantia, "to explain yourself?" "my mother was a greek of cyprus. my father was a slavonian of ragusa, and i was born in a garden at aleppo." "that was a singular concurrence." "how singular? that a nautical vagrant like my father should sometimes anchor in the bay of naples; that a cyprian merchant should carry his property and daughter beyond the reach of a turkish sangjack, and seek an asylum so commodious as napoli; that my father should have dealings with this merchant, see, love, and marry his daughter, and afterwards procure from the french government a consular commission to aleppo; that the union should in due time be productive of a son and daughter,--are events far from being singular. they happen daily." "and may i venture to ask if this be your history?" "the history of my parents. i hope you do not consider the place of my birth as the sole or the most important circumstance of my life." "nothing would please me more than to be enabled to compare it with other incidents. i am apt to think that your life is a tissue of surprising events. that the daughter of a ragusan and greek should have seen and known so much; that she should talk english with equal fluency and more correctness than a native; that i should now be conversing with her in a corner so remote from cyprus and sicily, are events more wonderful than any which i have known." "wonderful! pish! thy ignorance, thy miscalculation of probabilities is far more so. my father talked to me in slavonic; my mother and her maids talked to me in greek. my neighbours talked to me in a medley of arabic, syriac, and turkish. my father's secretary was a scholar. he was as well versed in lysias and xenophon as any of their contemporaries. he laboured for ten years to enable me to read a language essentially the same with that i used daily to my nurse and mother. is it wonderful then that i should be skilful in slavonic, greek, and the jargon of aleppo? to have refrained from learning was impossible. suppose, a girl, prompt, diligent, inquisitive, to spend ten years of her life partly in spain, partly in tuscany, partly in france, and partly in england. with her versatile curiosity and flexible organs would it be possible for her to remain ignorant of each of these languages? latin is the mother of them all, and presents itself of course to her studious attention." "i cannot easily conceive motives which should lead you before the age of twenty through so many scenes." "can you not? you grew and flourished, like a frail mimosa, in the spot where destiny had planted you. thank my stars, i am somewhat better than a vegetable. necessity, it is true, and not choice, set me in motion, but i am not sorry for the consequences." "is it too much," said constantia, with some hesitation, "to request a detail of your youthful adventures?" "too much to give, perhaps, at a short notice. to such as you my tale might abound with novelty, while to others, more acquainted with vicissitudes, it would be tedious and flat. i must be gone in a few minutes. for that and for better reasons, i must not be minute. a summary at present will enable you to judge how far a more copious narrative is suited to instruct or to please you." end of vol. ii jack's ward or the boy guardian by horatio alger, jr. 1910 [illustration: jack seized the old man, thrust him through the secret door and locked it.] biography and bibliography horatio alger, jr., an author who lived among and for boys and himself remained a boy in heart and association till death, was born at revere, mass., january 13, 1834. he was the son of a clergyman; was graduated at harvard college in 1852, and at its divinity school in 1860; and was pastor of the unitarian church at brewster, mass., in 1862-66. in the latter year he settled in new york and began drawing public attention to the condition and needs of street boys. he mingled with them, gained their confidence, showed a personal concern in their affairs, and stimulated them to honest and useful living. with his first story he won the hearts of all red-blooded boys everywhere, and of the seventy or more that followed over a million copies were sold during the author's lifetime. in his later life he was in appearance a short, stout, bald-headed man, with cordial manners and whimsical views of things that amused all who met him. he died at natick, mass., july 18, 1899. mr. alger's stories are as popular now as when first published, because they treat of real live boys who were always up and about--just like the boys found everywhere to-day. they are pure in tone and inspiring in influence, and many reforms in the juvenile life of new york may be traced to them. among the best known are: _strong and steady; strive and succeed; try and trust; bound to rise; risen from the ranks; herbert carter's legacy; brave and bold; jack's ward; shifting for himself; wait and hope; paul the peddler; phil the fiddler; slow and sure; julius the street boy; tom the bootblack; struggling upward; facing the world; the cash boy; making his way; tony the tramp; joe's luck; do and dare; only an irish boy; sink or swim; a cousin's conspiracy; andy gordon; bob burton; harry vane; hector's inheritance; mark mason's triumph; sam's chance; the telegraph boy; the young adventurer; the young outlaw; the young salesman_, and _luke walton_. jack's ward chapter i jack harding gets a job "look here, boy, can you hold my horse a few minutes?" asked a gentleman, as he jumped from his carriage in one of the lower streets in new york. the boy addressed was apparently about twelve, with a bright face and laughing eyes, but dressed in clothes of coarse material. this was jack harding, who is to be our hero. "yes, sir," said jack, with alacrity, hastening to the horse's head; "i'll hold him as long as you like." "all right! i'm going in at no. 39; i won't be long." "that's what i call good luck," said jack to himself. "no boy wants a job more than i do. father's out of work, rent's most due, and aunt rachel's worrying our lives out with predicting that we'll all be in the poorhouse inside of three months. it's enough to make a fellow feel blue, listenin' to her complainin' and groanin' all the time. wonder whether she was always so. mother says she was disappointed in love when she was young. i guess that's the reason." "have you set up a carriage, jack?" asked a boy acquaintance, coming up and recognizing jack. "yes," said jack, "but it ain't for long. i shall set down again pretty soon." "i thought your grandmother had left you a fortune, and you had set up a team." "no such good news. it belongs to a gentleman that's inside." "inside the carriage?" "no, in no. 39." "how long's he going to stay?" "i don't know." "if it was half an hour, we might take a ride, and be back in time." jack shook his head. "that ain't my style," he said. "i'll stay here till he comes out." "well, i must be going along. are you coming to school to-morrow?" "yes, if i can't get anything to do." "are you trying for that?" "i'd like to get a place. father's out of work, and anything i can earn comes in handy." "my father's got plenty of money," said frank nelson, complacently. "there isn't any need of my working." "then your father's lucky." "and so am i." "i don't know about that. i'd just as lieve work as not." "well, i wouldn't. i'd rather be my own master, and have my time to myself. but i must be going home." "you're lazy, frank." "very likely. i've a right to be." frank nelson went off, and jack was left alone. half an hour passed, and still the gentleman, who had entered no. 39, didn't appear. the horse showed signs of impatience, shook his head, and eyed jack in an unfriendly manner. "he thinks it time to be going," thought jack. "so do i. i wonder what the man's up to. perhaps he's spending the day." fifteen minutes more passed, but then relief came. the owner of the carriage came out. "did you get tired of waiting for me?" he asked. "no," said jack, shrewdly. "i knew the longer the job, the bigger the pay." "i suppose that is a hint," said the gentleman, not offended. "perhaps so," said jack, and he smiled too. "tell me, now, what are you going to do with the money i give you--buy candy?" "no," answered jack, "i shall carry it home to my mother." "that's well. does your mother need the money?" "yes, sir. father's out of work, and we've got to live all the same." "what's your father's business?" "he's a cooper." "so he's out of work?" "yes, sir, and has been for six weeks. it's on account of the panic, i suppose." "very likely. he has plenty of company just now." it may be remarked that our story opens in the year 1867, memorable for its panic, and the business depression which followed. nearly every branch of industry suffered, and thousands of men were thrown out of work, and utterly unable to find employment of any kind. among them was timothy harding, the father of our hero. he was a sober, steady man, and industrious; but his wages had never been large, and he had been unable to save up a reserve fund, on which to draw in time of need. he had an excellent wife, and but one child--our present hero; but there was another, and by no means unimportant member of the family. this was rachel harding, a spinster of melancholy temperament, who belonged to that unhappy class who are always prophesying evil, and expecting the worst. she had been "disappointed" in early life, and this had something to do with her gloomy views, but probably she was somewhat inclined by nature to despondency. the family lived in a humble tenement, which, however, was neatly kept, and would have been a cheerful home but for the gloomy presence of aunt rachel, who, since her brother had been thrown out of employment, was gloomier than ever. but all this while we have left jack and the stranger standing in the street. "you seem to be a good boy," said the latter, "and, under the circumstances, i will pay you more than i intended." he drew from his vest pocket a dollar bill, and handed it to jack. "what! is all this for me?" asked jack, joyfully. "yes, on the condition that you carry it home, and give it to your mother." "that i will, sir; she'll be glad enough to get it." "well, good-by, my boy. i hope your father'll find work soon." "he's a trump!" ejaculated jack. "wasn't it lucky i was here just as he wanted a boy to hold his horse. i wonder what aunt rachel will have to say to that? very likely she'll say the bill is bad." jack made the best of his way home. it was already late in the afternoon, and he knew he would be expected. it was with a lighter heart than usual that he bent his steps homeward, for he knew that the dollar would be heartily welcome. we will precede him, and give a brief description of his home. there were only five rooms, and these were furnished in the plainest manner. in the sitting room were his mother and aunt. mrs. harding was a motherly-looking woman, with a pleasant face, the prevailing expression of which was a serene cheerfulness, though of late it had been harder than usual to preserve this, in the straits to which the family had been reduced. she was setting the table for tea. aunt rachel sat in a rocking-chair at the window. she was engaged in knitting. her face was long and thin, and, as jack expressed it, she looked as if she hadn't a friend in the world. her voice harmonized with her mournful expression, and was equally doleful. "i wonder why jack don't come home?" said mrs. harding, looking at the clock. "he's generally here at this time." "perhaps somethin's happened," suggested her sister-in-law. "what do you mean, rachel?" "i was reading in the _sun_ this morning about a boy being run over out west somewhere." "you don't think jack has been run over!" "who knows?" said rachel, gloomily. "you know how careless boys are, and jack's very careless." "i don't see how you can look for such things, rachel." "accidents are always happening; you know that yourself, martha. i don't say jack's run over. perhaps he's been down to the wharves, and tumbled over into the water and got drowned." "i wish you wouldn't say such things, rachel. they make me feel uncomfortable." "we may as well be prepared for the worst," said rachel, severely. "not this time, rachel," said mrs. harding, brightly, "for that's jack's step outside. he isn't drowned or run over, thank god!" "i hear him," said rachel, dismally. "anybody might know by the noise who it is. he always comes stamping along as if he was paid for makin' a noise. anybody ought to have a cast-iron head that lives anywhere within his hearing." here jack entered, rather boisterously, it must be admitted, in his eagerness slamming the door behind him. chapter ii the events of an evening "i am glad you've come, jack," said his mother. "rachel was just predicting that you were run over or drowned." "i hope you're not very much disappointed to see me safe and well, aunt rachel," said jack, merrily. "i don't think i've been drowned." "there's things worse than drowning," replied rachel, severely. "such as what?" "a man that's born to be hanged is safe from drowning." "thank you for the compliment, aunt rachel, if you mean me. but, mother, i didn't tell you of my good luck. see this," and he displayed the dollar bill. "how did you get it?" asked his mother. "holding horses. here, take it, mother; i warrant you'll find a use for it." "it comes in good time," said mrs. harding. "we're out of flour, and i had no money to buy any. before you take off your boots, jack, i wish you'd run over to the grocery store, and buy half a dozen pounds. you may get a pound of sugar, and quarter of a pound of tea also." "you see the lord hasn't forgotten us," she remarked, as jack started on his errand. "what's a dollar?" said rachel, gloomily. "will it carry us through the winter?" "it will carry us through to-night, and perhaps timothy will have work to-morrow. hark, that's his step." at this moment the outer door opened, and timothy harding entered, not with the quick, elastic step of one who brings good tidings, but slowly and deliberately, with a quiet gravity of demeanor in which his wife could read only too well that he had failed in his efforts to procure work. reading all this in his manner, she had the delicacy to forbear intruding upon him questions to which she saw it would only give him pain to reply. not so aunt rachel. "i needn't ask," she began, "whether you've got work, timothy. i knew beforehand you wouldn't. there ain't no use in tryin'! the times is awful dull, and mark my words, they'll be wuss before they're better. we mayn't live to see 'em. i don't expect we shall. folks can't live without money; and if we can't get that, we shall have to starve." "not so bad as that, rachel," said the cooper, trying to look cheerful; "i don't talk about starving till the time comes. anyhow," glancing at the table, on which was spread a good plain meal, "we needn't talk about starving till to-morrow with that before us. where's jack?" "gone after some flour," replied his wife. "on credit?" asked the cooper. "no, he's got money enough to pay for a few pounds," said mrs. harding, smiling with an air of mystery. "where did it come from?" asked timothy, who was puzzled, as his wife anticipated. "i didn't know you had any money in the house." "no more we had; but he earned it himself, holding horses, this afternoon." "come, that's good," said the cooper, cheerfully. "we ain't so bad off as we might be, you see, rachel." "very likely the bill's bad," she said, with the air of one who rather hoped it was. "now, rachel, what's the use of anticipating evil?" said mrs. harding. "you see you're wrong, for here's jack with the flour." the family sat down to supper. "you haven't told us," said mrs. harding, seeing her husband's cheerfulness in a measure restored, "what mr. blodgett said about the chances for employment." "not much that was encouraging," answered timothy. "he isn't at all sure when it will be safe to commence work; perhaps not before spring." "didn't i tell you so?" commented rachel, with sepulchral sadness. even mrs. harding couldn't help looking sober. "i suppose, timothy, you haven't formed any plans," she said. "no, i haven't had time. i must try to get something else to do." "what, for instance?" "anything by which i can earn a little; i don't care if it's only sawing wood. we shall have to get along as economically as we can--cut our coat according to our cloth." "oh, you'll be able to earn something, and we can live very plain," said mrs. harding, affecting a cheerfulness she didn't feel. "pity you hadn't done it sooner," was the comforting suggestion of rachel. "mustn't cry over spilt milk," said the cooper, good-humoredly. "perhaps we might have lived a leetle more economically, but i don't think we've been extravagant." "besides, i can earn something, father," said jack, hopefully. "you know i did this afternoon." "so you can," said his mother, brightly. "there ain't horses to hold every day," said rachel, apparently fearing that the family might become too cheerful, when, like herself, it was their duty to be profoundly gloomy. "you're always tryin' to discourage people, aunt rachel," said jack, discontentedly. rachel took instant umbrage at these words. "i'm sure," said she, mournfully, "i don't want to make you unhappy. if you can find anything to be cheerful about when you're on the verge of starvation, i hope you'll enjoy yourselves, and not mind me. i'm a poor, dependent creetur, and i feel i'm a burden." "now, rachel, that's all foolishness," said timothy. "you don't feel anything of the kind." "perhaps others can tell how i feel better than i can myself," answered his sister, with the air of a martyr. "if it hadn't been for me, i know you'd have been able to lay up money, and have something to carry you through the winter. it's hard to be a burden on your relations, and bring a brother's family to this poverty." "don't talk of being a burden, rachel," said mrs. harding. "you've been a great help to me in many ways. that pair of stockings, now, you're knitting for jack--that's a help, for i couldn't have got time for them myself." "i don't expect," said aunt rachel, in the same sunny manner, "that i shall be able to do it long. from the pains i have in my hands sometimes, i expect i'm goin' to lose the use of 'em soon, and be as useless as old mrs. sprague, who for the last ten years of her life had to sit with her hands folded on her lap. but i wouldn't stay to be a burden--i'd go to the poorhouse first. but perhaps," with the look of a martyr, "they wouldn't want me there, because i'd be discouragin' 'em too much." poor jack, who had so unwittingly raised this storm, winced under the last words, which he knew were directed at him. "then why," asked he, half in extenuation, "why don't you try to look pleasant and cheerful? why won't you be jolly, as tom piper's aunt is?" "i dare say i ain't pleasant," said rachel, "as my own nephew twits me with it. there is some folks that can be cheerful when their house is a-burnin' down before their eyes, and i've heard of one young man that laughed at his aunt's funeral," directing a severe glance at jack; "but i'm not one of that kind. i think, with the scriptures, that there's a time to weep." "doesn't it say there's a time to laugh, too?" asked mrs. harding. "when i see anything to laugh about, i'm ready to laugh," said aunt rachel; "but human nater ain't to be forced. i can't see anything to laugh at now, and perhaps you won't by and by." it was evidently quite useless to persuade rachel to cheerfulness, and the subject dropped. the tea things were cleared away by mrs. harding, who then sat down to her sewing. aunt rachel continued to knit in grim silence, while jack seated himself on a three-legged stool near his aunt, and began to whittle out a boat, after a model lent him by tom piper, a young gentleman whose aunt has already been referred to. the cooper took out his spectacles, wiped them carefully with his handkerchief, and as carefully adjusted them to his nose. he then took down from the mantelpiece one of the few books belonging to his library--"dr. kane's arctic explorations"--and began to read, for the tenth time, it might be, the record of these daring explorers. the plain little room presented a picture of graceful tranquillity, but it proved to be only the calm which preceded the storm. the storm in question, i regret to say, was brought about by the luckless jack. as has been said, he was engaged in constructing a boat, the particular operation he was now intent upon being the excavation, or hollowing out. now three-legged stools are not the most secure seats in the world. this, i think, no one will deny who has any practical acquaintance with them. jack was working quite vigorously, the block from which the boat was to be fashioned being held firmly between his knees. his knife having got wedged in the wood, he made an unusual effort to draw it out, in which he lost his balance, and disturbed the equilibrium of his stool, which, with its load, tumbled over backward. now, it very unfortunately happened that aunt rachel sat close behind, and the treacherous stool came down with considerable force upon her foot. a piercing shriek was heard, and aunt rachel, lifting her foot, clung to it convulsively, while an expression of pain disturbed her features. at the sound, the cooper hastily removed his spectacles, and, letting "dr. kane" fall to the floor, started up in great dismay. mrs. harding likewise dropped her sewing, and jumped to her feet in alarm. it did not take long to see how matters stood. "hurt ye much, rachel?" inquired timothy. "it's about killed me," groaned the afflicted maiden. "oh, i shall have to have my foot cut off, or be a cripple anyway." then, turning upon jack fiercely: "you careless, wicked, ungrateful boy, that i've been wearin' myself out knittin' for. i'm almost sure you did it a purpose. you won't be satisfied till you've got me out of the world, and then--then, perhaps"--here rachel began to whimper--"perhaps you'll get tom piper's aunt to knit your stockings." "i didn't mean to, aunt rachel," said jack, penitently, eying his aunt, who was rocking to and fro in her chair. "you know i didn't. besides, i hurt myself like thunder," rubbing himself vigorously. "served you right," said his aunt, still clasping her foot. "shan't i get something for you to put on it, rachel?" asked mrs. harding. but this rachel steadily refused, and, after a few more postures indicating a great amount of anguish, limped out of the room, and ascended the stairs to her own apartment. chapter iii jack's new plan aunt rachel was right in one thing, as jack realized. he could not find horses to hold every day, and even if he had succeeded in that, few would have paid him so munificently as the stranger of the day before. in fact, matters came to a crisis, and something must be sold to raise funds for immediate necessities. now, the only article of luxury--if it could be called so--in the possession of the family was a sofa, in very good preservation, indeed nearly new, for it had been bought only two years before when business was good. a neighbor was willing to pay fifteen dollars for this, and mrs. harding, with her husband's consent, agreed to part with it. "if ever we are able we will buy another," said timothy. "and, at any rate, we can do without it," said his wife. "rachel will miss it." "she said the other day that it was not comfortable, and ought never to have been bought; that it was a shameful waste of money." "in that case she won't be disturbed by our selling it." "no, i should think not; but it's hard to tell how rachel will take anything." this remark was amply verified. the sofa was removed while the spinster was out, and without any hint to her of what was going to happen. when she returned, she looked around for it with surprise. "where's the sofy?" she asked. "we've sold it to mrs. stoddard," said mrs. harding, cheerfully. "sold it!" echoed rachel, dolefully. "yes; we felt that we didn't need it, and we did need money. she offered me fifteen dollars for it, and i accepted." rachel sat down in a rocking-chair, and began straightway to show signs of great depression of spirits. "life's full of disappointments!" she groaned. "our paths is continually beset by 'em. there's that sofa. it's so pleasant to have one in the house when a body's sick. but, there, it's gone, and if i happen to get down, as most likely i shall, for i've got a bad feeling in my stummick this very minute, i shall have to go upstairs, and most likely catch my death of cold, and that will be the end of me." "not so bad as that, i hope," said mrs. harding, cheerfully. "you know when you was sick last, you didn't want to use the sofa; you said it didn't lay comfortable. besides, i hope before you are sick we may be able to buy it back again." aunt rachel shook her head despondingly. "there ain't any use in hoping that," she said. "timothy's got so much behindhand that he won't be able to get up again; i know he won't!" "but, if he only manages to find steady work soon, he will." "no, he won't," said rachel, positively. "i'm sure he won't. there won't be any work before spring, and most likely not then." "you are too desponding, aunt rachel." "enough to make me so. if you had only taken my advice, we shouldn't have come to this." "i don't know what advice you refer to, rachel," said mrs. harding, patiently. "no, i don't expect you do. my words don't make no impression. you didn't pay no attention to what i said, that's the reason." "but if you'll repeat the advice, rachel, perhaps we can still profit by it," answered mrs. harding, with imperturbable good humor. "i told you you ought to be layin' up something agin' a rainy day. but that's always the way. folks think when times is good it's always a-goin' to be so, but i know better." "i don't see how we could have been much more economical," said mrs. harding, mildly. "there's a hundred ways. poor folks like us ought not to expect to have meat so often. it's frightful to think what the butcher's bill must have been for the last two months." inconsistent rachel! only the day before she had made herself very uncomfortable because there was no meat for dinner, and said she couldn't live without it. mrs. harding might have reminded her of this, but the good woman was too kind and forbearing to make the retort. she really pitied rachel for her unhappy habit of despondency. so she contented herself by saying that they must try to do better in future. "that's always the way," muttered rachel; "shut the stable door after the horse is stolen. folks never learn from experience till it's too late to be of any use. i don't see what the world was made for, for my part. everything goes topsy-turvy, and all sorts of ways except the right way. i sometimes think 'tain't much use livin'!" "oh, you'll feel better by and by, rachel." "no, i shan't; i feel my health's declinin' every day. i don't know how i can stand it when i have to go to the poorhouse." "we haven't gone there yet, rachel." "no, but it's comin' soon. we can't live on nothin'." "hark, there's jack coming," said his mother, hearing a quick step outside. "yes, he's whistlin' just as if nothin' was the matter. he don't care anything for the awful condition of the family." "you're wrong there, rachel; jack is trying every day to get something to do. he wants to do his part." rachel would have made a reply disparaging to jack, but she had no chance, for our hero broke in at this instant. "well, jack?" said his mother, inquiringly. "i've got a plan, mother," he said. "what's a boy's plan worth?" sniffed aunt rachel. "oh, don't be always hectorin' me, aunt rachel," said jack, impatiently. "hectorin'! is that the way my own nephew talks to me?" "well, it's so. you don't give a feller a chance. i'll tell you what i'm thinking of, mother. i've been talkin' with tom blake; he sells papers, and he tells me he makes sometimes a dollar a day. isn't that good?" "yes, that is very good wages for a boy." "i want to try it, too; but i've got to buy the papers first, you know, and i haven't got any money. so, if you'll lend me fifty cents, i'll try it this afternoon." "you think you can sell them, jack?" "i know i can. i'm as smart as tom blake, any day." "pride goes before a fall!" remarked rachel, by way of a damper. "disappointment is the common lot." "that's just the way all the time," said jack, provoked. "i've lived longer than you," began aunt rachel. "yes, a mighty lot longer," interrupted jack. "i don't deny that." "now you're sneerin' at me on account of my age, jack. martha, how can you allow such things?" "be respectful, jack." "then tell aunt rachel not to aggravate me so. will you let me have the fifty cents, mother?" "yes, jack. i think your plan is worth trying." she took out half a dollar from her pocketbook and handed it to jack. "all right, mother. i'll see what i can do with it." jack went out, and rachel looked more gloomy than ever. "you'll never see that money again, you may depend on't, martha," she said. "why not, rachel?" "because jack'll spend it for candy, or in some other foolish way." "you are unjust, rachel. jack is not that kind of boy." "i'd ought to know him. i've had chances enough." "you never knew him to do anything dishonest." "i suppose he's a model boy?" "no, he isn't. he's got faults enough, i admit; but he wouldn't spend for his own pleasure money given him for buying papers." "if he buys the papers, i don't believe he can sell them, so the money's wasted anyway," said rachel, trying another tack. "we will wait and see," said mrs. harding. she saw that rachel was in one of her unreasonable moods, and that it was of no use to continue the discussion. chapter iv mrs. harding takes a boarder jack started for the newspaper offices and bought a supply of papers. "i don't see why i can't sell papers as well as other boys," he said to himself. "i'm going to try, at any rate." he thought it prudent, however, not to buy too large stock at first. he might sell them all, but then again he might get "stuck" on a part, and this might take away all his profits. jack, however, was destined to find that in the newspaper business, as well as in others, there was no lack of competition. he took his place just below the astor house, and began to cry his papers. this aroused the ire of a rival newsboy a few feet away. "get away from here!" he exclaimed, scowling at jack. "what for?" said jack. "this is my stand." "keep it, then. this is mine," retorted jack, composedly. "i don't allow no other newsboys in this block," said the other. "don't you? you ain't the city government, are you?" "i don't want any of your impudence. clear out!" "clear out yourself!" "i'll give you a lickin'!" "perhaps you will when you're able." jack spoke manfully; but the fact was that the other boy probably was able, being three years older, and as many inches taller. jack kept on crying his papers, and his opponent, incensed at the contemptuous disregard of his threats, advanced toward him, and, taking jack unawares, pushed him off the sidewalk with such violence that he nearly fell flat. jack felt that the time for action had arrived. he dropped his papers temporarily on the sidewalk, and, lowering his head, butted against his young enemy with such force as to double him up, and seat him, gasping for breath, on the sidewalk. tom rafferty, for this was his name, looked up in astonishment at the unexpected form of the attack. "well done, my lad!" said a hearty voice. jack turned toward the speaker, and saw a stout man dressed in a blue coat with brass buttons. he was dark and bronzed with exposure to the weather, and there was something about him which plainly indicated the sailor. "well done, my lad!" he repeated. "you know how to pay off your debts." "i try to," said jack, modestly. "but where's my papers?" the papers, which he had dropped, had disappeared. one of the boys who had seen the fracas had seized the opportunity to make off with them, and poor jack was in the position of a merchant who had lost his stock in trade. "who took them papers?" he asked, looking about him. "i saw a boy run off with them," said a bystander. "i'm glad of it," said tom rafferty, sullenly. jack looked as if he was ready to pitch into him again, but the sailor interfered. "don't mind the papers, my lad. what were they worth?" "i gave twenty cents for 'em." "then here's thirty." "i don't think i ought to take it," said jack. "it's my loss." "take it, my boy. it won't ruin me. i've got plenty more behind." "thank you, sir; i'll go and buy some more papers." "not to-night. i want you to take a cruise with me." "all right, sir." "i suppose you'd like to know who i am?" said the sailor, as they moved off together. "i suppose you're a sailor." "you can tell that by the cut of my jib. yes, my lad, i'm captain of the _argo_, now in port. it's a good while since i've been in york. for ten years i've been plying between liverpool and calcutta. now i've got absence to come over here." "are you an american, sir?" "yes; i was raised in connecticut, but then i began going to sea when i was only thirteen. i only arrived to-day, and i find the city changed since ten years ago, when i used to know it." "where are you staying--at what hotel?" "i haven't gone to any yet; i used to stay with a cousin of mine, but he's moved. do you know any good boarding place, where they'd make me feel at home, and let me smoke a pipe after dinner?" an idea struck jack. they had an extra room at home, or could make one by his sleeping in the sitting room. why shouldn't they take the stranger to board? the money would certainly be acceptable. he determined to propose it. "if we lived in a nicer house," he said, "i'd ask you to board at my mother's." "would she take me, my lad?" "i think she would; but we are poor, and live in a small house." "that makes no odds. i ain't a bit particular, as long as i can feel at home. so heave ahead, my lad, and we'll go and see this mother of yours, and hear what she has to say about it." jack took the way home well pleased, and, opening the front door, entered the sitting room, followed by the sailor. aunt rachel looked up nervously, and exclaimed: "a man!" "yes, ma'am," said the stranger. "i'm a man, and no mistake. are you this lad's mother?" "no, sir!" answered rachel, emphatically. "i am nobody's mother." "oh, an old maid!" said the sailor, whose mode of life had made him unceremonious. "i am a spinster," said rachel, with dignity. "that's the same thing," said the visitor, sitting down opposite aunt rachel, who eyed him suspiciously. "my aunt, rachel harding, capt. bowling," introduced jack. "aunt rachel, capt. bowling is the commander of a vessel now in port." aunt rachel made a stiff courtesy, and capt. bowling eyed her curiously. "are you fond of knitting, ma'am?" he asked. "i am not fond of anything," said rachel, mournfully. "we should not set our affections upon earthly things." "you wouldn't say that if you had a beau, ma'am," said capt. bowling, facetiously. "a beau!" repeated rachel, horror-stricken. "yes, ma'am. i suppose you've had a beau some time or other." "i don't think it proper to talk on such a subject to a stranger," said aunt rachel, primly. "law, ma'am, you needn't be so particular." just at this moment, mrs. harding entered the room, and was introduced to capt. bowling by jack. the captain proceeded to business at once. "your son, here, ma'am, told me you might maybe swing a hammock for me somewhere in your house. i liked his looks, and here i am." "do you think you would be satisfied with our plain fare, and humble dwelling, capt. bowling?" "i ain't hard to suit, ma'am; so, if you can take me, i'll stay." his manner was frank, although rough; and mrs. harding cheerfully consented to do so. it was agreed that bowling should pay five dollars a week for the three or four weeks he expected to stay. "i'll be back in an hour," said the new boarder. "i've got a little business to attend to before supper." when he had gone out, aunt rachel began to cough ominously. evidently some remonstrance was coming. "martha," she said, solemnly, "i'm afraid you've done wrong in taking that sailor man." "why, rachel?" "he's a strange man." "i don't see anything strange about him," said jack. "he spoke to me about having a beau," said aunt rachel, in a shocked tone. jack burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "perhaps he's going to make you an offer, aunt rachel," he said. "he wants to see if there's anybody in the way." rachel did not appear so very indignant. "it was improper for a stranger to speak to me on that subject," she said, mildly. "you must make allowances for the bluntness of a sailor," said mrs. harding. for some reason rachel did not seem as low-spirited as usual that evening. capt. bowling entertained them with narratives of his personal adventures, and it was later than usual when the lamps were put out, and they were all in bed. chapter v the captain's departure "jack," said the captain, at breakfast, the next morning, "how would you like to go round with me to see my vessel?" "i'll go," said jack, promptly. "very likely he'll fall over into the water and be drowned," suggested aunt rachel, cheerfully. "i'll take care of that, ma'am," said capt. bowling. "won't you come yourself?" "i go to see a vessel!" repeated rachel. "yes; why not?" "i am afraid it wouldn't be proper to go with a stranger," said rachel, with a high sense of propriety. "i'll promise not to run away with you," said the captain, bluntly. "if i should attempt it, jack, here, would interfere." "no, i wouldn't," said jack. "it wouldn't be proper for me to interfere with aunt rachel's plans." "you seem to speak as if your aunt proposed to run away," said mr. harding, jocosely. "you shouldn't speak of such things, nephew; i am shocked," said rachel. "then you won't go, ma'am?" asked the captain. "if i thought it was consistent with propriety," said rachel, hesitating. "what do you think, martha?" "i think there is no objection," said mrs. harding, secretly amazed at rachel's entertaining the idea. the result was that miss rachel put on her things, and accompanied the captain. she was prevailed on to take the captain's arm at length, greatly to jack's amusement. he was still more amused when a boy picked up her handkerchief which she had accidentally dropped, and, restoring it to the captain, said, "here's your wife's handkerchief, gov'nor." "ho! ho!" laughed the captain. "he takes you for my wife, ma'am." "ho! ho!" echoed jack, equally amused. aunt rachel turned red with confusion. "i am afraid i ought not to have come," she murmured. "i feel ready to drop." "you'd better not drop just yet," said the captain--they were just crossing the street--"wait till it isn't so muddy." on the whole, aunt rachel decided not to drop. the _argo_ was a medium-sized vessel, and jack in particular was pleased with his visit. though not outwardly so demonstrative, aunt rachel also seemed to enjoy the expedition. the captain, though blunt, was attentive, and it was something new to her to have such an escort. it was observed that miss harding was much less gloomy than usual during the remainder of the day. it might be that the captain's cheerfulness was contagious. for a stranger, aunt rachel certainly conversed with him with a freedom remarkable for her. "i never saw rachel so cheerful," remarked mrs. harding to her husband that evening after they had retired. "she hasn't once spoken of life being a vale of tears to-day." "it's the captain," said her husband. "he has such spirits that it seems to enliven all of us." "i wish we could have him for a permanent boarder." "yes; the five dollars a week which he pays are a great help, especially now that i am out of work." "what is the prospect of getting work soon?" "i am hoping for it from day to day, but it may be weeks yet." "jack earned fifty cents to-day by selling papers." "his daily earnings are an important help. with what the captain pays us, it is enough to pay all our living expenses. but there's one thing that troubles me." "the rent?" "yes, it is due in three weeks, and as yet i haven't a dollar laid by to meet it. it makes me feel anxious." "don't lose your trust in providence, timothy. he may yet carry us over this difficulty." "so i hope, but i can't help feeling in what straits we shall be, if some help does not come." two weeks later, capt. bowling sailed for liverpool. "i hope we shall see you again sometime, captain," said mrs. harding. "whenever i come back to new york, i shall come here if you'll keep me," said the bluff sailor. "aunt rachel will miss you, captain," said jack, slyly. capt. bowling turned to the confused spinster. "i hope she will," said he, heartily. "perhaps when i see her again, she'll have a husband." "oh, capt. bowling, how can you say such things?" gasped rachel, who, as the time for the captain's departure approached, had been subsiding into her old melancholy. "there's other things to think of in this vale of tears." "are there? well, if they're gloomy, i don't want to think of 'em. jack, my lad, i wish you were going to sail with me." "so do i," said jack. "he's my only boy, captain," said mrs. harding. "i couldn't part with him." "i don't blame you, ma'am, not a particle; though there's the making of a sailor in jack." "if he went away, he'd never come back," said rachel, lugubriously. "i don't know about that, ma'am. i've been a sailor, man and boy, forty years, and here i am, well and hearty to-day." "the captain is about your age, isn't he, aunt rachel?" said jack, maliciously. "i'm only thirty-nine," said rachel, sharply. "then i must have been under a mistake all my life," said the cooper to himself. "rachel's forty-seven, if she's a day." this remark he prudently kept to himself, or a fit of hysterics would probably have been the result. "i wouldn't have taken you for a day over thirty-five, ma'am," said the captain, gallantly. rachel actually smiled, but mildly disclaimed the compliment. "if it hadn't been for my trials and troubles," she said, "i might have looked younger; but they are only to be expected. it's the common lot." "is it?" said the captain. "i can't say i've been troubled much that way. with a stout heart and a good conscience we ought to be jolly." "who of us has a good conscience?" asked rachel, in a melancholy tone. "i have, aunt rachel," answered jack. "you?" she exclaimed, indignantly. "you, that tied a tin kettle to a dog's tail yesterday, and chased the poor cat till she almost died of fright. i lie awake nights thinking of the bad end you're likely to come to unless you change your ways." jack shrugged his shoulders, but the captain came to his help. "boys will be boys, ma'am," he said. "i was up to no end of tricks myself when i was a boy." "you weren't so bad as jack, i know," said rachel. "thank you for standing up for me, ma'am; but i'm afraid i was. i don't think jack's so very bad, for my part." "i didn't play the tricks aunt rachel mentioned," said jack. "it was another boy in our block." "you're all alike," said rachel. "i don't know what you boys are all coming to." presently the captain announced that he must go. jack accompanied him as far as the pier, but the rest of the family remained behind. aunt rachel became gloomier than ever. "i don't know what you'll do, now you've lost your boarder," she said. "he will be a loss to us, it is true," said mrs. harding; but we are fortunate in having had him with us so long." "it's only puttin' off our misery a little longer," said rachel. "we've got to go to the poorhouse, after all." rachel was in one of her moods, and there was no use in arguing with her, as it would only have intensified her gloom. meanwhile jack was bidding good-by to the captain. "i'm sorry you can't go with me, jack," said the bluff sailor. "so am i; but i can't leave mother." "right, my lad; i wouldn't take you away from her. but there--take that, and don't forget me." "you are very kind," said jack, as the captain pressed into his hand a five-dollar gold piece. "may i give it to my mother?" "certainly, my lad; you can't do better." jack stood on the wharf till the vessel was drawn out into the stream by a steam tug. then he went home. chapter vi the landlord's visit it was the night before the new year. in many a household in the great city it was a night of happy anticipation. in the humble home of the hardings it was an evening of anxious thought, for to-morrow the quarter's rent was due. "i haven't got a dollar to meet the rent, martha," said the cooper, in a depressed tone. "won't mr. colman wait?" "i'm afraid not. you know what sort of a man he is, martha. there isn't much feeling about him. he cares more for money than anything else." "perhaps you are doing him an injustice." "i am afraid not. did you never hear how he treated the underhills?" "how?" "underhill was laid up with rheumatic fever for three months. the consequence was that when quarter day came round he was in about the same situation with ourselves--a little worse, even, for his wife was sick also. but, though colman was aware of the circumstances, he had no pity; he turned them out without ceremony." "is it possible?" asked mrs. harding, uneasily. "and there's no reason for his being more lenient with us. i can't but feel anxious about to-morrow, martha." at this moment, verifying an old adage, which will perhaps occur to the reader, who should knock but mr. colman himself. both the cooper and his wife had an instinctive foreboding as to his visit. he came in, rubbing his hands in a social way, as was his custom. no one, to look at him, would have suspected the hardness of heart that lay veiled under his velvety softness of manner. "good-evening, mr. harding," he said, affably. "i trust you and your excellent wife are in good health." "that blessing, at least, is continued to us," said the cooper, gravely. "and how comfortable you're looking, too, eh! it makes an old bachelor like me feel lonesome when he contrasts his own solitary room with such a scene of comfort as this. you've got a comfortable home, and dog cheap, too. all my other tenants are grumbling to think you don't have to pay any more for such superior accommodations. i've about made up my mind that i must ask you twenty-five dollars a quarter hereafter." all this was said very pleasantly, but the pill was none the less bitter. "it seems to me, mr. colman," answered the cooper, soberly, "you have chosen rather a singular time for raising the rent." "why singular, my good sir?" inquired the landlord, urbanely. "you know, of course, that this is a time of general business depression; my own trade in particular has suffered greatly. for a month past i have not been able to find any work." colman's face lost something of its graciousness. "and i fear i shall not be able to pay my quarter's rent to-morrow." "indeed!" said the landlord, coldly. "perhaps you can make it up within two or three dollars." "i can't pay a dollar toward it," said the cooper. "it's the first time, in the five years i've lived here, that this thing has happened to me. i've always been prompt before." "you should have economized as you found times growing harder," said colman, harshly. "it is hardly honest to live in a house when you know you can't pay the rent." "you shan't lose it, mr. colman," said the cooper, earnestly. "no one ever yet lost anything by me, and i don't mean anyone shall, if i can help it. only give me a little time, and i will pay all." the landlord shook his head. "you ought to have cut your coat according to your cloth," he responded. "much as it will go against my feelings i am compelled, by a prudent regard to my own interests, to warn you that, in case your rent is not ready to-morrow, i shall be obliged to trouble you to find another tenement; and furthermore, the rent of this will be raised five dollars a quarter." "i can't pay it, mr. colman," said timothy harding, gravely. "i may as well say that now; and it's no use agreeing to pay more rent. i pay all i can afford now." "very well, you know the alternative. of course, if you can do better elsewhere, you will. that's understood. but it's a disagreeable subject. we won't talk of it any more now. i shall be round to-morrow forenoon. how's your excellent sister--as cheerful as ever?" "quite as much so as usual," answered the cooper, dryly. "there's one favor i should like to ask," he said, after a pause. "will you allow us to remain here a few days till i can look about a little?" "i would with the greatest pleasure in the world," was the reply; "but there's another family very anxious to take the house, and they wish to come in immediately. therefore i shall be obliged to ask you to move out to-morrow. in fact, that is the very thing i came here this evening to speak about, as i thought you might not wish to pay the increased rent." "we are much obliged to you," said the cooper, with a tinge of bitterness unusual to him. "if we are to be turned into the street, it is pleasant to have a few hours' notice of it." "turned out of doors, my good sir! what disagreeable expressions you employ! if you reflect for a moment, you will see that it is merely a matter of business. i have an article to dispose of. there are two bidders, yourself and another person. the latter is willing to pay a larger sum. of course i give him the preference, as you would do under similar circumstances. don't you see how it is?" "i believe i do," replied the cooper. "of course it's a regular proceeding; but you must excuse me if i think of it in another light, when i reflect that to-morrow at this time my family may be without a shelter." "my dear sir, positively you are looking on the dark side of things. it is actually sinful for you to distrust providence as you seem to do. you're a little disappointed, that's all. just take to-night to sleep on it, and i've no doubt you'll see things in quite a different light. but positively"--here he rose, and began to draw on his gloves--"positively i have stayed longer than i intended. good-night, my friends. i'll look in upon you in the morning. and, by the way, as it's so near, permit me to wish you a happy new year." the door closed upon the landlord, leaving behind two anxious hearts. "it looks well in him to wish that," said the cooper, gloomily. "a great deal he is doing to make it so. i don't know how it seems to others; for my part, i never say them words to anyone, unless i really wish 'em well, and am willing to do something to make 'em so. i should feel as if i was a hypocrite if i acted anyways different." martha was not one who was readily inclined to think evil of anyone, but in her own gentle heart she could not help feeling a repugnance for the man who had just left them. jack was not so reticent. "i hate that man," he said, decidedly. "you should not hate anyone, my son," said mrs. harding. "i can't help it, mother. ain't he goin' to turn us out of the house to-morrow?" "if we cannot pay our rent, he is justified in doing so." "then why need he pretend to be so friendly? he don't care anything for us." "it is right to be polite, jack." "i s'pose if you're goin' to kick a man, it should be done politely," said jack, indignantly. "if possible," said the cooper, laughing. "is there any tenement vacant in this neighborhood?" asked mrs. harding. "yes, there is one in the next block belonging to mr. harrison." "it is a better one than this." "yes; but harrison only asks the same rent that we have been paying. he is not so exorbitant as colman." "couldn't we get that?" "i am afraid if he knows that we have failed to pay our rent here, that he will object." "but he knows you are honest, and that nothing but the hard times would have brought you to this pass." "it may be, martha. at any rate, you have lightened my heart a little. i feel as if there was some hope left, after all." "we ought always to feel so, timothy. there was one thing that mr. colman said that didn't sound so well, coming from his lips; but it's true for all that." "what do you refer to?" "i mean that about not distrusting providence. many a time have i been comforted by reading the verse: 'never have i seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' as long as we try to do what is right, timothy, god will not suffer us to want." "you are right, martha. he is our ever-present help in time of trouble. when i think of that, i feel easier." they retired to rest thoughtfully but not sadly. the fire upon the hearth flickered and died out at length. the last sands of the old year were running out, and the new morning ushered in its successor. chapter vii the new year's gift "happy new year!" was jack's salutation to aunt rachel, as with an unhappy expression of countenance she entered the sitting room. "happy, indeed!" she repeated, dismally. "there's great chance of its being so, i should think. we don't any of us know what the year may bring forth. we may all be dead and buried before the next new year." "if that's the case," said jack, "let us be jolly as long as life lasts." "i don't know what you mean by such a vulgar word," said aunt rachel, disdainfully. "i've heard of drunkards and such kind of people being jolly; but, thank providence, i haven't got to that yet." "if that was the only way to be jolly," said jack, stoutly, "then i'd be a drunkard; i wouldn't carry round such a long face as you do, aunt rachel, for any money." "it's enough to make all of us have long faces," said his aunt, sourly, "when you are brazen enough to own that you mean to be a miserable drunkard." "i didn't say any such thing," said jack, indignantly. "perhaps i have ears," remarked aunt rachel, sententiously, "and perhaps i have not. it's a new thing for a nephew to tell his aunt that she lies. they didn't use to allow such things when i was young. but the world's going to rack and ruin, and i shouldn't wonder if the people was right that say it's coming to an end." here mrs. harding happily interposed, by asking jack to go round to the grocery in the next street, and buy a pint of milk for breakfast. jack took his hat and started with alacrity, glad to leave the dismal presence of aunt rachel. he had scarcely opened the door when he started back in surprise, exclaiming: "by hokey, if there isn't a basket on the steps!" "a basket!" repeated his mother, in surprise. "can it be a new year's present? bring it in, jack." it was brought in immediately, and the cover being lifted, there appeared a female child, apparently a year old. all uttered exclamations of surprise, each in itself characteristic. "what a dear, innocent little thing!" said mrs. harding, with true maternal instinct. "ain't it a pretty un?" exclaimed jack, admiringly. "it looks as if it was goin' to have the measles," said aunt rachel, "or scarlet fever. you'd better not take it in, martha, or we may all catch it." "you wouldn't leave it out in the cold, would you, rachel? the poor thing might die of exposure." "probably it will die," said rachel, mournfully. "it's very hard to raise children. there's something unhealthy in its looks." "it don't seem to me so. it looks plump and healthy." "you can't never judge by appearances. you ought to know that, martha." "i will take the risk, rachel." "i don't see what you are going to do with a baby, when we are all on the verge of starvation, and going to be turned into the street this very day," remarked rachel, despondently. "we won't think of that just now. common humanity requires us to see what we can do for the poor child." so saying, mrs. harding took the infant in her arms. the child opened its eyes, and smiled. "my! here's a letter," said jack, diving into the bottom of the basket. "it's directed to you, father." the cooper opened the letter, and read as follows: "for reasons which it is unnecessary to state, the guardians of this child find it expedient to intrust it to others to bring up. the good account which they have heard of you has led them to select you for that charge. no further explanation is necessary, except that it is by no means their intention to make this a service of charity. they, therefore, inclose a certificate of deposit on the broadway bank of five hundred dollars, the same having been paid in to your credit. each year, while the child remains in your charge, the same will in like manner be placed to your credit at the same bank. it may be as well to state, further, that all attempt to fathom whatever of mystery may attach to this affair will prove useless." the letter was read in amazement. the certificate of deposit, which had fallen to the floor, was picked up by jack, and handed to his father. amazement was followed by a feeling of gratitude and relief. "what could be more fortunate?" exclaimed mrs. harding. "surely, timothy, our faith has been rewarded." "god has listened to our cry!" said the cooper, devoutly, "and in the hour of our sorest need he has remembered us." "isn't it prime?" said jack, gleefully; "five hundred dollars! ain't we rich, aunt rachel?" "like as not," observed rachel, "the certificate isn't genuine. it doesn't look natural it should be. i've heard of counterfeits afore now. i shouldn't be surprised at all if timothy got took up for presenting it." "i'll take the risk," said her brother, who did not seem much alarmed at the suggestion. "now you'll be able to pay the rent, timothy," said mrs. harding, cheerfully. "yes, and it's the last quarter's rent i mean to pay mr. colman, if i can help it." "why, where are you going?" asked jack. "to the house belonging to mr. harrison that i spoke of last night, that is, if it isn't already engaged. i think i will see about it at once. if mr. colman should come in while i am gone, tell him i will be back directly; i don't want you to tell him of the change in our circumstances." the cooper found mr. harrison at home. "i called to inquire," asked mr. harding, "whether you have let your house?" "not as yet," was the reply. "what rent do you ask?" "twenty dollars a quarter. i don't think that unreasonable." "it is satisfactory to me," was the cooper's reply, "and if you have no objections to me as a tenant, i will engage it at once." "far from having any objections, mr. harding," was the courteous reply, "i shall be glad to secure so good a tenant. will you go over and look at the house?" "not now, sir; i am somewhat in haste. can we move in to-day?" "certainly." his errand satisfactorily accomplished, the cooper returned home. meanwhile the landlord had called. he was a little surprised to find that mrs. harding, instead of looking depressed, looked cheerful rather than otherwise. "i was not aware you had a child so young," he remarked, looking at the baby. "it is not mine," said mrs. harding, briefly. "the child of a neighbor, i suppose," thought the landlord. meanwhile he scrutinized closely, without appearing to do so, the furniture in the room. at this point mr. harding entered the house. "good-morning," said colman, affably. "a fine morning, mr. harding." "quite so," responded his tenant, shortly. "i have called, mr. harding, to ask if you are ready with your quarter's rent." "i think i told you last evening how i was situated. of course i am sorry." "so am i," interrupted the landlord, "for i may be obliged to have recourse to unpleasant measures." "you mean that we must leave the house." "of course you cannot expect to remain in it, if you are unable to pay the rent. i suppose," he added, making an inventory of the furniture with his eyes, "you will leave behind a sufficient amount of furniture to cover your debt." "surely you would not deprive us of our furniture!" "is there any injustice in requiring payment of honest debts?" "there are cases of that description. however, i will not put you to the trouble of levying on my furniture. i am ready to pay your dues." "have you the money?" asked colman, in surprise. "i have, and something over. can you cash my check for five hundred dollars?" it would be difficult to picture the amazement of the landlord. "surely you told me a different story last evening," he said. "last evening and this morning are different times. then i could not pay you. now, luckily, i am able. if you will accompany me to the bank, i will draw some money and pay your bill." "my dear sir, i am not at all in haste for the money," said the landlord, with a return of his affability. "any time within a week will do. i hope, by the way, you will continue to occupy this house." "i don't feel like paying twenty-five dollars a quarter." "you shall have it for the same rent you have been paying." "but you said there was another family who had offered you an advanced rent. i shouldn't like to interfere with them. besides, i have already hired a house of mr. harrison in the next block." mr. colman was silenced. he regretted too late the hasty course which had lost him a good tenant. the family referred to had no existence; and, it may be remarked, the house remained vacant for several months, when he was glad to rent it at the old price. chapter viii a lucky rescue the opportune arrival of the child inaugurated a season of comparative prosperity in the home of timothy harding. to persons accustomed to live in their frugal way, five hundred dollars seemed a fortune. nor, as might have happened in some cases, did this unexpected windfall tempt the cooper or his wife to enter upon a more extravagant mode of living. "let us save something against a rainy day," said mrs. harding. "we can if i get work soon," answered her husband. "this little one will add but little to our expenses, and there is no reason why we shouldn't save up at least half of it." "so i think, timothy. the child's food will not amount to a dollar a week." "there's no tellin' when you will get work, timothy," said rachel, in her usual cheerful way. "it isn't well to crow before you are out of the woods." "very true, rachel. it isn't your failing to look too much at the sunny side of the picture." "i'm ready to look at it when i can see it anywhere," answered his sister, in the same enlivening way. "don't you see it in the unexpected good fortune which came with this child?" asked timothy. "i've no doubt you think it very fortunate now," said rachel, gloomily; "but a young child's a great deal of trouble." "do you speak from experience, aunt rachel?" asked jack. "yes," said his aunt, slowly. "if all babies were as cross and ill-behaved as you were when you were an infant, five hundred dollars wouldn't begin to pay for the trouble of having them around." mr. harding and his wife laughed at the manner in which the tables had been turned upon jack, but the latter had his wits about him sufficiently to answer: "i've always heard, aunt rachel, that the crosser a child is, the pleasanter he will grow up. what a very pleasant baby you must have been!" "jack!" said his mother, reprovingly; but his father, who looked upon it as a good joke, remarked, good-humoredly: "he's got you there, rachel." but rachel took it as a serious matter, and observed that, when she was young, children were not allowed to speak so to their elders. "but i don't know as i can blame 'em much," she continued, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, "when their own parents encourage 'em in it." timothy was warned, by experience of rachel's temper, that silence was his most prudent course. anything that he might say would only be likely to make matters worse than before. aunt rachel sank into a fit of deep despondency, and did not say another word till dinner time. she sat down to the table with a profound sigh, as if there was little in life worth living for. notwithstanding this, it was observed that she had a good appetite. indeed, miss harding appeared to thrive on her gloomy views of life and human nature. she was, it must be acknowledged, perfectly consistent in all her conduct, so far as this peculiarity was concerned. whenever she took up a newspaper, she always looked first to the space appropriated to deaths, and next in order to the column of accidents, casualties, etc., and her spirits were visibly exhilarated when she encountered a familiar name in either list. the cooper continued to look out for work; but it was with a more cheerful spirit. he did not now feel as if the comfort of his family depended absolutely on his immediate success. used economically, the money he had by him would last eight months; and during that time it was hardly possible that he should not find something to do. it was this sense of security, of having something to fall back upon, that enabled him to keep up good heart. it is too generally the case that people are content to live as if they were sure of constantly retaining their health, and never losing their employment. when a reverse does come, they are at once plunged into discouragement, and feel the necessity of doing something immediately. there is only one way of fending off such an embarrassment; and that is, to resolve, whatever may be the amount of one's income, to lay aside some part to serve as a reliance in time of trouble. a little economy--though it involves self-denial--will be well repaid by the feeling of security it engenders. mr. harding was not compelled to remain inactive as long as he feared. not that his line of business revived--that still remained depressed for a considerable time--but another path was opened to him. returning home late one evening, the cooper saw a man steal out from a doorway, and attack a gentleman, whose dress and general appearance indicated probable wealth. seizing him by the throat, the villain effectually prevented his calling for help, and at once commenced rifling his pockets, when the cooper arrived on the scene. a sudden blow admonished the robber that he had more than one to deal with. "what are you doing? let that gentleman be!" the villain hesitated but a moment, then springing to his feet, he hastily made off, under cover of the darkness. "i hope you have received no injury, sir," said mr. harding, respectfully, addressing the stranger he had rescued. "no, my worthy friend; thanks to your timely assistance. the rascal nearly succeeded, however." "i hope you have lost nothing, sir." "nothing, fortunately. you can form an idea of the value of your interference, when i say that i have fifteen hundred dollars with me, all of which would doubtless have been taken." "i am glad," said timothy, "that i was able to do you such a service. it was by the merest chance that i came this way." "will you add to my indebtedness by accompanying me with that trusty club of yours? i have some distance yet to go, and the money i have with me i don't want to lose." "willingly," said the cooper. "but i am forgetting," continued the gentleman, "that you will yourself be obliged to return alone." "i do not carry enough money to make me fear an attack," said mr. harding, laughing. "money brings care, i have always heard, and the want of it sometimes freedom from anxiety." "yet most people are willing to take their share of that." "you are right, sir, nor i can't call myself an exception. still i would be satisfied with the certainty of constant employment." "i hope you have that, at least." "i have had until three or four months since." "then, at present, you are unemployed?" "yes, sir." "what is your business?" "i am a cooper." "i will see what i can do for you. will you call at my office to-morrow, say at twelve o'clock?" "i shall be glad to do so, sir." "i believe i have a card with me. yes, here is one. and this is my house. thank you for your company. let me see you to-morrow." they stood before a handsome dwelling house, from whose windows, draped by heavy crimson curtains, a soft light proceeded. the cooper could hear the ringing of childish voices welcoming home their father, whose life, unknown to them, had been in such peril, and he felt grateful to providence for making him the instrument of frustrating the designs of the villain who would have robbed the merchant, and perhaps done him further injury. timothy determined to say nothing to his wife about the night's adventure, until after his appointed meeting for the next day. then, if any advantage accrued to him from it, he would tell the whole story. when he reached home, mrs. harding was sewing beside the fire. aunt rachel sat with her hands folded in her lap, with an air of martyr-like resignation to the woes of life. "i've brought you home a paper, rachel," said her brother, cheerfully. "you may find something interesting in it." "i shan't be able to read it this evening," said rachel, mournfully. "my eyes have troubled me lately. i feel that it is more than probable i am getting blind; but i trust i shall not live to be a burden to you, timothy. your prospects are dark enough without that." "don't trouble yourself with any fears of that sort, rachel," said the cooper, cheerily. "i think i know what will enable you to use your eyes as well as ever." "what?" asked rachel, with melancholy curiosity. "a pair of spectacles." "spectacles!" retorted rachel, indignantly. "it will be a good many years before i am old enough to wear spectacles. i didn't expect to be insulted by my own brother. but i ought not to be surprised. it's one of my trials." "i didn't mean to hurt your feelings, rachel," said the cooper, perplexed. "good-night!" said rachel, rising and taking a lamp from the table. "come, rachel, don't go up to bed yet; it's only nine o'clock." "after what you have said to me, timothy, my self-respect will not allow me to stay." rachel swept out of the room with something more than her customary melancholy. "i wish rachel wasn't quite so contrary," said the cooper to his wife. "she turns upon a body so sudden it's hard to know how to take her. how's the little girl, martha?" "she's been asleep ever since six o'clock." "i hope you don't find her very much trouble? that all comes on you, while we have the benefit of the money." "i don't think of that, timothy. she is a sweet child, and i love her almost as much as if she were my own. as for jack, he perfectly idolizes her." "and how does rachel look upon her?" "i am afraid she will never be a favorite with rachel." "rachel never took to children much. it isn't her way. now, martha, while you are sewing, i will read you the news." chapter ix what the envelope contained the card which had been handed to the cooper contained the name of thomas merriam, no. ---pearl street. punctually at twelve, he presented himself at the countingroom, and received a cordial welcome from the merchant. "i am glad to see you," he said, affably. "you rendered me an important service last evening, even if the loss of money alone was to be apprehended. i will come to business at once, as i am particularly engaged this morning, and ask you if there is any way in which i can serve you?" "if you could procure me a situation, sir, you would do me a great service." "i think you told me you were a cooper?" "yes, sir." "does this yield you a good support?" "in good times it pays me two dollars a day, and on that i can support my family comfortably. lately it has been depressed, and paid me but a dollar and a half." "when do you anticipate its revival?" "that is uncertain. i may have to wait some months." "and, in the meantime, you are willing to undertake some other employment?" "i am not only willing, but shall feel very fortunate to obtain work of any kind. i have no objection to any honest employment." mr. merriam reflected a moment. "just at present," he said, "i have nothing better to offer you than the position of porter. if that will suit you, you can enter upon its duties to-morrow." "i shall be very glad to undertake it, sir. anything is better than idleness." "as to the compensation, that shall be the same that you have been accustomed to earn by your trade--two dollars a day." "i only received that in the best times," said timothy, conscientiously. "your services as porter will be worth that amount, and i will cheerfully pay it. i will expect you to-morrow morning at eight, if you can be here at that time." "i will be here promptly." "you are married, i suppose?" said the merchant, inquiringly. "yes, sir; i am blessed with a good wife." "i am glad of that. stay a moment." mr. merriam went to his desk, and presently came back with a sealed envelope. "give that to your wife," he said. "thank you, sir." here the interview terminated, and the cooper went home quite elated by his success. his present engagement would enable him to bridge over the dull time, until his trade revived, and save him from incurring debts, of which he had a just horror. "you are just in time, timothy," said mrs. harding, cheerfully, as he entered. "we've got an apple pudding to-day." "i see you haven't forgotten what i like, martha." "there's no knowing how long you'll be able to afford puddings," said rachel, dolefully. "to my mind it's extravagant to have meat and pudding both, when a month hence you may be in the poorhouse." "then," said jack, "i wouldn't eat any if i were you, aunt rachel." "oh, if you grudge me the little i eat," said his aunt, in serene sorrow, "i will go without." "tut, rachel! nobody grudges you anything here," said her brother; "and as to the poorhouse, i've got some good news to tell you that will put that thought out of your head." "what is it?" asked mrs. harding, looking up brightly. "i have found employment." "not at your trade?" "no; but at something else which will pay equally well till trade revives." here he told the chance by which he was enabled to serve mr. merriam the evening previous, and then he gave an account of his visit to the merchant's countingroom, and the engagement which he had made. "you are indeed fortunate, timothy," said his wife, her face beaming with pleasure. "two dollars a day, and we've got nearly the whole of the money left that came with this dear child. why, we shall be getting rich soon!" "well, rachel, have you no congratulations to offer?" asked the cooper of his sister, who, in subdued sorrow, was eating as if it gave her no pleasure, but was rather a self-imposed penance. "i don't see anything so very fortunate in being engaged as a porter," said rachel, lugubriously. "i heard of a porter once who had a great box fall upon him and kill him instantly; and i was reading in the _sun_ yesterday of another out west somewhere who committed suicide." the cooper laughed. "so, rachel, you conclude that one or the other of these calamities is the inevitable lot of all who are engaged in this business?" "you may laugh now, but it is always well to be prepared for the worst," said rachel, oracularly. "but it isn't well to be always looking for it, rachel." "it'll come whether you look for it or not," retorted his sister, sententiously. "then suppose we waste no time thinking about it, since, according to your admission, it's sure to come either way." rachel did not deign a reply, but continued to eat in serene melancholy. "won't you have another piece of pudding, timothy?" asked his wife. "i don't care if i do, martha, it's so good," said the cooper, passing his plate. "seems to me it's the best pudding you ever made." "you've got a good appetite, that is all," said mrs. harding, modestly disclaiming the compliment. "apple puddings are unhealthy," observed rachel. "then what makes you eat them?" asked jack. "a body must eat something. besides, life is so full of sorrow, it makes little difference if it's longer or shorter." "won't you have another piece, rachel?" aunt rachel passed her plate, and received a second portion. jack winked slyly, but fortunately his aunt did not observe it. when dinner was over, the cooper thought of the sealed envelope which had been given him for his wife. "martha," he said, "i nearly forgot that i have something for you." "for me?" "yes, from mr. merriam." "but he don't know me," said mrs. harding, in surprise. "at any rate, he first asked me if i was married, and then handed me this envelope, which he asked me to give to you. i am not quite sure whether i ought to allow strange gentlemen to write letters to my wife." mrs. harding opened the envelope with considerable curiosity, and uttered an exclamation of surprise as a bank note fell out, and fluttered to the carpet. "by gracious, mother!" said jack, springing to get it, "you're in luck. it's a hundred-dollar bill." "so it is, i declare," said his mother, joyfully. "but, timothy, it isn't mine. it belongs to you." "no, martha, i have nothing to do with it. it belongs to you. you need some clothes, i am sure. use part of it, and i will put the rest in the savings bank for you." "i never expected to have money to invest," said mrs. harding. "i begin to feel like a capitalist. when you want to borrow money, timothy, you'll know where to come." "merriam's a trump and no mistake," said jack. "by the way, when you see him again, father, just mention that you've got a son. ain't we in luck, aunt rachel?" "boast not overmuch," said his aunt. "pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." "i never knew aunt rachel to be jolly but once," said jack under his breath; "and that was at a funeral." chapter x jack's mischief one of the first results of the new prosperity which had dawned upon the hardings, was jack's removal from the street to the school. while his father was out of employment, his earnings seemed necessary; but now they could be dispensed with. to jack, the change was not altogether agreeable. few boys of the immature age of eleven are devoted to study, and jack was not one of these few. the freedom which he had enjoyed suited him, and he tried to impress it upon his father that there was no immediate need of his returning to school. "do you want to grow up a dunce, jack?" said his father. "i can read and write already," said jack. "are you willing to enter upon life with that scanty supply of knowledge?" "oh, i guess i can get along as well as the average." "i don't know about that. besides, i want you to do better than the average. i am ambitious for you, if you are not ambitious for yourself." "i don't see what good it does a feller to study so hard," muttered jack. "you won't study hard enough to do you any harm," said aunt rachel, who might be excused for a little sarcasm at the expense of her mischievous nephew. "it makes my head ache to study," said jack. "perhaps your head is weak, jack," suggested his father, slyly. "more than likely," said rachel, approvingly. so it was decided that jack should go to school. "i'll get even with aunt rachel," thought he. "she's always talking against me, and hectorin' me. see if i don't." an opportunity for getting even with his aunt did not immediately occur. at length a plan suggested itself to our hero. he shrewdly suspected that his aunt's single blessedness, and her occasional denunciations of the married state, proceeded from disappointment. "i'll bet she'd get married if she had a chance," he thought. "i mean to try her, anyway." accordingly, with considerable effort, aided by a school-fellow, he concocted the following letter, which was duly copied and forwarded to his aunt's address: "dear girl: excuse the liberty i have taken in writing to you; but i have seen you often, though you don't know me; and you are the only girl i want to marry. i am not young--i am about your age, thirty-five--and i have a good trade. i have always wanted to be married, but you are the only one i know of to suit me. if you think you can love me, will you meet me in washington park, next tuesday, at four o'clock? wear a blue ribbon round your neck, if you want to encourage me. i will have a red rose pinned to my coat. "don't say anything to your brother's family about this. they may not like me, and they may try to keep us apart. now be sure and come. daniel." this letter reached miss rachel just before jack went to school one morning. she read it through, first in surprise, then with an appearance of pleasure. "who's your letter from, aunt rachel?" asked jack, innocently. "children shouldn't ask questions about what don't concern 'em," said his aunt. "i thought maybe it was a love letter," said he. "don't make fun of your aunt," said his father, reprovingly. "jack's question is only a natural one," said rachel, to her brother's unbounded astonishment. "i suppose i ain't so old but i might be married if i wanted to." "i thought you had put all such thoughts out of your head long ago, rachel." "if i have, it's because the race of men are so shiftless," said his sister. "they ain't worth marrying." "is that meant for me?" asked the cooper, good-naturedly. "you're all alike," said rachel, tossing her head. she put the letter carefully into her pocket, without deigning any explanation. "i suppose it's from some of her old acquaintances," thought her brother, and he dismissed the subject. as soon as she could, rachel took refuge in her room. she carefully locked the door, and read the letter again. "who can he be?" thought the agitated spinster. "do i know anybody of the name of daniel? it must be some stranger that has fallen in love with me unbeknown. what shall i do?" she sat in meditation for a short time. then she read the letter again. "he will be very unhappy if i frown upon him," she said to herself, complacently. "it's a great responsibility to make a fellow being unhappy. it's a sacrifice, i know, but it's our duty to deny ourselves. i don't know but i ought to go and meet him." this was rachel's conclusion. the time was close at hand. the appointment was for that very afternoon. "i wouldn't have my brother or martha know it for the world," murmured rachel to herself, "nor that troublesome jack. martha's got some blue ribbon, but i don't dare to ask her for it, for fear she'll suspect something. no, i must go out and buy some." "i'm goin' to walk, martha," she said, as she came downstairs. "going to walk in the forenoon! isn't that something unusual?" "i've got a little headache. i guess it'll do me good," said rachel. "i hope it will," said her sister-in-law, sympathetically. rachel went to the nearest dry-goods store, and bought a yard of blue ribbon. "only a yard?" inquired the clerk, in some surprise. "that will do," said rachel, nervously, coloring a little, as though the use which she designed for it might be suspected. she paid for the ribbon, and presently returned. "does your head feel any better, rachel?" asked mrs. harding. "a little," answered rachel. "you've been sewing too steady lately, perhaps?" suggested martha. "perhaps i have," assented rachel. "you ought to spare yourself. you can't stand work as well as when you were younger," said martha, innocently. "a body'd think i was a hundred by the way you talk," said rachel, sharply. "i didn't mean to offend you, rachel. i thought you might feel as i do. i get tired easier than i used to." "i guess i'll go upstairs," said rachel, in the same tone. "there isn't anybody there to tell me how old i am gettin'." "it's hard to make rachel out," thought mrs. harding. "she takes offense at the most innocent remark. she can't look upon herself as young, i am sure." upstairs rachel took out the letter again, and read it through once more. "i wonder what sort of a man daniel is," she said to herself. "i wonder if i have ever noticed him. how little we know what others think of us! if he's a likely man, maybe it's my duty to marry him. i feel i'm a burden to timothy. his income is small, and it'll make a difference of one mouth. it may be a sacrifice, but it's my duty." in this way rachel tried to deceive herself as to the real reason which led her to regard with favoring eyes the suit of this supposed lover whom she had never seen, and about whom she knew absolutely nothing. jack came home from school at half-past two o'clock. he looked roguishly at his aunt as he entered. she sat knitting in her usual corner. "will she go?" thought jack. "if she doesn't there won't be any fun." but jack, whose trick i am far from defending, was not to be disappointed. at three o'clock rachel rolled up her knitting, and went upstairs. fifteen minutes later she came down dressed for a walk. "where are you going, aunt rachel?" asked jack. "out for a walk," she answered, shortly. "may i go with you?" he asked, mischievously. "no; i prefer to go alone," she said, curtly. "your aunt has taken a fancy to walking," said mrs. harding, when her sister-in-law had left the house. "she was out this forenoon. i don't know what has come over her." "i do," said jack to himself. five minutes later he put on his hat and bent his steps also to washington park. chapter xi miss harding's mistake miss rachel harding kept on her way to washington park. it was less than a mile from her brother's house, and though she walked slowly, she got there a quarter of an hour before the time. she sat down on a seat near the center of the park, and began to look around her. poor rachel! her heart beat quicker than it had done for thirty years, as she realized that she was about to meet one who wished to make her his wife. "i hope he won't be late," she murmured to herself, and she felt of the blue ribbon to make sure that she had not forgotten it. meanwhile jack reached the park, and from a distance surveyed with satisfaction the evident nervousness of his aunt. "ain't it rich?" he whispered to himself. rachel looked anxiously for the gentleman with the red rose pinned to his coat. she had to wait ten minutes. at last he came, but as he neared her seat, rachel felt like sinking into the earth with mortification when she recognized in the wearer a stalwart negro. she hoped that it was a mere chance coincidence, but he approached her, and raising his hat respectfully, said: "are you miss harding?" "what if i am?" she demanded, sharply. "what have you to do with me?" the man looked surprised. "didn't you send word to me to meet you here?" "no!" answered rachel, "and i consider it very presumptuous in you to write such a letter to me." "i didn't write you a letter," said the negro, astonished. "then what made you come here?" demanded the spinster. "because you wrote to me." "i wrote to you!" exclaimed rachel, aghast. "yes, you wrote to me to come here. you said you'd wear a blue ribbon on your neck, and i was to have a rose pinned to my coat." rachel was bewildered. "how could i write to you when i never saw you before, and don't know your name. do you think a lady like me would marry a colored man?" "who said anything about that?" asked the other, opening his eyes wide in astonishment. "i couldn't marry, nohow, for i've got a wife and four children." rachel felt ready to collapse. was it possible that she had made a mistake, and that this was not her unknown correspondent, daniel? "there is some mistake," she said, nervously. "where is that letter you thought i wrote? have you got it with you?" "here it is, ma'am." he handed rachel a letter addressed in a small hand to daniel thompson. she opened it and read: "mr. thompson: i hear you are out of work. i may be able to give you a job. meet me at washington park, tuesday afternoon, at four o'clock. i shall wear a blue ribbon round my neck, and you may have a red rose pinned to your coat. otherwise i might not know you. "rachel harding." "some villain has done this," said rachel, wrathfully. "i never wrote that letter." "you didn't!" said daniel, looking perplexed. "who went and did it, then?" "i don't know, but i'd like to have him punished for it," said rachel, energetically. "but you've got a blue ribbon," said mr. thompson. "i can't see through that. that's just what the letter said." "i suppose somebody wrote the letter that knew i wear blue. it's all a mistake. you'd better go home." "then haven't you got a job for me?" asked daniel, disappointed. "no, i haven't," said rachel, sharply. she hurriedly untied the ribbon from her neck, and put it in her pocket. "don't talk to me any more!" she said, frowning. "you're a perfect stranger. you have no right to speak to me." "i guess the old woman ain't right in her head!" thought daniel. "must be she's crazy!" poor rachel! she felt more disconsolate than ever. there was no daniel, then. she had been basely imposed upon. there was no call for her to sacrifice herself on the altar of matrimony. she ought to have been glad, but she wasn't. half an hour later a drooping, disconsolate figure entered the house of timothy harding. "why, what's the matter, rachel?" asked martha, who noticed her woe-begone expression. "i ain't long for this world," said rachel, gloomily. "death has marked me for his own." "don't you feel well this afternoon, rachel?" "no; i feel as if life was a burden." "you have tired yourself with walking, rachel. you have been out twice to-day." "this is a vale of tears," said rachel, hysterically. "there's nothin' but sorrow and misfortune to be expected." "have you met with any misfortune? i thought fortune was smiling upon us all." "it'll never smile on me again," said rachel, despondently. just then jack, who had followed his aunt home, entered. "have you got home so quick, aunt rachel?" he asked. "how did you enjoy your walk?" "i shall never enjoy anything again," said his aunt, gloomily. "why not?" "because there's nothing to enjoy." "i don't feel so, aunt. i feel as merry as a cricket." "you won't be long. like as not you'll be took down with fever to-morrow, and maybe die." "i won't trouble myself about it till the time comes," said jack. "i expect to live to dance at your wedding yet, aunt rachel." this reference was too much. it brought to rachel's mind the daniel to whom she had expected to link her destiny, and she burst into a dismal sob, and hurried upstairs to her own chamber. "rachel acts queerly to-day," said mrs. harding. "i think she can't be feeling well. if she don't feel better to-morrow i shall advise her to send for the doctor." "i am afraid it was mean to play such a trick on aunt rachel," thought jack, half repentantly. "i didn't think she'd take it so much in earnest. i must keep dark about that letter. she'd never forgive me if she knew." for some days there was an added gloom on miss rachel's countenance, but the wound was not deep; and after a time her disappointment ceased to rankle in her too sensitive heart. chapter xii seven years seven years slipped by unmarked by any important change. the hardings were still prosperous in an humble way. the cooper had been able to obtain work most of the time, and this, with the annual remittance for little ida, had enabled the family not only to live in comfort, but even to save up one hundred and fifty dollars a year. they might even have saved more, living as frugally as they were accustomed to do, but there was one point in which they would none of them consent to be economical. the little ida must have everything she wanted. timothy brought home nearly every day some little delicacy for her, which none of the rest thought of sharing. while mrs. harding, far enough from vanity, always dressed with extreme plainness, ida's attire was always of good material and made up tastefully. sometimes the little girl asked: "mother, why don't you buy yourself some of the pretty things you get for me?" mrs. harding would answer, smiling: "oh, i'm an old woman, ida. plain things are best for me." "no, i'm sure you're not old, mother. you don't wear a cap. aunt rachel is a good deal older than you." "hush, ida. don't let aunt rachel hear that. she wouldn't like it." "but she is ever so much older than you, mother," persisted the child. once rachel heard a remark of this kind, and perhaps it was that that prejudiced her against ida. at any rate, she was not one of those who indulged her. frequently she rebuked her for matters of no importance; but it was so well understood in the cooper's household that this was aunt rachel's way, that ida did not allow it to trouble her, as the lightest reproach from mrs. harding would have done. had ida been an ordinary child, all this petting would have had an injurious effect upon her mind. but, fortunately, she had the rare simplicity, young as she was, which lifted her above the dangers which might have spoiled her otherwise. instead of being made vain and conceited, she only felt grateful for the constant kindness shown her by her father and mother, and brother jack, as she was wont to call them. indeed it had not been thought best to let her know that such were not the actual relations in which they stood to her. there was one point, much more important than dress, in which ida profited by the indulgence of her friends. "martha," the cooper was wont to say, "ida is a sacred charge in our hands. if we allow her to grow up ignorant, or only allow her ordinary advantages, we shall not fulfill our duty. we have the means, through providence, of giving her some of those advantages which she would enjoy if she had remained in that sphere to which her parents doubtless belong. let no unwise parsimony on our part withhold them from her." "you are right, timothy," said his wife; "right, as you always are. follow the dictates of your own heart, and fear not that i shall disapprove." "humph!" said aunt rachel; "you ain't actin' right, accordin' to my way of thinkin'. readin', writin' and cypherin' was enough for girls to learn in my day. what's the use of stuffin' the girl's head full of nonsense that'll never do her no good? i've got along without it, and i ain't quite a fool." but the cooper and his wife had no idea of restricting ida's education to the rather limited standard indicated by rachel. so, from the first, they sent her to a carefully selected private school, where she had the advantage of good associates, and where her progress was astonishingly rapid. ida early displayed a remarkable taste for drawing. as soon as this was discovered, her adopted parents took care that she should have abundant opportunity for cultivating it. a private master was secured, who gave her lessons twice a week, and boasted everywhere of the progress made by his charming young pupil. "what's the good of it?" asked rachel. "she'd a good deal better be learnin' to sew and knit." "all in good time," said timothy. "she can attend to both." "i never wasted my time that way," said rachel. "i'd be ashamed to." nothing could exceed timothy's gratification, when, on his birthday, ida presented him with a beautifully drawn sketch of his wife's placid and benevolent face. "when did you do it, ida?" he asked, after earnest expressions of admiration. "i did it in odd minutes," she answered, "when i had nothing else to do." "but how could you do it, without any of us knowing what you were about?" "i had a picture before me, and you thought i was copying it, but, whenever i could do it without being noticed, i looked up at mother as she sat at her sewing, and so, after a while, i finished the picture." "and a fine one it is," said the cooper, admiringly. mrs. harding insisted that ida had flattered her, but this ida would not admit. "i couldn't make it look as good as you, mother," she said. "i tried, but somehow i didn't succeed as i wanted to." "you wouldn't have that difficulty with aunt rachel," said jack, roguishly. ida could not help smiling, but rachel did not smile. "i see," she said, with severe resignation, "that you've taken to ridiculing your poor aunt again. but it's only what i expect. i don't never expect any consideration in this house. i was born to be a martyr, and i expect i shall fulfill my destiny. if my own relations laugh at me, of course i can't expect anything better from other folks. but i shan't be long in the way. i've had a cough for some time past, and i expect i'm in consumption." "you make too much of a little joke, rachel," said the cooper, soothingly. "i'm sure jack didn't mean anything." "what i said was complimentary," said jack. rachel shook her head incredulously. "yes, it was. ask ida. why won't you draw aunt rachel, ida? i think she'd make a very striking picture." "so i will," said ida, hesitatingly, "if she will let me." "now, aunt rachel, there's a chance for you," said jack. "take my advice, and improve it. when it's finished it can be hung up in the art rooms, and who knows but you may secure a husband by it." "i wouldn't marry," said rachel, firmly compressing her lips; "not if anybody'd go down on their knees to me." "now, i'm sure, aunt rachel, that's cruel of you," said jack, demurely. "there ain't any man i'd trust my happiness to," pursued the spinster. "she hasn't any to trust," observed jack, _sotto voce_. "men are all deceivers," continued rachel, "the best of 'em. you can't believe what one of 'em says. it would be a great deal better if people never married at all." "then where would the world be a hundred years hence?" suggested her nephew. "come to an end, most likely," answered aunt rachel; "and i'm not sure but that would be the best thing. it's growing more and more wicked every day." it will be seen that no great change has come over miss rachel harding, during the years that have intervened. she takes the same disheartening view of human nature and the world's prospects as ever. nevertheless, her own hold upon the world seems as strong as ever. her appetite continues remarkably good, and, although she frequently expresses herself to the effect that there is little use in living, she would be as unwilling to leave the world as anyone. it is not impossible that she derives as much enjoyment from her melancholy as other people from their cheerfulness. unfortunately her peculiar mode of enjoying herself is calculated to have rather a depressing influence upon the spirits of those with whom she comes in contact--always excepting jack, who has a lively sense of the ludicrous, and never enjoys himself better than in bantering his aunt. "i don't expect to live more'n a week," said rachel, one day. "my sands of life are 'most run out." "are you sure of that, aunt rachel?" asked jack. "yes, i've got a presentiment that it's so." "then, if you're sure of it," said her nephew, gravely, "it may be as well to order the coffin in time. what style would you prefer?" rachel retreated to her room in tears, exclaiming that he needn't be in such a hurry to get her out of the world; but she came down to supper, and ate with her usual appetite. ida is no less a favorite with jack than with the rest of the household. indeed, he has constituted himself her especial guardian. rough as he is in the playground, he is always gentle with her. when she was just learning to walk, and in her helplessness needed the constant care of others, he used, from choice, to relieve his mother of much of the task of amusing the child. he had never had a little sister, and the care of a child as young as ida was a novelty to him. it was perhaps this very office of guardian to the child, assumed when she was young, that made him feel ever after as if she were placed under his special protection. ida was equally attached to jack. she learned to look to him for assistance in any plan she had formed, and he never disappointed her. whenever he could, he would accompany her to school, holding her by the hand, and, fond as he was of rough play, nothing would induce him to leave her. "how long have you been a nursemaid?" asked a boy older than himself, one day. jack's fingers itched to get hold of his derisive questioner, but he had a duty to perform, and he contented himself with saying: "just wait a few minutes, and i'll let you know." "i dare say you will," was the reply. "i rather think i shall have to wait till both of us are gray before that time." "you will not have to wait long before you are black and blue," retorted jack. "don't mind what he says, jack," whispered ida, fearing that he would leave her. "don't be afraid, ida; i won't leave you. i'll attend to his business another time. i guess he won't trouble us to-morrow." meanwhile the boy, emboldened by jack's passiveness, followed, with more abuse of the same sort. if he had been wiser, he would have seen a storm gathering in the flash of jack's eye; but he mistook the cause of his forbearance. the next day, as they were going to school, ida saw the same boy dodging round the corner with his head bound up. "what's the matter with him, jack?" she asked. "i licked him like blazes, that's all," said jack, quietly. "i guess he'll let us alone after this." even after jack left school, and got a position in a store at two dollars a week, he gave a large part of his spare time to ida. "really," said mrs. harding, "jack is as careful of ida as if he was her guardian." "a pretty sort of a guardian he is!" said aunt rachel. "take my word for it, he's only fit to lead her into mischief." "you do him injustice, rachel. jack is not a model boy, but he takes the best care of ida." rachel shrugged her shoulders, and sniffed significantly. it was quite evident that she did not have a very favorable opinion of her nephew. chapter xiii a mysterious visitor about eleven o'clock one forenoon mrs. harding was in the kitchen, busily engaged in preparing the dinner, when a loud knock was heard at the front door. "who can it be?" said mrs. harding. "aunt rachel, there's somebody at the door; won't you be kind enough to see who it is?" "people have no business to call at such an hour in the morning," grumbled rachel, as she laid down her knitting reluctantly, and rose from her seat. "nobody seems to have any consideration for anybody else. but that's the way of the world." opening the outer door, she saw before her a tall woman, dressed in a gown of some dark stuff, with strongly marked, and not altogether pleasant, features. "are you the lady of the house?" inquired the visitor, abruptly. "there ain't any ladies in this house," answered rachel. "you've come to the wrong place. we have to work for a living here." "the woman of the house, then," said the stranger, rather impatiently. "it doesn't make any difference about names. are you the one i want to see?" "no, i ain't," said rachel, shortly. "will you tell your mistress that i want to see her, then?" "i have no mistress," said rachel. "what do you take me for?" "i thought you might be the servant, but that don't matter. i want to see mrs. harding. will you call her, or shall i go and announce myself?" "i don't know as she'll see you. she's busy in the kitchen." "her business can't be as important as what i've come about. tell her that, will you?" rachel did not fancy the stranger's tone or manner. certainly she did not manifest much politeness. but the spinster's curiosity was excited, and this led her the more readily to comply with the request. "stay here, and i'll call her," she said. "there's a woman wants to see you," announced rachel. "who is it?" "i don't know. she hasn't got any manners, that's all i know about her." mrs. harding presented herself at the door. "won't you come in?" she asked. "yes, i will. what i've got to say to you may take some time." mrs. harding, wondering vaguely what business this strange visitor could have with her, led the way to the sitting room. "you have in your family," said the woman, after seating herself, "a girl named ida." mrs. harding looked up suddenly and anxiously. could it be that the secret of ida's birth was to be revealed at last? was it possible that she was to be taken from her? "yes," she answered, simply. "who is not your child?" "but i love her as much. i have always taught her to look upon me as her mother." "i presume so. my visit has reference to her." "can you tell me anything of her parentage?" inquired mrs. harding, eagerly. "i was her nurse," said the stranger. mrs. harding scrutinized anxiously the hard features of the woman. it was, at least, a relief to know that no tie of blood connected her with ida, though, even upon her assurance, she would hardly have believed it. "who were her parents?" "i am not permitted to tell." mrs. harding looked disappointed. "surely," she said, with a sudden sinking of the heart, "you have not come to take her away?" "this letter will explain my object in visiting you," said the woman, drawing a sealed envelope from a bag which she carried in her hand. the cooper's wife nervously broke open the letter, and read as follows: "mrs. harding: seven years ago last new year's night a child was left on your doorsteps, with a note containing a request that you would care for it kindly as your own. money was sent at the same time to defray the expenses of such care. the writer of this note is the mother of the child, ida. there is no need to explain here why i sent away the child from me. you will easily understand that it was not done willingly, and that only the most imperative necessity would have led me to such a step. the same necessity still prevents me from reclaiming my child, and i am content still to leave ida in your charge. yet there is one thing i desire. you will understand a mother's wish to see, face to face, her own child. with this view i have come to this neighborhood. i will not say where i am, for concealment is necessary to me. i send this note by a trustworthy attendant, mrs. hardwick, my little ida's nurse in her infancy, who will conduct ida to me, and return her again to you. ida is not to know who she is visiting. no doubt she believes you to be her mother, and it is well that she should so regard you. tell her only that it is a lady, who takes an interest in her, and that will satisfy her childish curiosity. i make this request as ida's mother." mrs. harding read this letter with mingled feelings. pity for the writer; a vague curiosity in regard to the mysterious circumstances which had compelled her to resort to such a step; a half feeling of jealousy, that there should be one who had a claim to her dear, adopted daughter, superior to her own; and a strong feeling of relief at the assurance that ida was not to be permanently removed--all these feelings affected the cooper's wife. "so you were ida's nurse?" she said, gently. "yes, ma'am," said the stranger. "i hope the dear child is well?" "perfectly well. how much her mother must have suffered from the separation!" "indeed you may say so, ma'am. it came near to breaking her heart." "i don't wonder," said sympathizing mrs. harding. "i can judge of that by my own feelings. i don't know what i should do, if ida were to be taken from me." at this point in the conversation, the cooper entered the house. he had come home on an errand. "it is my husband," said mrs. harding, turning to her visitor, by way of explanation. "timothy, will you come here a moment?" the cooper regarded the stranger with some surprise. his wife hastened to introduce her as mrs. hardwick, ida's old nurse, and placed in her husband's hands the letter which we have already read. he was not a rapid reader, and it took him some time to get through the letter. he laid it down on his knee, and looked thoughtful. "this is indeed unexpected," he said, at last. "it is a new development in ida's history. may i ask, mrs. hardwick, if you have any further proof? i want to be careful about a child that i love as my own. can you furnish any other proof that you are what you represent?" "i judged that the letter would be sufficient. doesn't it speak of me as the nurse?" "true; but how can we be sure that the writer is ida's mother?" "the tone of the letter, sir. would anybody else write like that?" "then you have read the letter?" asked the cooper, quickly. "it was read to me before i set out." "by whom?" "by ida's mother. i do not blame you for your caution," said the visitor. "you must be deeply interested in the happiness of the dear child, of whom you have taken such excellent care. i don't mind telling you that i was the one who left her at your door, seven years ago, and that i never left the neighborhood until i saw you take her in." "and it was this that enabled you to find the house to-day?" "you forget," corrected the nurse, "that you were not then living in this house, but in another, some rods off, on the left-hand side of the street." "you are right," said timothy. "i am inclined to believe in the truth of your story. you must pardon my testing you in such a manner, but i was not willing to yield up ida, even for a little time, without feeling confident of the hands she was falling into." "you are right," said mrs. hardwick. "i don't blame you in the least. i shall report it to ida's mother as a proof of your attachment to the child." "when do you wish ida to go with you?" asked mrs. harding. "can you let her go this afternoon?" "why," said the cooper's wife, hesitating, "i should like to have a chance to wash out some clothes for her. i want her to appear as neat as possible when she meets her mother." the nurse hesitated, but presently replied: "i don't wish to hurry you. if you will let me know when she will be ready, i will call for her." "i think i can get her ready early to-morrow morning." "that will answer. i will call for her then." the nurse rose, and gathered her shawl about her. "where are you going, mrs. hardwick?" asked the cooper's wife. "to a hotel," was the reply. "we cannot allow that," said mrs. harding, kindly. "it's a pity if we cannot accommodate ida's old nurse for one night, or ten times as long, for that matter." "my wife is quite right," said the cooper, hesitatingly. "we must insist on your stopping with us." the nurse hesitated, and looked irresolute. it was plain she would have preferred to be elsewhere, but a remark which mrs. harding made, decided her to accept the invitation. it was this: "you know, mrs. hardwick, if ida is to go with you, she ought to have a little chance to get acquainted with you before you go." "i will accept your kind invitation," she said; "but i am afraid i shall be in your way." "not in the least. it will be a pleasure to us to have you here. if you will excuse me now, i will go out and attend to my dinner, which i am afraid is getting behindhand." left to herself, the nurse behaved in a manner which might be regarded as singular. she rose from her seat, and approached the mirror. she took a full survey of herself as she stood there, and laughed a short, hard laugh. then she made a formal courtesy to her own reflection, saying: "how do you do, mrs. hardwick?" "did you speak?" asked the cooper, who was passing through the entry on his way out. "no," answered the nurse, rather awkwardly. "i may have said something to myself. it's of no consequence." "somehow," thought the cooper, "i don't fancy the woman's looks; but i dare say i am prejudiced. we're all of us as god made us." when mrs. harding was making preparations for the noonday meal, she imparted to rachel the astonishing information which has already been detailed to the reader. "i don't believe a word of it," said rachel, resolutely. "the woman's an impostor. i knew she was, the very minute i set eyes on her." this remark was so characteristic of rachel, that her sister-in-law did not attach any special importance to it. rachel, of course, had no grounds for the opinion she so confidently expressed. it was consistent, however, with her general estimate of human nature. "what object could she have in inventing such a story?" asked mrs. harding. "what object? hundreds of 'em," said rachel, rather indefinitely. "mark my words; if you let her carry off ida, it'll be the last you'll ever see of her." "try to look on the bright side, rachel. nothing is more natural than that her mother should want to see her." "why couldn't she come herself?" muttered rachel. "the letter explains." "i don't see that it does." "it says that same reasons exist for concealment as ever." "and what are they, i should like to know? i don't like mysteries, for my part." "we won't quarrel with them, at any rate, since they enable us to keep ida with us." aunt rachel shook her head, as if she were far from satisfied. "i don't know," said mrs. harding, "but i ought to invite mrs. hardwick in here. i have left her alone in the front room." "i don't want to see her," said rachel. then, changing her mind suddenly: "yes, you may bring her in. i'll soon find out whether she's an impostor or not." the cooper's wife returned with the nurse. "mrs. hardwick," she said, "this is my sister, miss rachel harding." "i am glad to make your acquaintance, ma'am," said the visitor. "rachel, i will leave you to entertain mrs. hardwick, while i get ready the dinner." rachel and the nurse eyed each other with mutual dislike. "i hope you don't expect me to entertain you," said rachel. "i never expect to entertain anybody ag'in. this is a world of trial and tribulation, and i've had my share. so you've come after ida, i hear?" with a sudden change of tone. "at her mother's request," said the nurse. "she wants to see her, then?" "yes, ma'am." "i wonder she didn't think of it before," said rachel, sharply. "she's good at waiting. she's waited seven years." "there are circumstances that cannot be explained," commenced the nurse. "no, i dare say not," said rachel, dryly. "so you were her nurse?" "yes, ma'am," answered the nurse, who did not appear to enjoy this cross-examination. "have you lived with ida's mother ever since?" "no--yes," stammered the stranger. "some of the time," she added, recovering herself. "umph!" grunted rachel, darting a sharp glance at her. "have you a husband living?" inquired the spinster. "yes," answered mrs. hardwick. "have you?" "i!" repeated rachel, scornfully. "no, neither living nor dead. i'm thankful to say i never married. i've had trials enough without that. does ida's mother live in the city?" "i can't tell you," said the nurse. "humph! i don't like mystery." "it isn't any mystery," said the visitor. "if you have any objections to make, you must make them to ida's mother." "so i will, if you'll tell me where she lives." "i can't do that." "where do you live yourself?" inquired rachel, shifting her point of attack. "in brooklyn," answered mrs. hardwick, with some hesitation. "what street, and number?" "why do you want to know?" inquired the nurse. "you ain't ashamed to tell, be you?" "why should i be?" "i don't know. you'd orter know better than i." "it wouldn't do you any good to know," said the nurse. "i don't care about receiving visitors." "i don't want to visit you, i am sure," said rachel, tossing her head. "then you don't need to know where i live." rachel left the room, and sought her sister-in-law. "that woman's an impostor," she said. "she won't tell where she lives. i shouldn't be surprised if she turns out to be a thief." "you haven't any reason for supposing that, rachel." "wait and see," said rachel. "of course i don't expect you to pay any attention to what i say. i haven't any influence in this house." "now, rachel, you have no cause to say that." but rachel was not to be appeased. it pleased her to be considered a martyr, and at such times there was little use in arguing with her. chapter xiv preparing for a journey later in the day, ida returned from school. she bounded into the room, as usual, but stopped short in some confusion, on seeing a stranger. "is this my own dear child, over whose infancy i watched so tenderly?" exclaimed the nurse, rising, her harsh features wreathed into a smile. "it is ida," said the cooper's wife. ida looked from one to the other in silent bewilderment. "ida," said mrs. harding, in a little embarrassment, "this is mrs. hardwick, who took care of you when you were an infant." "but i thought you took care of me, mother," said ida, in surprise. "very true," said mrs. harding, evasively; "but i was not able to have the care of you all the time. didn't i ever mention mrs. hardwick to you?" "no, mother." "although it is so long since i have seen her, i should have known her anywhere," said the nurse, applying a handkerchief to her eyes. "so pretty as she's grown up, too!" mrs. harding glanced with pride at the beautiful child, who blushed at the compliment, a rare one, for her adopted mother, whatever she might think, did not approve of openly praising her appearance. "ida," said mrs. hardwick, "won't you come and kiss your old nurse?" ida looked at her hard face, which now wore a smile intended to express affection. without knowing why, she felt an instinctive repugnance to this stranger, notwithstanding her words of endearment. she advanced timidly, with a reluctance which she was not wholly able to conceal, and passively submitted to a caress from the nurse. there was a look in the eyes of the nurse, carefully guarded, yet not wholly concealed, which showed that she was quite aware of ida's feeling toward her, and resented it. but whether or not she was playing a part, she did not betray this feeling openly, but pressed the unwilling child more closely to her bosom. ida breathed a sigh of relief when she was released, and moved quietly away, wondering what it was that made the woman so disagreeable to her. "is my nurse a good woman?" she asked, thoughtfully, when alone with mrs. harding, who was setting the table for dinner. "a good woman! what makes you ask that?" queried her adopted mother, in surprise. "i don't know," said ida. "i don't know anything to indicate that she is otherwise," said mrs. harding. "and, by the way, ida, she is going to take you on a little excursion to-morrow." "she going to take me!" exclaimed ida. "why, where are we going?" "on a little pleasure trip; and perhaps she may introduce you to a pleasant lady, who has already become interested in you, from what she has told her." "what could she say of me?" inquired ida. "she has not seen me since i was a baby." "why," answered the cooper's wife, a little puzzled, "she appears to have thought of you ever since, with a good deal of affection." "is it wicked," asked ida, after a pause, "not to like those who like us?" "what makes you ask?" "because, somehow or other, i don't like this mrs. hardwick, at all, for all she was my old nurse, and i don't believe i ever shall." "oh, yes, you will," said mrs. harding, "when you find she is exerting herself to give you pleasure." "am i going with her to-morrow morning?" "yes. she wanted you to go to-day, but your clothes were not in order." "we shall come back at night, shan't we?" "i presume so." "i hope we shall," said ida, decidedly, "and that she won't want me to go with her again." "perhaps you will feel differently when it is over, and you find you have enjoyed yourself better than you anticipated." mrs. harding exerted herself to fit ida up as neatly as possible, and when at length she was got ready, she thought with sudden fear: "perhaps her mother will not be willing to part with her again." when ida was ready to start, there came upon all a little shadow of depression, as if the child were to be separated from them for a year, and not for a day only. perhaps this was only natural, since even this latter term, however brief, was longer than they had been parted from her since, in her infancy, she had been left at their door. the nurse expressly desired that none of the family should accompany her, as she declared it highly important that the whereabouts of ida's mother should not be known. "of course," she added, "after ida returns she can tell you what she pleases. then it will be of no consequence, for her mother will be gone. she does not live in this neighborhood. she has only come here to see her child." "shall you bring her back to-night?" asked mrs. harding. "i may keep her till to-morrow," said the nurse. "after seven years' absence her mother will think that short enough." to this, mrs. harding agreed, though she felt that she should miss ida, though absent but twenty-four hours. chapter xv the journey the nurse walked as far as broadway, holding ida by the hand. "where are we going?" asked the child, timidly. "are you going to walk all the way?" "no," said the nurse; "not all the way--perhaps a mile. you can walk as far as that, can't you?" "oh, yes." they walked on till they reached the ferry at the foot of courtland street. "did you ever ride in a steamboat?" asked the nurse, in a tone meant to be gracious. "once or twice," answered ida. "i went with brother jack once, over to hoboken. are we going there now?" "no; we are going to the city you see over the water." "what place is it? is it brooklyn?" "no; it is jersey city." "oh, that will be pleasant," said ida, forgetting, in her childish love of novelty, the repugnance with which the nurse had inspired her. "yes, and that is not all; we are going still further," said the nurse. "are we going further?" asked ida, in excitement. "where are we going?" "to a town on the line of the railroad." "and shall we ride in the cars?" asked ida. "yes; didn't you ever ride in the cars?" "no, never." "i think you will like it." "and how long will it take us to go to the place you are going to carry me to?" "i don't know exactly; perhaps three hours." "three whole hours in the cars! how much i shall have to tell father and jack when i get back!" "so you will," replied mrs. hardwick, with an unaccountable smile--"when you get back." there was something peculiar in her tone, but ida did not notice it. she was allowed to sit next the window in the cars, and took great pleasure in surveying the fields and villages through which they were rapidly whirled. "are we 'most there?" she asked, after riding about two hours. "it won't be long," said the nurse. "we must have come ever so many miles," said ida. "yes, it is a good ways." an hour more passed, and still there was no sign of reaching their journey's end. both ida and her companion began to feel hungry. the nurse beckoned to her side a boy, who was selling apples and cakes, and inquired the price. "the apples are two cents apiece, ma'am, and the cakes are one cent each." ida, who had been looking out of the window, turned suddenly round, and exclaimed, in great astonishment: "why, charlie fitts, is that you?" "why, ida, where did you come from?" asked the boy, with a surprise equaling her own. "i'm making a little journey with this lady," said ida. "so you're going to philadelphia?" said charlie. "to philadelphia!" repeated ida, surprised. "not that i know of." "why, you're 'most there now." "are we, mrs. hardwick?" inquired ida. "it isn't far from where we're going," she answered, shortly. "boy, i'll take two of your apples and four cakes. and, now, you'd better go along, for there's somebody over there that looks as if he wanted to buy something." "who is that boy?" asked the nurse, abruptly. "his name is charlie fitts." "where did you get acquainted with him?" "he went to school with jack, so i used to see him sometimes." "with jack?" "yes, brother jack. don't you know him?" "oh, yes, i forgot. so he's a schoolmate of jack?" "yes, and he's a first-rate boy," said ida, with whom the young apple merchant was evidently a favorite. "he's good to his mother. you see, his mother is sick most of the time, and can't work much; and he's got a little sister--she ain't more than four or five years old--and charlie supports them by selling things. he's only sixteen years old; isn't he a smart boy?" "yes," said the nurse, indifferently. "sometime," continued ida, "i hope i shall be able to earn something for father and mother, so they won't be obliged to work so hard." "what could you do?" asked the nurse, curiously. "i don't know as i can do much yet," answered ida, modestly; "but perhaps when i am older i can draw pictures that people will buy." "have you got any of your drawings with you?" "no, i didn't bring any." "i wish you had. the lady we are going to see would have liked to see some of them." "are we going to see a lady?" "yes; didn't your mother tell you?" "yes, i believe she said something about a lady that was interested in me." "that's the one." "and shall we come back to new york to-night?" "no; it wouldn't leave us any time to stay." "west philadelphia!" announced the conductor. "we have arrived," said the nurse. "keep close to me. perhaps you had better take hold of my hand." as they were making their way slowly through the crowd, the young apple merchant came up with his basket on his arm. "when are you going back, ida?" he asked. "mrs. hardwick says not till to-morrow." "come, ida," said the nurse, sharply. "i can't have you stopping all day to talk. we must hurry along." "good-by, charlie," said ida. "if you see jack, just tell him you saw me." "yes, i will," was the reply. "i wonder who that woman is with ida?" thought the boy. "i don't like her looks much. i wonder if she's any relation of mr. harding. she looks about as pleasant as aunt rachel." the last-mentioned lady would hardly have felt flattered at the comparison. ida looked about her with curiosity. there was a novel sensation in being in a new place, particularly a city of which she had heard so much as philadelphia. as far back as she could remember, she had never left new york, except for a brief excursion to hoboken; and one fourth of july was made memorable by a trip to staten island, under the guardianship of jack. they entered a horse car just outside the depot, and rode probably a mile. "we get out here," said the nurse. "take care, or you'll get run over. now turn down here." they entered a narrow and dirty street, with unsightly houses on each side. "this ain't a very nice-looking street," said ida. "why isn't it?" demanded her companion, roughly. "why, it's narrow, and the houses don't look nice." "what do you think of that house there?" asked mrs. hardwick, pointing to a dilapidated-looking structure on the right-hand side of the street. "i shouldn't like to live there," answered ida. "you wouldn't, hey? you don't like it so well as the house you live in in new york?" "no, not half so well." the nurse smiled. "wouldn't you like to go in, and look at the house?" "go in and look at the house?" repeated ida. "why should we?" "you must know there are some poor families living there that i am interested in," said mrs. hardwick, who appeared amused at something. "didn't your mother ever tell you that it is our duty to help the poor?" "oh, yes, but won't it be late before we get to the lady?" "no, there's plenty of time. you needn't be afraid of that. there's a poor man living in this house that i've made a good many clothes for, first and last." "he must be much obliged to you," said ida. "we're going up to see him now," said her companion. "take care of that hole in the stairs." somewhat to ida's surprise, her guide, on reaching the first landing, opened a door without the ceremony of knocking, and revealed a poor, untidy room, in which a coarse, unshaven man was sitting, in his shirt sleeves, smoking a pipe. "hello!" exclaimed this individual, jumping up. "so you've got along, old woman! is that the gal?" ida stared from one to the other in amazement. chapter xvi unexpected quarters the appearance of the man whom mrs. hardwick addressed so familiarly was more picturesque than pleasing, he had a large, broad face, which, not having been shaved for a week, looked like a wilderness of stubble. his nose indicated habitual indulgence in alcoholic beverages. his eyes were bloodshot, and his skin looked coarse and blotched; his coat was thrown aside, displaying a shirt which bore evidence of having been useful in its day and generation. the same remark may apply to his nether integuments, which were ventilated at each knee, indicating a most praiseworthy regard to the laws of health. ida thought she had never seen so disgusting a man. she continued to gaze at him, half in astonishment, half in terror, till the object of her attention exclaimed: "well, little gal, what you're lookin' at? hain't you never seen a gentleman before?" ida clung the closer to her companion, who, she was surprised to find, did not resent the man's familiarity. "well, dick, how've you got along since i've been gone?" asked the nurse, to ida's astonishment. "oh, so-so." "have you felt lonely any?" "i've had good company." "who's been here?" dick pointed significantly to a jug. "that's the best company i know of," he said, "but it's 'most empty. so you've brought along the gal," he continued. "how did you get hold of her?" there was something in these questions which terrified ida. it seemed to indicate a degree of complicity between these two which boded no good to her. "i'll tell you the particulars by and by." at the same time she began to take off her bonnet. "you ain't going to stop, are you?" asked ida, startled. "ain't goin' to stop?" repeated the man called dick. "why shouldn't she stop, i'd like to know? ain't she at home?" "at home!" echoed ida, apprehensively, opening wide her eyes in astonishment. "yes; ask her." ida looked inquiringly at mrs. hardwick. "you might as well take off your things," said the latter, grimly. "we ain't going any further to-day." "and where's the lady you said you were going to see?" "the one that was interested in you?" "yes." "well, i'm the one," she answered, with a broad smile and a glance at dick. "i don't want to stay here," said ida, now frightened. "well, what are you going to do about it?" "will you take me back early to-morrow?" entreated ida. "no, i don't intend to take you back at all." ida seemed at first stupefied with astonishment and terror. then, actuated by a sudden, desperate impulse, she ran to the door, and had got it partly open, when the nurse sprang forward, and seizing her by the arm, pulled her violently back. "where are you going in such a hurry?" she demanded. "back to father and mother," answered ida, bursting into tears. "oh, why did you bring me here?" "i'll tell you why," answered dick, jocularly. "you see, ida, we ain't got any little girl to love us, and so we got you." "but i don't love you, and i never shall," said ida, indignantly. "now don't you go to saying that," said dick. "you'll break my heart, you naughty girl, and then peg will be a widow." to give due effect to this pathetic speech, dick drew out a tattered red handkerchief, and made a great demonstration of wiping his eyes. the whole scene was so ludicrous that ida, despite her fears and disgust, could not help laughing hysterically. she recovered herself instantly, and said imploringly: "oh, do let me go, and father will pay you." "you really think he would?" said dick, in a tantalizing tone. "oh, yes; and you'll tell her to take me back, won't you?" "no, he won't tell me any such thing," said peg, gruffly; "so you may as well give up all thoughts of that first as last. you're going to stay here; so take off that bonnet of yours, and say no more about it." ida made no motion toward obeying this mandate. "then i'll do it for you," said peg. she roughly untied the bonnet--ida struggling vainly in opposition--and taking this, with the shawl, carried them to a closet, in which she placed them, and then, locking the door, deliberately put the key in her pocket. "there," said she, grimly, "i guess you're safe for the present." "ain't you ever going to carry me back?" "some years hence i may possibly," answered the woman, coolly. "we want you here for the present. besides, you're not sure that they want you back." "not want me back again?" "that's what i said. how do you know but your father and mother sent you off on purpose? they've been troubled with you long enough, and now they've bound you apprentice to me till you're eighteen." "it's a lie!" said ida, firmly. "they didn't send me off, and you're a wicked woman to tell me so." "hoity-toity!" said the woman. "is that the way you dare to speak to me? have you anything more to say before i whip you?" "yes," answered ida, goaded to desperation. "i shall complain of you to the police, just as soon as i get a chance, and they will put you in jail and send me home. that is what i will do." mrs. hardwick was incensed, and somewhat startled at these defiant words. it was clear that ida was not going to be a meek, submissive child, whom they might ill-treat without apprehension. she was decidedly dangerous, and her insubordination must be nipped in the bud. she seized ida roughly by the arm, and striding with her to the closet already spoken of, unlocked it, and, rudely pushing her in, locked the door after her. "stay there till you know how to behave," she said. "how did you manage to come it over her family?" inquired dick. his wife gave substantially the account with which the reader is already familiar. "pretty well done, old woman!" exclaimed dick, approvingly. "i always said you was a deep un. i always says, if peg can't find out how a thing is to be done, then it can't be done, nohow." "how about the counterfeit coin?" she asked. "we're to be supplied with all we can put off, and we are to have half for our trouble." "that is good. when the girl, ida, gets a little tamed down, we'll give her something to do." "is it safe? won't she betray us?" "we'll manage that, or at least i will. i'll work on her fears, so she won't any more dare to say a word about us than to cut her own head off." "all right, peg. i can trust you to do what's right." ida sank down on the floor of the closet into which she had been thrust. utter darkness was around her, and a darkness as black seemed to hang over all her prospects of future happiness. she had been snatched in a moment from parents, or those whom she regarded as such, and from a comfortable and happy, though humble home, to this dismal place. in place of the kindness and indulgence to which she had been accustomed, she was now treated with harshness and cruelty. chapter xvii suspense "it doesn't, somehow, seem natural," said the cooper, as he took his seat at the tea table, "to sit down without ida. it seems as if half the family were gone." "just what i've said to myself twenty times to-day," remarked his wife. "nobody can tell how much a child is to them till they lose it." "not lose it," corrected jack. "i didn't mean to say that." "when you used that word, mother, it made me feel just as if ida wasn't coming back." "i don't know why it is," said mrs. harding, thoughtfully, "but i've had that same feeling several times today. i've felt just as if something or other would happen to prevent ida's coming back." "that is only because she's never been away before," said the cooper, cheerfully. "it isn't best to borrow trouble, martha; we shall have enough of it without." "you never said a truer word, brother," said rachel, mournfully. "man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. this world is a vale of tears, and a home of misery. folks may try and try to be happy, but that isn't what they're sent here for." "you never tried very hard, aunt rachel," said jack. "it's my fate to be misjudged," said his aunt, with the air of a martyr. "i don't agree with you in your ideas about life, rachel," said her brother. "just as there are more pleasant than stormy days, so i believe there is much more of brightness than shadow in this life of ours, if we would only see it." "i can't see it," said rachel. "it seems to me, rachel, you take more pains to look at the clouds than the sun." "yes," chimed in jack, "i've noticed whenever aunt rachel takes up the newspaper, she always looks first at the deaths, and next at the fatal accidents and steamboat explosions." "if," retorted rachel, with severe emphasis, "you should ever be on board a steamboat when it exploded, you wouldn't find much to laugh at." "yes, i should," said jack, "i should laugh--" "what!" exclaimed rachel, horrified. "on the other side of my mouth," concluded jack. "you didn't wait till i'd finished the sentence." "i don't think it proper to make light of such serious matters." "nor i aunt rachel," said jack, drawing down the corners of his mouth. "i am willing to confess that this is a serious matter. i should feel as they say the cow did, that was thrown three hundred feet up into the air." "how's that?" inquired his mother. "rather discouraged," answered jack. all laughed except aunt rachel, who preserved the same severe composure, and continued to eat the pie upon her plate with the air of one gulping down medicine. in the morning all felt more cheerful. "ida will be home to-night," said mrs. harding, brightly. "what an age it seems since she went away! who'd think it was only twenty-four hours?" "we shall know better how to appreciate her when we get her back," said her husband. "what time do you expect her home, mother? what did mrs. hardwick say?" "why," said mrs. harding, hesitating, "she didn't say as to the hour; but i guess she'll be along in the course of the afternoon." "if we only knew where she had gone, we could tell better when to expect her." "but as we don't know," said the cooper, "we must wait patiently till she comes." "i guess," said mrs. harding, with the impulse of a notable housewife, "i'll make some apple turnovers for supper to-night. there's nothing ida likes so well." "that's where ida is right," said jack, smacking his lips. "apple turnovers are splendid." "they are very unwholesome," remarked rachel. "i shouldn't think so from the way you eat them, aunt rachel," retorted jack. "you ate four the last time we had them for supper." "i didn't think you'd begrudge me the little i eat," said his aunt, dolefully. "i didn't think you counted the mouthfuls i took." "come, rachel, don't be so unreasonable," said her brother. "nobody begrudges you what you eat, even if you choose to eat twice as much as you do. i dare say jack ate more of the turnovers than you did." "i ate six," said jack, candidly. rachel, construing this into an apology, said no more. "if it wasn't for you, aunt rachel, i should be in danger of getting too jolly, perhaps, and spilling over. it always makes me sober to look at you." "it's lucky there's something to make you sober and stiddy," said his aunt. "you are too frivolous." evening came, but it did not bring ida. an indefinable sense of apprehension oppressed the minds of all. martha feared that ida's mother, finding her so attractive, could not resist the temptation of keeping her. "i suppose," she said, "that she has the best claim to her, but it would be a terrible thing for us to part with her." "don't let us trouble ourselves about that," said timothy. "it seems to me very natural that her mother should keep her a little longer than she intended. think how long it is since she saw her. besides, it is not too late for her to return to-night." at length there came a knock at the door. "i guess that is ida," said mrs. harding, joyfully. jack seized a candle, and hastening to the door, threw it open. but there was no ida there. in her place stood charlie fitts, the boy who had met ida in the cars. "how are you, charlie?" said jack, trying not to look disappointed. "come in and tell us all the news." "well," said charlie, "i don't know of any. i suppose ida has got home?" "no," answered jack; "we expected her to-night, but she hasn't come yet." "she told me she expected to come back to-day." "what! have you seen her?" exclaimed all, in chorus. "yes; i saw her yesterday noon." "where?" "why, in the cars," answered charlie. "what cars?" asked the cooper. "why, the philadelphia cars. of course you knew it was there she was going?" "philadelphia!" exclaimed all, in surprise. "yes, the cars were almost there when i saw her. who was that with her?" "mrs. hardwick, her old nurse." "i didn't like her looks." "that's where we paddle in the same canoe," said jack. "she didn't seem to want me to speak to ida," continued charlie, "but hurried her off as quick as possible." "there were reasons for that," said the cooper. "she wanted to keep her destination secret." "i don't know what it was," said the boy, "but i don't like the woman's looks." chapter xviii how ida fared we left ida confined in a dark closet, with peg standing guard over her. after an hour she was released. "well," said the nurse, grimly, "how do you feel now?" "i want to go home," sobbed the child. "you are at home," said the woman. "shall i never see father, and mother, and jack again?" "that depends on how you behave yourself." "oh, if you will only let me go," pleaded ida, gathering hope from this remark, "i'll do anything you say." "do you mean this, or do you only say it for the sake of getting away?" "i mean just what i say. dear, good mrs. hardwick, tell me what to do, and i will obey you cheerfully." "very well," said peg, "only you needn't try to come it over me by calling me dear, good mrs. hardwick. in the first place, you don't care a cent about me; in the second place, i am not good; and finally, my name isn't mrs. hardwick, except in new york." "what is it, then?" asked ida. "it's just peg, no more and no less. you may call me aunt peg." "i would rather call you mrs. hardwick." "then you'll have a good many years to call me so. you'd better do as i tell you, if you want any favors. now what do you say?" "yes, aunt peg," said ida, with a strong effort to conceal her repugnance. "that's well. now you're not to tell anybody that you came from new york. that is very important; and you're to pay your board by doing whatever i tell you." "if it isn't wicked." "do you suppose i would ask you to do anything wicked?" demanded peg, frowning. "you said you wasn't good," mildly suggested ida. "i'm good enough to take care of you. well, what do you say to that? answer me?" "yes." "there's another thing. you ain't to try to run away." ida hung down her head. "ha!" exclaimed peg. "so you've been thinking of it, have you?" "yes," answered ida, boldly, after a moment's hesitation. "i did think i should if i got a good chance." "humph!" said the woman, "i see we must understand one another. unless you promise this, back you go into the dark closet, and i shall keep you there." ida shuddered at this fearful threat--terrible to a child of but eight years. "do you promise?" "yes," said ida, faintly. "for fear you might be tempted to break your promise, i have something to show you." mrs. hardwick went to the closet, and took down a large pistol. "there," she said, "do you see that?" "yes, aunt peg." "do you know what it is for?" "to shoot people with," answered the child. "yes," said the nurse; "i see you understand. well, now, do you know what i would do if you should tell anybody where you came from, or attempt to run away? can you guess, now?" "would you shoot me?" asked ida, terror-stricken. "yes, i would," said peg, with fierce emphasis. "that's just what i'd do. and what's more even if you got away, and got back to your family in new york, i would follow you, and shoot you dead in the street." "you wouldn't be so wicked!" exclaimed ida. "wouldn't i, though?" repeated peg, significantly. "if you don't believe i would, just try it. do you think you would like to try it?" she asked, fiercely. "no," answered ida, with a shudder. "well, that's the most sensible thing you've said yet. now that you are a little more reasonable, i'll tell you what i am going to do with you." ida looked eagerly up into her face. "i am going to keep you with me for a year. i want the services of a little girl for that time. if you serve me faithfully, i will then send you back to new york." "will you?" asked ida, hopefully. "yes, but you must mind and do what i tell you." "oh, yes," said ida, joyfully. this was so much better than she had been led to fear, that the prospect of returning home at all, even though she had to wait a year, encouraged her. "what do you want me to do?" she asked. "you may take the broom and sweep the room." "yes, aunt peg." "and then you may wash the dishes." "yes, aunt peg." "and after that, i will find something else for you to do." mrs. hardwick threw herself into a rocking-chair, and watched with grim satisfaction the little handmaiden, as she moved quickly about. "i took the right course with her," she said to herself. "she won't any more dare to run away than to chop her hands off. she thinks i'll shoot her." and the unprincipled woman chuckled to herself. ida heard her indistinctly, and asked, timidly: "did you speak, aunt peg?" "no, i didn't; just attend to your work and don't mind me. did your mother make you work?" "no; i went to school." "time you learned. i'll make a smart woman of you." the next morning ida was asked if she would like to go out into the street. "i am going to let you do a little shopping. there are various things we want. go and get your hat." "it's in the closet," said ida. "oh, yes, i put it there. that was before i could trust you." she went to the closet and returned with the child's hat and shawl. as soon as the two were ready they emerged into the street. "this is a little better than being shut up in the closet, isn't it?" asked her companion. "oh, yes, ever so much." "you see you'll have a very good time of it, if you do as i bid you. i don't want to do you any harm." so they walked along together until peg, suddenly pausing, laid her hands on ida's arm, and pointing to a shop near by, said to her: "do you see that shop?" "yes," said ida. "i want you to go in and ask for a couple of rolls. they come to three cents apiece. here's some money to pay for them. it is a new dollar. you will give this to the man that stands behind the counter, and he will give you back ninety-four cents. do you understand?" "yes," said ida, nodding her head. "i think i do." "and if the man asks if you have anything smaller, you will say no." "yes, aunt peg." "i will stay just outside. i want you to go in alone, so you will learn to manage without me." ida entered the shop. the baker, a pleasant-looking man, stood behind the counter. "well, my dear, what is it?" he asked. "i should like a couple of rolls." "for your mother, i suppose?" said the baker. "no," answered ida, "for the woman i board with." "ha! a dollar bill, and a new one, too," said the baker, as ida tendered it in payment. "i shall have to save that for my little girl." ida left the shop with the two rolls and the silver change. "did he say anything about the money?" asked peg. "he said he should save it for his little girl." "good!" said the woman. "you've done well." chapter xix bad money the baker introduced in the foregoing chapter was named harding. singularly, abel harding was a brother of timothy harding, the cooper. in many respects he resembled his brother. he was an excellent man, exemplary in all the relations of life, and had a good heart. he was in very comfortable circumstances, having accumulated a little property by diligent attention to his business. like his brother, abel harding had married, and had one child. she had received the name of ellen. when the baker closed his shop for the night, he did not forget the new dollar, which he had received, or the disposal he told ida he would make of it. ellen ran to meet her father as he entered the house. "what do you think i have brought you, ellen?" he said, with a smile. "do tell me quick," said the child, eagerly. "what if i should tell you it was a new dollar?" "oh, papa, thank you!" and ellen ran to show it to her mother. "yes," said the baker, "i received it from a little girl about the size of ellen, and i suppose it was that that gave me the idea of bringing it home to her." this was all that passed concerning ida at that time. the thought of her would have passed from the baker's mind, if it had not been recalled by circumstances. ellen, like most girls of her age, when in possession of money, could not be easy until she had spent it. her mother advised her to deposit it in some savings bank; but ellen preferred present gratification. accordingly, one afternoon, when walking out with her mother, she persuaded her to go into a toy shop, and price a doll which she saw in the window. the price was seventy-five cents. ellen concluded to buy it, and her mother tendered the dollar in payment. the shopman took it in his hand, glanced at it carelessly at first, then scrutinized it with increased attention. "what is the matter?" inquired mrs. harding. "it is good, isn't it?" "that is what i am doubtful of," was the reply. "it is new." "and that is against it. if it were old, it would be more likely to be genuine." "but you wouldn't condemn a bill because it is new?" "certainly not; but the fact is, there have been lately many cases where counterfeit bills have been passed, and i suspect this is one of them. however, i can soon ascertain." "i wish you would," said the baker's wife. "my husband took it at his shop, and will be likely to take more unless he is put on his guard." the shopman sent it to the bank where it was pronounced counterfeit. mr. harding was much surprised at his wife's story. "really!" he said. "i had no suspicion of this. can it be possible that such a young and beautiful child could be guilty of such an offense?" "perhaps not," answered his wife. "she may be as innocent in the matter as ellen or myself." "i hope so," said the baker; "it would be a pity that so young a child should be given to wickedness. however, i shall find out before long." "how?" "she will undoubtedly come again sometime." the baker watched daily for the coming of ida. he waited some days in vain. it was not peg's policy to send the child too often to the same place, as that would increase the chances of detection. one day, however, ida entered the shop as before. "good-morning," said the baker; "what will you have to-day?" "you may give me a sheet of gingerbread, sir." the baker placed it in her hand. "how much will it be?" "twelve cents." ida offered him another new bill. as if to make change, he stepped from behind the counter and placed himself between ida and the door. "what is your name, my child?" he asked. "ida, sir." "ida? but what is your other name?" ida hesitated a moment, because peg had forbidden her to use the name of harding, and had told her, if ever the inquiry were made, she must answer hardwick. she answered reluctantly: "ida hardwick." the baker observed her hesitation, and this increased his suspicion. "hardwick!" he repeated, musingly, endeavoring to draw from the child as much information as possible before allowing her to perceive that he suspected her. "and where do you live?" ida was a child of spirit, and did not understand why she should be questioned so closely. she said, with some impatience: "i am in a hurry, sir, and would like to have the change as soon as you can." "i have no doubt of it," said the baker, his manner suddenly changing, "but you cannot go just yet." "why not?" asked ida. "because you have been trying to deceive me." "i trying to deceive you!" exclaimed ida. "really," thought mr. harding, "she does it well; but no doubt she is trained to it. it is perfectly shocking, such artful depravity in a child." "don't you remember buying something here a week ago?" he asked, in as stern a tone as his good nature would allow him to employ. "yes," answered ida, promptly; "i bought two rolls, at three cents apiece." "and what did you offer me in payment?" "i handed you a dollar bill." "like this?" asked the baker, holding up the one she had just offered him. "yes, sir." "and do you mean to say," demanded the baker, sternly, "that you didn't know it was bad when you offered it to me?" "bad!" gasped ida. "yes, spurious. not as good as blank paper." "indeed, sir, i didn't know anything about it," said ida, earnestly; "i hope you'll believe me when i say that i thought it was good." "i don't know what to think," said the baker, perplexed. "who gave you the money?" "the woman i board with." "of course i can't give you the gingerbread. some men, in my place, would deliver you up to the police. but i will let you go, if you will make me one promise." "oh, i will promise anything, sir," said ida. "you have given me a bad dollar. will you promise to bring me a good one to-morrow?" ida made the required promise, and was allowed to go. chapter xx doubts and fears "well, what kept you so long?" asked peg, impatiently, as ida rejoined her at the corner of the street. "i thought you were going to stay all the forenoon. and where's your gingerbread?" "he wouldn't let me have it," answered ida. "and why wouldn't he let you have it?" said peg. "because he said the money wasn't good." "stuff and nonsense! it's good enough. however, it's no matter. we'll go somewhere else." "but he said the money i gave him last week wasn't good, and i promised to bring him another to-morrow, or he wouldn't have let me go." "well, where are you going to get your dollar?" "why, won't you give it to me?" said the child. "catch me at such nonsense!" said mrs. hardwick, contemptuously. "i ain't quite a fool. but here we are at another shop. go in and see if you can do any better there. here's the money." "why, it's the same bill i gave you." "what if it is?" "i don't want to pass bad money." "tut! what hurt will it do?" "it's the same as stealing." "the man won't lose anything. he'll pass it off again." "somebody'll have to lose it by and by," said ida. "so you've taken up preaching, have you?" said peg, sneeringly. "maybe you know better than i what is proper to do. it won't do for you to be so mighty particular, and so you'll find out, if you stay with me long." "where did you get the dollar?" asked ida; "and how is it you have so many of them?" "none of your business. you mustn't pry into the affairs of other people. are you going to do as i told you?" she continued, menacingly. "i can't," answered ida, pale but resolute. "you can't!" repeated peg, furiously. "didn't you promise to do whatever i told you?" "except what was wicked," interposed ida. "and what business have you to decide what is wicked? come home with me." peg seized the child's hand, and walked on in sullen silence, occasionally turning to scowl upon ida, who had been strong enough, in her determination to do right, to resist successfully the will of the woman whom she had so much reason to dread. arrived at home, peg walked ida into the room by the shoulder. dick was lounging in a chair. "hillo!" said he, lazily, observing his wife's frowning face. "what's the gal been doin', hey?" "what's she been doing?" repeated peg. "i should like to know what she hasn't been doing. she's refused to go in and buy gingerbread of the baker." "look here, little gal," said dick, in a moralizing vein, "isn't this rayther undootiful conduct on your part? ain't it a piece of ingratitude, when peg and i go to the trouble of earning the money to pay for gingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't even willin' to go in and buy it?" "i would just as lieve go in," said ida, "if peg would give me good money to pay for it." "that don't make any difference," said the admirable moralist. "it's your dooty to do just as she tells you, and you'll do right. she'll take the risk." "i can't," said the child. "you hear her!" said peg. "very improper conduct!" said dick, shaking his head in grave reproval. "little gal, i'm ashamed of you. put her in the closet, peg." "come along," said peg, harshly. "i'll show you how i deal with those that don't obey me." so ida was incarcerated once more in the dark closet. yet in the midst of her desolation, child as she was, she was sustained and comforted by the thought that she was suffering for doing right. when ida failed to return on the appointed day, the hardings, though disappointed, did not think it strange. "if i were her mother," said the cooper's wife, "and had been parted from her for so long, i should want to keep her as long as i could. dear heart! how pretty she is and how proud her mother must be of her!" "it's all a delusion," said rachel, shaking her head, solemnly. "it's all a delusion. i don't believe she's got a mother at all. that mrs. hardwick is an impostor. i know it, and told you so at the time, but you wouldn't believe me. i never expect to set eyes on ida again in this world." the next day passed, and still no tidings of jack's ward. her young guardian, though not as gloomy as aunt rachel, looked unusually serious. there was a cloud of anxiety even upon the cooper's usually placid face, and he was more silent than usual at the evening meal. at night, after jack and his aunt had retired, he said, anxiously: "what do you think is the cause of ida's prolonged absence, martha?" "i can't tell," said his wife, seriously. "it seems to me, if her mother wanted to keep her longer it would be no more than right that she should drop us a line. she must know that we would feel anxious." "perhaps she is so taken up with ida that she can think of no one else." "it may be so; but if we neither see ida to-morrow, nor hear from her, i shall be seriously troubled." "suppose she should never come back," suggested the cooper, very soberly. "oh, husband, don't hint at such a thing," said his wife. "we must contemplate it as a possibility," said timothy, gravely, "though not, as i hope, as a probability. ida's mother has an undoubted right to her." "then it would be better if she had never been placed in our charge," said martha, tearfully, "for we should not have had the pain of parting with her." "not so, martha," her husband said, seriously. "we ought to be grateful for god's blessings, even if he suffers us to retain them but a short time. and ida has been a blessing to us all, i am sure. the memory of that can't be taken from us, martha. there's some lines i came across in the paper to-night that express just what i've been sayin'. let me find them." the cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns of the daily paper till he came to these beautiful lines of tennyson, which he read aloud: "'i hold it true, whate'er befall; i feel it when i sorrow most; 'tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.'" "there, wife," he said, as he laid down the paper; "i don't know who writ them lines, but i'm sure it's some one that's met with a great sorrow and conquered it." "they are beautiful," said his wife, after a pause; "and i dare say you're right, timothy; but i hope we mayn't have to learn the truth of them by experience. after all, it isn't certain but that ida will come back." "at any rate," said her husband, "there is no doubt that it is our duty to take every means that we can to recover ida. of course, if her mother insists upon keepin' her, we can't say anything; but we ought to be sure of that before we yield her up." "what do you mean, timothy?" asked martha. "i don't know as i ought to mention it," said the cooper. "very likely there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel more anxious." "you have already aroused my anxiety. i should feel better if you would speak out." "then i will," said the cooper. "i have sometimes been tempted," he continued, lowering his voice, "to doubt whether ida's mother really sent for her." "how do you account for the letter, then?" "i have thought--mind, it is only a guess--that mrs. hardwick may have got somebody to write it for her." "it is very singular," murmured martha. "what is singular?" "why, the very same thought has occurred to me. somehow, i can't help feeling a little distrustful of mrs. hardwick, though perhaps unjustly. what object can she have in getting possession of the child?" "that i can't conjecture; but i have come to one determination." "what is that?" "unless we learn something of ida within a week from the time she left here, i shall go on to philadelphia, or else send jack, and endeavor to get track of her." chapter xxi aunt rachel's mishaps the week slipped away, and still no tidings of ida. the house seemed lonely without her. not until then did they understand how largely she had entered into their life and thoughts. but worse even than the sense of loss was the uncertainty as to her fate. "it is time that we took some steps about finding ida," the cooper said. "i would like to go to philadelphia myself, to make inquiries about her, but i am just now engaged upon a job which i cannot very well leave, and so i have concluded to send jack." "when shall i start?" exclaimed jack. "to-morrow morning," answered his father. "what good do you think it will do," interposed rachel, "to send a mere boy like jack to philadelphia?" "a mere boy!" repeated her nephew, indignantly. "a boy hardly sixteen years old," continued rachel. "why, he'll need somebody to take care of him. most likely you'll have to go after him." "what's the use of provoking a fellow so, aunt rachel?" said jack. "you know i'm 'most eighteen. hardly sixteen! why, i might as well say you're hardly forty, when we all know you're fifty." "fifty!" ejaculated the scandalized spinster. "it's a base slander. i'm only thirty-seven." "maybe i'm mistaken," said jack, carelessly. "i didn't know exactly how old you were; i only judged from your looks." at this point, rachel applied a segment of a pocket handkerchief to her eyes; but, unfortunately, owing to circumstances, the effect instead of being pathetic, as she intended it to be, was simply ludicrous. it so happened that a short time previous, the inkstand had been partially spilled upon the table, through jack's carelessness and this handkerchief had been used to sop it up. it had been placed inadvertently upon the window seat, where it had remained until rachel, who was sitting beside the window, called it into requisition. the ink upon it was by no means dry. the consequence was, that, when rachel removed it from her eyes, her face was discovered to be covered with ink in streaks mingling with the tears that were falling, for rachel always had a plentiful supply of tears at command. the first intimation the luckless spinster had of her mishap was conveyed in a stentorian laugh from jack. he looked intently at the dark traces of sorrow on his aunt's face--of which she was yet unconscious--and doubling up, went off into a perfect paroxysm of laughter. "jack!" said his mother, reprovingly, for she had not observed the cause of his amusement, "it's improper for you to laugh at your aunt in such a rude manner." "oh, i can't help it, mother. just look at her." thus invited, mrs. harding did look, and the rueful expression of rachel, set off by the inky stains, was so irresistibly comical, that, after a hard struggle, she too gave way, and followed jack's example. astonished and indignant at this unexpected behavior of her sister-in-law, rachel burst into a fresh fit of weeping, and again had recourse to the handkerchief. "this is too much!" she sobbed. "i've stayed here long enough, if even my sister-in-law, as well as my own nephew, from whom i expect nothing better, makes me her laughingstock. brother timothy, i can no longer remain in your dwelling to be laughed at; i will go to the poorhouse and end my miserable existence as a common pauper. if i only receive christian burial when i leave the world, it will be all i hope or expect from my relatives, who will be glad enough to get rid of me." the second application of the handkerchief had so increased the effect, that jack found it impossible to check his laughter, while the cooper, whose attention was now drawn to his sister's face, burst out in a similar manner. this more amazed rachel than martha's merriment. "even you, timothy, join in ridiculing your sister!" she exclaimed, in an "_et tu, brute_" tone. "we don't mean to ridicule you, rachel," gasped her sister-in-law, "but we can't help laughing." "at the prospect of my death!" uttered rachel, in a tragic tone. "well, i'm a poor, forlorn creetur, i know. even my nearest relations make sport of me, and when i speak of dying, they shout their joy to my face." "yes," gasped jack, nearly choking, "that's it exactly. it isn't your death we're laughing at, but your face." "my face!" exclaimed the insulted spinster. "one would think i was a fright by the way you laugh at it." "so you are!" said jack, with a fresh burst of laughter. "to be called a fright to my face!" shrieked rachel, "by my own nephew! this is too much. timothy, i leave your house forever." the excited maiden seized her hood; which was hanging from a nail, and was about to leave the house when she was arrested in her progress toward the door by the cooper, who stifled his laughter sufficiently to say: "before you go, rachel, just look in the glass." mechanically his sister did look, and her horrified eyes rested upon a face streaked with inky spots and lines seaming it in every direction. in her first confusion rachel jumped to the conclusion that she had been suddenly stricken by the plague. accordingly she began to wring her hands in an excess of terror, and exclaimed in tones of piercing anguish: "it is the fatal plague spot! i am marked for the tomb. the sands of my life are fast running out." this convulsed jack afresh with merriment, so that an observer might, not without reason, have imagined him to be in imminent danger of suffocation. "you'll kill me, aunt rachel! i know you will," he gasped. "you may order my coffin, timothy," said rachel, in a sepulchral voice; "i shan't live twenty-four hours. i've felt it coming on for a week past. i forgive you for all your ill-treatment. i should like to have some one go for the doctor, though i know i'm past help." "i think," said the cooper, trying to look sober, "you will find the cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the plague spots, as you call them." rachel turned toward him with a puzzled look. then, as her eyes rested for the first time upon the handkerchief she had used, its appearance at once suggested a clew by which she was enabled to account for her own. somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as the ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly, and did not make her appearance again till the next morning. after this little episode, the conversation turned upon jack's approaching journey. "i don't know," said his mother, "but rachel is right. perhaps jack isn't old enough, and hasn't had sufficient experience to undertake such a mission." "now, mother," expostulated jack, "you ain't going to side against me, are you?" "there is no better plan," said his father, quietly. chapter xxii the flower girl henry bowen was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned the farm on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing his favorite profession. he was not competent to achieve the highest success. but he had good taste and a skillful hand, and his productions were pleasing and popular. he had formed a connection with a publisher of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable work in his way. "have you any new commission to-day?" inquired the young artist, on the day before ida's discovery that she had been employed to pass off spurious coin. "yes," said the publisher, "i have thought of something which may prove attractive. just at present, pictures of children seem to be popular. i should like to have you supply me with a sketch of a flower girl, with, say, a basket of flowers in her hand. do you comprehend my idea?" "i believe i do," answered the artist. "give me sufficient time, and i hope to satisfy you." the young artist went home, and at once set to work upon the task he had undertaken. he had conceived that it would be an easy one, but found himself mistaken. whether because his fancy was not sufficiently lively, or his mind was not in tune, he was unable to produce the effect he desired. the faces which he successively outlined were all stiff, and though beautiful in feature, lacked the great charm of being expressive and lifelike. "what is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, impatiently. "is it impossible for me to succeed? it's clear," he decided, "that i am not in the vein. i will go out and take a walk, and perhaps while i am in the street something may strike me." he accordingly donned his coat and hat, and emerged into the great thoroughfare, where he was soon lost in the throng. it was only natural that, as he walked, with his task uppermost in his thoughts, he should scrutinize carefully the faces of such young girls as he met. "perhaps," it occurred to him, "i may get a hint from some face i see. it is strange," he mused, "how few there are, even in the freshness of childhood, that can be called models of beauty. that child, for example, has beautiful eyes, but a badly cut mouth. here is one that would be pretty, if the face were rounded out; and here is a child--heaven help it!--that was designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances have pinched and cramped it." it was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the corner of a street, he came upon peg and ida. the artist looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own lighted up with sudden pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as he had begun to despair of it. "the very face i have been looking for!" he exclaimed to himself. "my flower girl is found at last." he turned round, and followed ida and her companion. both stopped at a shop window to examine some articles which were on exhibition there. "it is precisely the face i want," he murmured. "nothing could be more appropriate or charming. with that face the success of the picture is assured." the artist's inference that peg was ida's attendant was natural, since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to her companion. peg thought that this would enable her, with less risk, to pass spurious coin. the young man followed the strangely assorted pair to the apartments which peg occupied. from the conversation which he overheard he learned that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the relation between the two, and that, singular as it seemed, peg had the guardianship of the child. this made his course clearer. he mounted the stairs and knocked at the door. "what do you want?" demanded a sharp voice. "i should like to see you just a moment," was the reply. peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man suspiciously. "i don't know you," she said, shortly. "i presume not," said the young man, courteously. "we have never met, i think. i am an artist. i hope you will pardon my present intrusion." "there is no use in your coming here," said peg, abruptly, "and you may as well go away. i don't want to buy any pictures. i've got plenty of better ways to spend my money than to throw it away on such trash." no one would have thought of doubting peg's word, for she looked far from being a patron of the arts. "you have a young girl living with you, about seven or eight years old, have you not?" inquired the artist. peg instantly became suspicious. "who told you that?" she demanded, quickly. "no one told me. i saw her in the street." peg at once conceived the idea that her visitor was aware of the fact that the child had been lured away from home; possibly he might be acquainted with the cooper's family? or might be their emissary. "suppose you did see such a child on the street, what has that to do with me?" "but i saw the child entering this house with you." "what if you did?" demanded peg, defiantly. "i was about," said the artist, perceiving that he was misapprehended, "i was about to make a proposition which may prove advantageous to both of us." "eh!" said peg, catching at the hint. "tell me what it is and we may come to terms." "i must explain," said bowen, "that i am an artist. in seeking for a face to sketch from, i have been struck by that of your child." "of ida?" "yes, if that is her name. i will pay you five dollars if you will allow me to copy her face." "well," she said, more graciously, "if that's all you want, i don't know as i have any objections. i suppose you can copy her face here as well as anywhere?" "i should prefer to have her come to my studio." "i shan't let her come," said peg, decidedly. "then i will consent to your terms, and come here." "do you want to begin now?" "i should like to do so." "come in, then. here, ida, i want you." "yes, peg." "this gentleman wants to copy your face." ida looked surprised. "i am an artist," said the young man, with a reassuring smile. "i will endeavor not to try your patience too much, or keep you too long. do you think you can stand still for half an hour without too much fatigue?" he kept her in pleasant conversation, while, with a free, bold hand he sketched the outlines of her face. "i shall want one more sitting," he said. "i will come to-morrow at this time." "stop a minute," said peg. "i should like the money in advance. how do i know you will come again?" "certainly, if you desire it," said henry bowen. "what strange fortune," he thought, "can have brought them together? surely there can be no relation between this sweet child and that ugly old woman!" the next day he returned and completed his sketch, which was at once placed in the hands of the publisher, eliciting his warm approval. chapter xxiii jack obtains information jack set out with that lightness of heart and keen sense of enjoyment that seem natural to a young man of eighteen on his first journey. partly by boat, partly by cars, he traveled, till in a few hours he was discharged, with hundreds of others, at the depot in philadelphia. he rejected all invitations to ride, and strode on, carpetbag in hand, though, sooth to say, he had very little idea whether he was steering in the right direction for his uncle's shop. by dint of diligent and persevering inquiry he found it at last, and walking in, announced himself to the worthy baker as his nephew jack. "what? are you jack?" exclaimed mr. abel harding, pausing in his labor. "well, i never should have known you, that's a fact. bless me, how you've grown! why, you're 'most as big as your father, ain't you?" "only half an inch shorter," answered jack, complacently. "and you're--let me see--how old are you?" "eighteen; that is, almost. i shall be in two months." "well, i'm glad to see you, jack, though i hadn't the least idea of your raining down so unexpectedly. how's your father and mother and your adopted sister?" "father and mother are pretty well," answered jack; "and so is aunt rachel," he continued, smiling, "though she ain't so cheerful as she might be." "poor rachel!" said abel, smiling also. "everything goes contrary with her. i don't suppose she's wholly to blame for it. folks differ constitutionally. some are always looking on the bright side of things, and others can never see but one side, and that's the dark one." "you've hit it, uncle," said jack, laughing. "aunt rachel always looks as if she was attending a funeral." "so she is, my boy," said abel, gravely, "and a sad funeral it is." "i don't understand you, uncle." "the funeral of her affections--that's what i mean. perhaps you mayn't know that rachel was, in early life, engaged to be married to a young man whom she ardently loved. she was a different woman then from what she is now. but her lover deserted her just before the wedding was to have come off, and she's never got over the disappointment. but that isn't what i was going to talk about. you haven't told me about your adopted sister." "that's the very thing i've come to philadelphia about," said jack, soberly. "ida has been carried off, and i've come in search of her." "been carried off? i didn't know such things ever happened in this country. what do you mean?" jack told the story of mrs. hardwick's arrival with a letter from ida's mother, conveying the request that her child might, under the guidance of the messenger, be allowed to pay her a visit. to this and the subsequent details abel harding listened with earnest attention. "so you have reason to think the child is in philadelphia?" he said, musingly. "yes," said jack; "ida was seen in the cars, coming here, by a boy who knew her in new york." "ida?" repeated the baker. "was that her name?" "yes; you knew her name, didn't you?" "i dare say i have known it, but i have heard so little of your family lately that i had forgotten it. it is rather a singular circumstance." "what is a singular circumstance?" "i will tell you, jack. it may not amount to anything, however. a few days since a little girl came into my shop to buy a small amount of bread. i was at once favorably impressed with her appearance. she was neatly dressed, and had a very honest face. having made the purchase she handed me in payment a new dollar bill. 'i'll keep that for my little girl,' thought i at once. accordingly, when i went home at night, i just took the dollar out of, the till and gave it to her. of course, she was delighted with it, and, like a child, wanted to spend it at once. so her mother agreed to go out with her the next day. well, they selected some knick-knack or other, but when they came to pay for it the dollar proved counterfeit." "counterfeit?" "yes; bad. issued by a gang of counterfeiters. when they told me of this, i said to myself, 'can it be that this little girl knew what she was about when she offered me that?' i couldn't think it possible, but decided to wait till she came again." "did she come again?" "yes; only day before yesterday. as i expected, she offered me in payment another dollar just like the other. before letting her know that i had discovered the imposition i asked her one or two questions with the idea of finding out as much as possible about her. when i told her the bill was a bad one, she seemed very much surprised. it might have been all acting, but i didn't think so then. i even felt pity for her, and let her go on condition that she would bring me back a good dollar in place of the bad one the next day. i suppose i was a fool for doing so, but she looked so pretty and innocent that i couldn't make up my mind to speak or act harshly to her. but i am afraid that i was deceived, and that she was an artful character after all." "then she didn't come back with the good money?" "no; i haven't seen her since." "what name did she give you?" "haven't i told you? it was the name that made me think of telling you. she called herself ida hardwick." "ida hardwick?" repeated jack. "yes, ida hardwick. but that hasn't anything to do with your ida, has it?" "hasn't it, though?" said jack. "why, mrs. hardwick was the woman who carried her away." "mrs. hardwick--her mother?" "no; not her mother. she said she was the woman who took care of ida before she was brought to us." "then you think this ida hardwick may be your missing sister?" "that's what i don't know yet," said jack. "if you would only describe her, uncle abel, i could tell better." "well," said the baker, thoughtfully, "i should say this little girl was seven or eight years old." "yes," said jack, nodding; "what color were her eyes?" "blue." "so are ida's." "a small mouth, with a very sweet expression, yet with something firm and decided about it." "yes." "and i believe her dress was a light one, with a blue ribbon round the waist." "did she wear anything around her neck?" "a brown scarf, if i remember rightly." "that is the way ida was dressed when she went away with mrs. hardwick. i am sure it must be she. but how strange that she should come into your shop!" "perhaps," suggested his uncle, "this woman, representing herself as ida's nurse, was her mother." "no; it can't be," said jack, vehemently. "what, that ugly, disagreeable woman, ida's mother? i won't believe it. i should just as soon expect to see strawberries growing on a thorn bush." "you know i have not seen mrs. hardwick." "no great loss," said jack. "you wouldn't care much about seeing her again. she is a tall, gaunt, disagreeable woman; while ida is fair and sweet-looking. ida's mother, whoever she is, i am sure, is a lady in appearance and manners, and mrs. hardwick is neither. aunt rachel was right for once." "what did rachel say?" "she said the nurse was an impostor, and declared it was only a plot to get possession of ida; but then, that was to be expected of aunt rachel." "still it seems difficult to imagine any satisfactory motive on the part of the woman, supposing her not to be ida's mother." "mother or not," returned jack, "she's got possession of ida; and, from all that you say, she is not the best person to bring her up. i am determined to rescue ida from this she-dragon. will you help me, uncle?" "you may count upon me, jack, for all i can do." "then," said jack, with energy, "we shall succeed. i feel sure of it. 'where there's a will there's a way.'" "i wish you success, jack; but if the people who have got ida are counterfeiters, they are desperate characters, and you must proceed cautiously." "i ain't afraid of them. i'm on the warpath now, uncle abel, and they'd better look out for me." chapter xxiv jack's discovery the first thing to be done by jack was, of course, in some way to obtain a clew to the whereabouts of peg, or mrs. hardwick, to use the name by which he knew her. no mode of proceeding likely to secure this result occurred to him, beyond the very obvious one of keeping in the street as much as possible, in the hope that chance might bring him face to face with the object of his pursuit. following out this plan, jack became a daily promenader in chestnut, walnut and other leading thoroughfares. jack became himself an object of attention, on account of what appeared to be his singular behavior. it was observed that he had no glances to spare for young ladies, but persistently stared at the faces of all middle-aged women--a circumstance naturally calculated to attract remark in the case of a well-made lad like jack. "i am afraid," said the baker, "it will be as hard as looking for a needle in a haystack, to find the one you seek among so many faces." "there's nothing like trying," said jack, courageously. "i'm not going to give up yet a while. i'd know ida or mrs. hardwick anywhere." "you ought to write home, jack. they will be getting anxious about you." "i'm going to write this morning--i put it off, because i hoped to have some news to write." he sat down and wrote the following note: "dear parents: i arrived in philadelphia right side up with care, and am stopping at uncle abel's. he received me very kindly. i have got track of ida, though i have not found her yet. i have learned as much as this: that this mrs. hardwick--who is a double-distilled she-rascal--probably has ida in her clutches, and has sent her on two occasions to my uncle's. i am spending most of my time in the streets, keeping a good lookout for her. if i do meet her, see if i don't get ida away from her. but it may take some time. don't get discouraged, therefore, but wait patiently. whenever anything new turns up you will receive a line from your dutiful son, "jack." jack had been in the city eight days when, as he was sauntering along the street, he suddenly perceived in front of him, a shawl which struck him as wonderfully like the one worn by mrs. hardwick. not only that, but the form of the wearer corresponded to his recollections of the nurse. he bounded forward, and rapidly passing the suspected person, turned suddenly and confronted the woman of whom he had been in search. the recognition was mutual. peg was taken aback by this unexpected encounter. her first impulse was to make off, but jack's resolute expression warned her that he was not to be trifled with. "mrs. hardwick?" exclaimed jack. "you are right," said she, rapidly recovering her composure, "and you, if i am not mistaken, are john harding, the son of my worthy friends in new york." "well," ejaculated jack, internally, "she's a cool un, and no mistake." "my name is jack," he said, aloud. "did you leave all well at home?" asked peg. "you can't guess what i came here for?" said jack. "to see your sister ida, i presume." "yes," answered jack, amazed at the woman's composure. "i thought some of you would be coming on," continued peg, who had already mapped out her course. "you did?" "yes; it was only natural. what did your father and mother say to the letter i wrote them?" "the letter you wrote them?" exclaimed jack. "certainly. you got it, didn't you?" "i don't know what letter you mean." "a letter, in which i wrote that ida's mother had been so pleased with the appearance and manners of the child, that she could not determine to part with her." "you don't mean to say that any such letter as that has been written?" said jack, incredulously. "what? has it not been received?" inquired peg. "nothing like it. when was it written?" "the second day after our arrival," said peg. "if that is the case," said jack, not knowing what to think, "it must have miscarried; we never received it." "that is a pity. how anxious you all must have felt!" "it seems as if half the family were gone. but how long does ida's mother mean to keep her?" "perhaps six months." "but," said jack, his suspicions returning, "i have been told that ida has twice called at a baker's shop in this city, and when asked what her name was, answered, ida hardwick. you don't mean to say that you pretend to be her mother." "yes, i do," replied peg, calmly. "i didn't mean to tell you, but as you've found out, i won't deny it." "it's a lie," said jack. "she isn't your daughter." "young man," said peg, with wonderful self-command, "you are exciting yourself to no purpose. you asked me if i pretended to be her mother. i do pretend, but i admit frankly that it is all pretense." "i don't understand what you mean," said jack. "then i will explain to you, though you have treated me so impolitely that i might well refuse. as i informed your father and mother in new york, there are circumstances which stand in the way of ida's real mother recognizing her as her own child. still, as she desires her company, in order to avert suspicion and prevent embarrassing questions being asked while she remains in philadelphia, she is to pass as my daughter." this explanation was tolerably plausible, and jack was unable to gainsay it. "can i see ida?" he asked. to his great joy, peg replied: "i don't think there can be any objection. i am going to the house now. will you come with me now, or appoint some other time." "now, by all means," said jack, eagerly. "nothing shall stand in the way of my seeing ida." a grim smile passed over peg's face. "follow me, then," she said. "i have no doubt ida will be delighted to see you." "i suppose," said jack, with a pang, "that she is so taken up with her new friends that she has nearly forgotten her old friends in new york." "if she had," answered peg, "she would not deserve to have friends at all. she is quite happy here, but she will be very glad to return to new york to those who have been so kind to her." "really," thought jack, "i don't know what to make of this mrs. hardwick. she talks fair enough, though looks are against her. perhaps i have misjudged her." chapter xxv caught in a trap jack and his guide paused in front of a large three-story brick building. the woman rang the bell. an untidy servant girl made her appearance. mrs. hardwick spoke to the servant in so low a voice that jack couldn't hear what she said. "certainly, mum," answered the servant, and led the way upstairs to a back room on the third floor. "go in and take a seat," she said to jack. "i will send ida to you immediately." "all right," said jack, in a tone of satisfaction. peg went out, closing the door after her. she, at the same time, softly slipped a bolt which had been placed upon the outside. then hastening downstairs she found the proprietor of the house, a little old man with a shrewd, twinkling eye, and a long, aquiline nose. "i have brought you a boarder," she said. "who is it?" "a lad, who is likely to interfere in our plans. you may keep him in confinement for the present." "very good. is he likely to make a fuss?" "i should think it very likely. he is high-spirited and impetuous, but you know how to manage him." "oh, yes," nodded the old man. "you can think of some pretext for keeping him." "suppose i tell him he's in a madhouse?" said the old man, laughing, and thereby showing some yellow fangs, which by no means improved his appearance. "just the thing! it'll frighten him." there was a little further conversation in a low tone, and then peg went away. "fairly trapped, my young bird!" she thought to herself. "i think that will put a stop to your troublesome appearance for the present." meanwhile jack, wholly unsuspicious that any trick had been played upon him, seated himself in a rocking-chair and waited impatiently for the coming of ida, whom he was resolved to carry back to new york. impelled by a natural curiosity, he examined attentively the room in which he was seated. there was a plain carpet on the floor, and the other furniture was that of an ordinary bed chamber. the most conspicuous ornament was a large full-length portrait against the side of the wall. it represented an unknown man, not particularly striking in his appearance. there was, besides, a small table with two or three books upon it. jack waited patiently for twenty minutes. "perhaps ida may be out," he reflected. "still, even if she is, mrs. hardwick ought to come and let me know. it's dull work staying here alone." another fifteen minutes passed, and still no ida appeared. "this is rather singular," thought jack. "she can't have told ida i am here, or i am sure she would rush up at once to see her brother jack." at length, tired of waiting, jack walked to the door and attempted to open it. there was a greater resistance than he anticipated. "good heavens!" thought jack, in consternation, as the real state of the case flashed upon him, "is it possible that i am locked in?" he employed all his strength, but the door still resisted. he could no longer doubt that it was locked. he rushed to the windows. they were two in number, and looked out upon a yard in the rear of the house. there was no hope of drawing the attention of passersby to his situation. confounded by this discovery, jack sank into his chair in no very enviable state of mind. "well," thought he, "this is a pretty situation for me to be in. i wonder what father would say if he knew that i had managed to get locked up like this? i am ashamed to think i let that treacherous woman, mrs. hardwick, lead me so quietly into a snare. aunt rachel was about right when she said i wasn't fit to come alone. i hope she'll never find out about this adventure of mine. if she did, i should never hear the last of it." chapter xxvi dr. robinson time passed. every hour seemed to poor jack to contain at least double the number of minutes. moreover, he was getting hungry. a horrible suspicion flashed across his mind. "the wretches can't mean to starve me, can they?" he asked himself. despite his constitutional courage he could not help shuddering at the idea. he was unexpectedly answered by the opening of the door, and the appearance of the old man. "are you getting hungry, my dear sir?" he inquired, with a disagreeable smile upon his features. "why am i confined here?" demanded jack, angrily. "why are you confined? really, one would think you didn't find your quarters comfortable." "i am so far from finding them agreeable, that i insist upon leaving them immediately," returned jack. "then all you have got to do is to walk through that door." "you have locked it." "why, so i have," said the old man, with a leer. "i insist upon your opening it." "i shall do so when i get ready to go out, myself." "i shall go with you." "i think not." "who's to prevent me?" said jack, defiantly. "who's to prevent you?" "yes; you'd better not attempt it. i should be sorry to hurt you, but i mean to go out. if you attempt to stop me, you must take the consequences." "i am afraid you are a violent young man. but i've got a man who is a match for two like you." the old man opened the door. "samuel, show yourself," he said. a brawny negro, six feet in height, and evidently very powerful, came to the entrance. "if this young man attempts to escape, samuel, what will you do?" "tie him hand and foot," answered the negro. "that'll do, samuel. stay where you are." he closed the door and looked triumphantly at our hero. jack threw himself sullenly into a chair. "where is the woman that brought me here?" he asked. "peg? oh, she couldn't stay. she had important business to transact, my young friend, and so she has gone. she commended you to our particular attention, and you will be just as well treated as if she were here." this assurance was not calculated to comfort jack. "how long are you going to keep me cooped up here?" he asked, desperately, wishing to learn the worst at once. "really, my young friend, i couldn't say. i don't know how long it will be before you are cured." "cured?" repeated jack, puzzled. the old man tapped his forehead. "you're a little affected here, you know, but under my treatment i hope soon to restore you to your friends." "what!" ejaculated our hero, terror-stricken, "you don't mean to say you think i'm crazy?" "to be sure you are," said the old man, "but--" "but i tell you it's a lie," exclaimed jack, energetically. "who told you so?" "your aunt." "my aunt?" "yes, mrs. hardwick. she brought you here to be treated for insanity." "it's a base lie," said jack, hotly. "that woman is no more my aunt than you are. she's an impostor. she carried off my sister ida, and this is only a plot to get rid of me. she told me she was going to take me to see ida." the old man shrugged his shoulders. "my young friend," he said, "she told me all about it--that you had a delusion about some supposed sister, whom you accused her of carrying off." "this is outrageous," said jack, hotly. "that's what all my patients say." "and you are a mad-doctor?" "yes." "then you know by my looks that i am not crazy." "pardon me, my young friend; that doesn't follow. there is a peculiar appearance about your eyes which i cannot mistake. there's no mistake about it, my good sir. your mind has gone astray, but if you'll be quiet, and won't excite yourself, you'll soon be well." "how soon?" "well, two or three months." "two or three months! you don't mean to say you want to confine me here two or three months?" "i hope i can release you sooner." "you can't understand your business very well, or you would see at once that i am not insane." "that's what all my patients say. they won't any of them own that their minds are affected." "will you supply me with some writing materials?" "yes; samuel shall bring them here." "i suppose you will excuse my suggesting also that it is dinner time?" "he shall bring you some dinner at the same time." the old man retired, but in fifteen minutes a plate of meat and vegetables was brought to the room. "i'll bring the pen and ink afterward," said the negro. in spite of his extraordinary situation and uncertain prospects, jack ate with his usual appetite. then he penned a letter to his uncle, briefly detailing the circumstances of his present situation. "i am afraid," the letter concluded, "that while i am shut up here, mrs. hardwick will carry ida out of the city, where it will be more difficult for us to get on her track. she is evidently a dangerous woman." two days passed and no notice was taken of the letter. chapter xxvii jack begins to realize his situation "it's very strange," thought jack, "that uncle abel doesn't take any notice of my letter." in fact, our hero felt rather indignant, as well as surprised, and on the next visit of dr. robinson, he asked: "hasn't my uncle been here to ask about me?" "yes," said the old man, unexpectedly. "why didn't you bring him up here to see me?" "he just inquired how you were, and said he thought you were better off with us than you would be at home." jack looked fixedly in the face of the pretended doctor, and was convinced that he had been deceived. "i don't believe it," he said. "oh! do as you like about believing it." "i don't believe you mailed my letter to my uncle." "have it your own way, my young friend. of course i can't argue with a maniac." "don't call me a maniac, you old humbug! you ought to be in jail for this outrage." "ho, ho! how very amusing you are, my young friend!" said the old man. "you'd make a first-class tragedian, you really would." "i might do something tragic, if i had a weapon," said jack, significantly. "are you going to let me out?" "positively, i can't part with you. you are too good company," said dr. robinson, mockingly. "you'll thank me for my care of you when you are quite cured." "that's all rubbish," said jack, boldly. "i'm no more crazy than you are, and you know it. will you answer me a question?" "it depends on what it is," said the old man, cautiously. "has mrs. hardwick been here to ask about me?" "certainly. she takes a great deal of interest in you." "was there a little girl with her?" "i believe so. i really don't remember." "if she calls again, either with or without ida, will you ask her to come up here? i want to see her." "yes, i'll tell her. now, my young friend, i must really leave you. business before pleasure, you know." jack looked about the room for something to read. he found among other books a small volume, purporting to contain "the adventures of baron trenck." it may be that the reader has never encountered a copy of this singular book. baron trenck was several times imprisoned for political offenses, and this book contains an account of the manner in which he succeeded, after years of labor, in escaping from his dungeon. jack read the book with intense interest and wondered, looking about the room, if he could not find some similar plan of escape. chapter xxviii the secret staircase the prospect certainly was not a bright one. the door was fast locked. escape from the windows seemed impracticable. this apparently exhausted the avenues of escape that were open to the dissatisfied prisoner. but accidentally jack made an important discovery. there was a full-length portrait in the room. jack chanced to rest his hand against it, when he must unconsciously have touched some secret spring, for a secret door opened, dividing the picture in two parts, and, to our hero's unbounded astonishment, he saw before him a small spiral staircase leading down into the darkness. "this is a queer old house!" thought jack. "i wonder where those stairs go to. i've a great mind to explore." there was not much chance of detection, he reflected, as it would be three hours before his next meal would be brought him. he left the door open, therefore, and began slowly and cautiously to go down the staircase. it seemed a long one, longer than was necessary to connect two floors. boldly jack kept on till he reached the bottom. "where am i?" thought our hero. "i must be down as low as the cellar." while this thought passed through his mind, voices suddenly struck upon his ear. he had accustomed himself now to the darkness, and ascertained that there was a crevice through which he could look in the direction from which the sounds proceeded. applying his eye, he could distinguish a small cellar apartment, in the middle of which was a printing press, and work was evidently going on. he could distinguish three persons. two were in their shirt sleeves, bending over an engraver's bench. beside them, and apparently superintending their work, was the old man whom jack knew as dr. robinson. he applied his ear to the crevice, and heard these words: "this lot is rather better than the last, jones. we can't be too careful, or the detectives will interfere with our business. some of the last lot were rather coarse." "i know it, sir," answered the man addressed as jones. "there's nothing the matter with this," said the old man. "there isn't one person in a hundred that would suspect it was not genuine." jack pricked up his ears. looking through the crevice, he ascertained that it was a bill that the old man had in his hand. "they're counterfeiters," he said, half audibly. low as the tone was, it startled dr. robinson. "ha!" said he, startled, "what's that?" "what's what, sir?" said jones. "i thought i heard some one speaking." "i didn't hear nothing, sir." "did you hear nothing, ferguson?" "no, sir." "i suppose i was deceived, then," said the old man. "how many bills have you there?" he resumed. "seventy-nine, sir." "that's a very good day's work," said the old man, in a tone of satisfaction. "it's a paying business." "it pays you, sir," said jones, grumbling. "and it shall pay you, too, my man, never fear!" jack had made a great discovery. he understood now the connection between mrs. hardwick and the old man whom he now knew not to be a physician. he was at the head of a gang of counterfeiters, and she was engaged in putting the false money into circulation. he softly ascended the staircase, and re-entered the room he left, closing the secret door behind him. chapter xxix jack is detected in the course of the afternoon, jack made another visit to the foot of the staircase. he saw through the crevice the same two men at work, but the old man was not with them. ascertaining this, he ought, in prudence, immediately to have retraced his steps, but he remained on watch for twenty minutes. when he did return he was startled by finding the old man seated, and waiting for him. there was a menacing expression on his face. "where have you been?" he demanded, abruptly. "downstairs," answered jack. "ha! what did you see?" "i may as well own up," thought jack. "through a crack i saw some men at work in a basement room," he replied. "do you know what they were doing?" "counterfeiting, i should think." "well, is there anything wrong in that?" "i suppose you wouldn't want to be found out," he answered. "i didn't mean to have you make this discovery. now there's only one thing to be done." "what's that?" "you have become possessed of an important--i may say, a dangerous secret. you have us in your power." "i suppose," said jack, "you are afraid i will denounce you to the police?" "well, there is a possibility of that. that class of people has a prejudice against us, though we are only doing what everybody likes to do--making money." "will you let me go if i keep your secret?" "what assurance have we that you would keep your promise?" "i would pledge my word." "your word!" foley--for this was the old man's real name--snapped his fingers. "i wouldn't give that for it. that is not sufficient." "what will be?" "you must become one of us." "one of you!" "yes. you must make yourself liable to the same penalties, so that it will be for your own interest to remain silent. otherwise we can't trust you." "suppose i decline these terms?" "then i shall be under the painful necessity of retaining you as my guest," said foley, smiling disagreeably. "what made you pretend to be a mad-doctor?" "to put you off the track," said foley. "you believed it, didn't you?" "at first." "well, what do you say?" asked foley. "i should like to take time to reflect upon your proposal," said jack. "it is of so important a character that i don't like to decide at once." "how long do you require?" "two days. suppose i join you, shall i get good pay?" "excellent," answered foley. "in fact, you'll be better paid than a boy of your age would be anywhere else." "that's worth thinking about," said jack, gravely. "my father is poor, and i've got my own way to make." "you couldn't have a better opening. you're a smart lad, and will be sure to succeed." "well, i'll think of it. if i should make up my mind before the end of two days, i will let you know." "very well. you can't do better." "but there's one thing i want to ask about," said jack, with pretended anxiety. "it's pretty risky business, isn't it?" "i've been in the business ten years, and they haven't got hold of me yet," answered foley. "all you've got to do is to be careful." "he'll join," said foley to himself. "he's a smart fellow, and we can make him useful. it'll be the best way to dispose of one who might get us into trouble." chapter xxx jack's triumph the next day jack had another visit from foley. "well," said the old man, nodding, "have you thought over my proposal?" "what should i have to do?" asked jack. "sometimes one thing, and sometimes another. at first we might employ you to put off some of the bills." "that would be easy work, anyway," said jack. "yes, there is nothing hard about that, except to look innocent." "i can do that," said jack, laughing. "you're smart; i can tell by the looks of you." "do you really think so?" returned jack, appearing flattered. "yes; you'll make one of our best hands." "i suppose mrs. hardwick is in your employ?" "perhaps she is, and perhaps she isn't," said foley, noncommittally. "that is something you don't need to know." "oh, i don't care to know," said jack, carelessly. "i only asked. i was afraid you would set me to work down in the cellar." "you don't know enough about the business. we need skilled workmen. you couldn't do us any good there." "i shouldn't like it, anyway. it must be unpleasant to be down there." "we pay the workmen you saw good pay." "yes, i suppose so. when do you want me to begin?" "i can't tell you just yet. i'll think about it." "i hope it'll be soon, for i'm tired of staying here. by the way, that's a capital idea about the secret staircase. who'd ever think the portrait concealed it?" said jack. as he spoke he advanced to the portrait in an easy, natural manner, and touched the spring. of course it flew open. the old man also drew near. "that was my idea," he said, in a complacent tone. "of course we have to keep everything as secret as possible, and i flatter myself--" his remark came to a sudden pause. he had incautiously got between jack and the open door. now our hero, who was close upon eighteen, and strongly built, was considerably more than a match in physical strength for foley. he suddenly seized the old man, thrust him through the aperture, then closed the secret door, and sprang for the door of the room. the key was in the lock where foley, whose confidence made him careless, had left it. turning it, he hurried downstairs, meeting no one on the way. to open the front door and dash through it was the work of an instant. as he descended the stairs he could hear the muffled shout of the old man whom he had made prisoner, but this only caused him to accelerate his speed. jack now directed his course as well as he could toward his uncle's shop. one thing, however, he did not forget, and that was to note carefully the position of the shop in which he had been confined. "i shall want to make another visit there," he reflected. meantime, as may well be supposed, abel harding had suffered great anxiety on account of jack's protracted absence. several days had elapsed and still he was missing. "i am afraid something has happened to jack," he remarked to his wife on the afternoon of jack's escape. "i think jack was probably rash and imprudent, and i fear, poor boy, he may have come to harm." "he may be confined by the parties who have taken his sister." "it is possible that it is no worse. at all events, i don't think it right to keep it from timothy any longer. i've put off writing as long as i could, hoping jack would come back, but i don't feel as if it would be right to hold it back any longer. i shall write this evening." "better wait till morning, abel. who knows but we may hear from jack before that time?" "if we'd been going to hear we'd have heard before this," he said. just at that moment the door was flung open. "why, it's jack!" exclaimed the baker, amazed. "i should say it was," returned jack. "aunt, have you got anything to eat? i'm 'most famished." "where in the name of wonder have you been, jack?" "i've been shut up, uncle--boarded and lodged for nothing--by some people who liked my company better than i liked theirs. but i've just made my escape, and here i am, well, hearty and hungry." jack's appetite was soon provided for. he found time between the mouthfuls to describe the secret staircase, and his discovery of the unlawful occupation of the man who acted as his jailer. the baker listened with eager interest. "jack," said he, "you've done a good stroke of business." "in getting away?" said jack. "no, in ferreting out these counterfeiters. do you know there is a reward of a thousand dollars offered for their apprehension?" "you don't say so!" exclaimed jack, laying down his knife and fork. "do you think i can get it?" "you'd better try. the gang has managed matters so shrewdly that the authorities have been unable to get any clew to their whereabouts. can you go to the house?" "yes; i took particular notice of its location." "that's lucky. now, if you take my advice, you'll inform the authorities before they have time to get away." "i'll do it!" said jack. "come along, uncle." fifteen minutes later, jack was imparting his information to the chief of police. it was received with visible interest and excitement. "i will detail a squad of men to go with you," said the chief. "go at once. no time is to be lost." in less than an hour from the time jack left the haunt of the coiners, an authoritative knock was heard at the door. it was answered by foley. the old man turned pale as he set eyes on jack and the police, and comprehended the object of the visit. "what do you want, gentlemen?" he asked. "is that the man?" asked the sergeant of jack. "yes." "secure him." "i know him," said foley, with a glance of hatred directed at jack. "he's a thief. he's been in my employ, but he's run away with fifty dollars belonging to me." "i don't care about stealing the kind of money you deal in," said jack, coolly. "it's all a lie this man tells you." "why do you arrest me?" said foley. "it's an outrage. you have no right to enter my house like this." "what is your business?" demanded the police sergeant. "i'm a physician." "if you are telling the truth, no harm will be done you. meanwhile, we must search your house. where is that secret staircase?" "i'll show you," answered jack. he showed the way upstairs. "how did you get out?" he asked foley, as he touched the spring, and the secret door flew open. "curse you!" exclaimed foley, darting a look of hatred and malignity at him. "i wish i had you in my power once more. i treated you too well." we need not follow the police in their search. the discoveries which they made were ample to secure the conviction of the gang who made this house the place of their operations. to anticipate a little, we may say that foley was sentenced to imprisonment for a term of years, and his subordinates to a term less prolonged. the reader will also be glad to know that to our hero was awarded the prize of a thousand dollars which had been offered for the apprehension of the gang of counterfeiters. but there was another notable capture made that day. mrs. hardwick was accustomed to make visits to foley to secure false bills, and to make settlement for what she had succeeded in passing off. while jack and the officers were in the house she rang the door bell. jack went to the door. "how is this?" she asked. "oh," said jack, "it's all right. come in. i've gone into the business, too." mrs. hardwick entered. no sooner was she inside than jack closed the door. "what are you doing?" she demanded, suspiciously. "let me out." but jack was standing with his back to the door. the door to the right opened, and a policeman appeared. "arrest this woman," said jack. "she's one of them." "i suppose i must yield," said peg, sulkily; "but you shan't be a gainer by it," she continued, addressing jack. "where is ida?" asked our hero, anxiously. "she is safe," said peg, sententiously. "you won't tell me where she is?" "no; why should i? i suppose i am indebted to you for this arrest. she shall be kept out of your way as long as i have power to do so." "then i shall find her," said jack. "she is somewhere in the city, and i'll find her sooner or later." peg was not one to betray her feelings, but this arrest was a great disappointment to her. it interfered with a plan she had of making a large sum out of ida. to understand what this was, we must go back a day or two, and introduce a new character. chapter xxxi mr. john somerville jack's appearance on the scene had set mrs. hardwick to thinking. this was the substance of her reflections: ida, whom she had kidnaped for certain reasons of her own, was likely to prove an incumbrance rather than a source of profit. the child, her suspicions awakened in regard to the character of the money she had been employed to pass off, was no longer available for that purpose. under these circumstances peg bethought herself of the ultimate object which she had proposed to herself in kidnaping ida--that of extorting money from a man who has not hitherto figured in our story. john somerville occupied a suite of apartments in a handsome lodging house in walnut street. a man wanting yet several years of forty, he looked many years older than that age. late hours and dissipated habits, though kept within respectable limits, left their traces on his face. at twenty-one he inherited a considerable fortune, which, combined with some professional income--for he was a lawyer, and not without ability--was quite sufficient to support him handsomely, and leave a considerable surplus every year. but latterly he had contracted a passion for gaming, and, shrewd though he might be naturally, he could hardly be expected to prove a match for the wily _habitues_ of the gaming table, who had marked him for their prey. the evening before his introduction to the reader he had passed till a late hour at a fashionable gaming house, where he had lost heavily. his reflections on waking were not the most pleasant. for the first time within fifteen years he realized the folly and imprudence of the course he had pursued. the evening previous he had lost a thousand dollars, for which he had given his iou. where to raise the money he did not know. after making his toilet, he rang the bell and ordered breakfast. for this he had but scanty appetite. he drank a cup of coffee and ate part of a roll. scarcely had he finished, and directed the removal of the dishes, than the servant entered to announce a visitor. "is it a gentleman?" he inquired, hastily, fearing that it might be a creditor. he occasionally had such visitors. "no, sir." "a lady?" "no, sir." "a child? but what could a child want of me?" "no, sir. it isn't a child," said the servant, in reply. "then if it's neither a gentleman, lady nor child," said somerville, "will you have the goodness to inform me what sort of a being it is?" "it's a woman, sir," answered the servant, his gravity unmoved. "why didn't you say so when i asked you?" "because you asked me if it was a lady, and this isn't--leastways she don't look like one." "you can send her up, whoever she is," said somerville. a moment afterward peg entered his presence. john somerville looked at her without much interest, supposing that she might be a seamstress, or laundress, or some applicant for charity. so many years had passed since he had met with this woman that she had passed out of his remembrance. "do you wish to see me about anything?" he asked. "you must be quick, for i am just going out." "you don't seem to recognize me, mr. somerville." "i can't say i do," he replied, carelessly. "perhaps you used to wash for me once." "i am not in the habit of acting as laundress," said the woman, proudly. "in that case," said somerville, languidly, "you will have to tell me who you are, for it is quite out of my power to remember all the people i meet." "perhaps the name of ida will assist your recollection; or have you forgotten that name, too?" "ida!" repeated john somerville, throwing off his indifferent manner, and surveying the woman's features attentively. "yes." "i have known several persons of that name," he said, recovering his former indifferent manner. "i haven't the slightest idea to which of them you refer. you don't look as if it was your name," he added, with a laugh. "the ida i mean was and is a child," she said. "but there's no use in beating about the bush, mr. somerville, when i can come straight to the point. it is now about seven years since my husband and myself were employed to carry off a child--a female child of a year old--named ida. you were the man who employed us." she said this deliberately, looking steadily in his face. "we placed it, according to your directions, on the doorstep of a poor family in new york, and they have since cared for it as their own. i suppose you have not forgotten that?" "i remember it," he said, "and now recall your features. how have you fared since i employed you? have you found your business profitable?" "far from it," answered peg. "i am not yet able to retire on a competence." "one of your youthful appearance," said somerville, banteringly, "ought not to think of retiring under ten years." "i don't care for compliments," she said, "even when they are sincere. as for my youthful appearance, i am old enough to have reached the age of discretion, and not so old as to have fallen into my second childhood." "compliments aside, then, will you proceed to whatever business brought you here?" "i want a thousand dollars," said peg, abruptly. "a thousand dollars!" repeated somerville. "very likely. i should like that amount myself. did you come here to tell me that?" "i have come here to ask you to give me that amount." "have you a husband?" "yes." "then let me suggest that your husband is the proper person to apply to in such a case." "i think i am more likely to get it out of you," said peg, coolly. "my husband couldn't supply me with a thousand cents, even if he were willing." "much as i am flattered by your application," said somerville, with a polite sneer, "since it would seem to place me next in estimation to your husband, i cannot help suggesting that it is not usual to bestow such a sum on a stranger, or even a friend, without an equivalent rendered." "i am ready to give you an equivalent." "of what nature?" "i am willing to be silent." "and how can your silence benefit me?" "that you will be best able to estimate." "explain yourself, and bear in mind that i can bestow little time on you." "i can do that in a few words. you employed me to kidnap a child. i believe the law has something to say about that. at any rate, the child's mother may have." "what do you know about the child's mother?" demanded somerville, hastily. "all about her!" said peg, emphatically. "how am i to credit that? it is easy to claim a knowledge you do not possess." "shall i tell you the whole story, then? in the first place, she married your cousin, after rejecting you. you never forgave her for this. when, a year after marriage, her husband died, you renewed your proposals. they were rejected, and you were forbidden to renew the subject on pain of forfeiting her friendship forever. you left her presence, determined to be revenged. with this object you sought dick and myself, and employed us to kidnap the child. there is the whole story, briefly told." "woman, how came this within your knowledge?" he demanded, hoarsely. "that is of no consequence," said peg. "it was for my interest to find out, and i did so." "well?" "i know one thing more--the residence of the child's mother. i hesitated this morning whether to come here, or to carry ida to her mother, trusting to her to repay from gratitude what i demand from you because it is for your interest to comply with my request." "you speak of carrying the child to her mother. how can you do that when she is in new york?" "you are mistaken," said peg, coolly. "she is in philadelphia." john somerville paced the room with hurried steps. peg felt that she had succeeded. he paused after a while, and stood before her. "you demand a thousand dollars," he said. "i do." "i have not that amount with me. i have recently lost a heavy sum, no matter how. but i can probably get it to-day. call to-morrow at this time--no, in the afternoon, and i will see what i can do for you." "very well," said the woman, well satisfied. left to himself, john somerville spent some time in reflection. difficulties encompassed him--difficulties from which he found it hard to find a way of escape. he knew how difficult it would be to meet this woman's demand. gradually his countenance lightened. he had decided what that something should be. when peg left john somerville's apartments, it was with a high degree of satisfaction at the result of the interview. all had turned out as she wished. she looked upon the thousand dollars as already hers. the considerations which she had urged would, she was sure, induce him to make every effort to secure her silence. then, with a thousand dollars, what might not be done? she would withdraw from the business, for one thing. it was too hazardous. why might not dick and she retire to the country, lease a country inn, and live an honest life hereafter? there were times when she grew tired of the life she lived at present. it would be pleasant to go to some place where they were not known, and enroll themselves among the respectable members of the community. she was growing old; she wanted rest and a quiet home. her early years had been passed in the country. she remembered still the green fields in which she played as a child, and to this woman, old and sin-stained, there came a yearning to have that life return. but her dream was rudely broken by her encounter with the officers of the law at the house of her employer. chapter xxxii a providential meeting "by gracious, if that isn't ida!" exclaimed jack, in profound surprise. he had been sauntering along chestnut street, listlessly troubled by the thought that though he had given mrs. hardwick into custody, he was apparently no nearer the discovery of his young ward than before. what steps should he take to find her? he could not decide. in his perplexity his eyes rested suddenly upon the print of the "flower girl." "yes," he said, "that is ida, fast enough. perhaps they will know in the store where she is to be found." he at once entered the store. "can you tell me anything about the girl in that picture?" he asked, abruptly, of the nearest clerk. "it is a fancy picture," he said. "i think you would need a long time to find the original." "it has taken a long time," said jack. "but you are mistaken. that is a picture of my sister." "of your sister!" repeated the salesman, with surprise, half incredulous. "yes," persisted jack. "she is my sister." "if it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where she is." jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. her eyes also were fixed upon the "flower girl." "who is this?" she asked, in visible excitement. "is it taken from life?" "this young man says it is his sister," said the clerk. "your sister?" repeated the lady, her eyes fixed inquiringly upon jack. in her tone there was a mingling both of surprise and disappointment. "yes, madam," answered jack, respectfully. "pardon me," she said, "there is very little personal resemblance. i should not have suspected that you were her brother." "she is not my own sister," explained jack, "but i love her just the same." "do you live in philadelphia? could i see her?" asked the lady, eagerly. "i live in new york, madam," said jack; "but ida was stolen from us about three weeks since, and i have come here in pursuit of her. i have not been able to find her yet." "did you call her ida?" demanded the lady, in strange agitation. "yes, madam." "my young friend," said the woman, rapidly, "i have been much interested in the story of your sister. i should like to hear more, but not here. would you have any objection to coming home with me, and telling me the rest? then we will together concert measures for recovering her." "you are very kind, madam," said jack, bashfully; for the lady was elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to converse with a lady of her social position. "i shall be glad to go home with you, and shall be very much obliged for your advice and assistance." "then we will drive home at once." with natural gallantry, jack assisted the lady into the carriage, and, at her bidding, got in himself. "home, thomas!" she directed the driver; "and drive as fast as possible." "yes, madam." "how old was your sister when your parents adopted her?" asked mrs. clifton. jack afterward ascertained that this was her name. "about a year old, madam." "and how long since was that?" asked the lady, waiting for the answer with breathless interest. "seven years since. she is now eight." "it must be," murmured the lady, in low tones. "if it is indeed, as i hope, my life will indeed be blessed." "did you speak, madam?" "tell me under what circumstances your family adopted her." jack related briefly how ida had been left at their door in her infancy. "and do you recollect the month in which this happened?" "it was at the close of december, the night before new year's." "it is, it must be she!" ejaculated mrs. clifton, clasping her hands, while tears of joy welled from her eyes. "i--i don't understand," said jack, naturally astonished. "my young friend," said the lady, "our meeting this morning seems providential. i have every reason to believe that this child--your adopted sister--is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the time of which i speak. from that day to this i have never been able to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery. i have long taught myself to think of her as dead." it was jack's turn to be surprised. he looked at the lady beside him. she was barely thirty. the beauty of her girlhood had ripened into the maturer beauty of womanhood. there was the same dazzling complexion, the same soft flush upon the cheeks. the eyes, too, were wonderfully like ida's. jack looked, and as he looked he became convinced. "you must be right," he said. "ida is very much like you." "you think so?" said mrs. clifton, eagerly. "yes, madam." "i had a picture--a daguerreotype--taken of ida just before i lost her; i have treasured it carefully. i must show it to you when we get to my house." the carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet street. the driver dismounted and opened the door. jack assisted mrs. clifton to alight. bashfully our hero followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding, seated himself in an elegant parlor furnished with a splendor which excited his admiration and wonder. he had little time to look about him, for mrs. clifton, without pausing to remove her street attire, hastened downstairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand. "can you remember ida when she was first brought to your house?" she asked. "did she look anything like this picture?" "it is her image," answered jack, decidedly. "i should know it anywhere." "then there can be no further doubt," said mrs. clifton. "it is my child you have cared for so long. oh! why could i not have known it before? how many lonely days and sleepless nights it would have spared me! but god be thanked for this late blessing! i shall see my child again." "i hope so, madam. we must find her." "what is your name, my young friend?" "my name is harding--jack harding." "jack?" repeated the lady, smiling. "yes, madam; that is what they call me. it would not seem natural to be called john." "very well," said mrs. clifton, with a smile which went to jack's heart at once, and made him think her, if any more beautiful than ida; "as ida is your adopted sister--" "i call her my ward. i am her guardian, you know." "you are a young guardian. but, as i was about to say, that makes us connected in some way, doesn't it? i won't call you mr. harding, for that would sound too formal. i will call you jack." "i wish you would," said our hero, his face brightening with pride. it almost upset him to be called jack by a beautiful lady, who every day of her life was accustomed to live in a splendor which it seemed to jack could not be exceeded even by royal state. had mrs. clifton been queen victoria herself, he could not have felt a profounder respect and veneration for her than he did already. "now, jack," said mrs. clifton, in a friendly manner which delighted our hero, "we must take measures to discover ida immediately. i want you to tell me about her disappearance from your house, and what steps you have taken thus far toward finding her." jack began at the beginning and described the appearance of mrs. hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry ida away under false representations, and the manner in which he had tracked her to philadelphia. he spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate refusal to impart any information as to where ida was concealed. mrs. clifton listened attentively and anxiously. there were more difficulties in the way than she had supposed. "can you think of any plan, jack?" she asked, anxiously. "yes, madam," answered jack. "the man who painted the picture of ida may know where she is to be found." "you are right," said the lady. "i will act upon your hint. i will order the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go back to the print store." an hour later henry bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant lady to his studio, accompanied by a young man of seventeen. "i think you are the artist who designed 'the flower girl,'" said mrs. clifton. "i am, madam." "it was taken from life?" "you are right." "i am anxious to find the little girl whose face you copied. can you give me any directions that will enable me to find her?" "i will accompany you to the place where she lives, if you desire it, madam," said the young artist, politely. "it is a strange neighborhood in which to look for so much beauty." "i shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far," said mrs. clifton. "my carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your orders." once more they were on the move. in due time the carriage paused. the driver opened the door. he was evidently quite scandalized at the idea of bringing his mistress to such a place. "this can't be the place, madam," he said. "yes," said the artist. "do not get out, mrs. clifton. i will go in, and find out all that is needful." two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed. "we are too late," he said. "an hour since a gentleman called, and took away the child." mrs. clifton sank back in her seat in keen disappointment. "my child! my child!" she murmured. "shall i ever see thee again?" jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to acknowledge. he could not conjecture what gentleman could have carried away ida. the affair seemed darker and mere complicated than ever. chapter xxxiii ida is found ida was sitting alone in the dreary apartment which she was now obliged to call home. peg had gone out, and, not feeling quite certain of her prey, had bolted the door on the outside. she had left some work for the child--some handkerchiefs to hem for dick--with strict orders to keep steadily at work. while seated at work, she was aroused from thoughts of home by a knock at the door. "who's there?" asked ida. "a friend," was the reply. "mrs. hardwick--peg--isn't at home," returned ida. "then i will come in and wait till she comes back," answered the voice outside. "i can't open the door," said the child. "it's fastened outside." "yes, so i see. then i will take the liberty to draw the bolt." mr. john somerville opened the door, and for the first time in seven years his glance fell upon the child whom for so long a time he had defrauded of a mother's care and tenderness. ida returned to the window. "how beautiful she is!" thought somerville, with surprise. "she inherits all her mother's rare beauty." on the table beside ida was a drawing. "whose is this?" he inquired. "mine," answered ida. "so you have learned to draw?" "a little," answered the child, modestly. "who taught you? not the woman you live with?" "no," said ida. "you have not always lived with her, i am sure?" "no, sir." "you lived in new york with a family named harding, did you not?" "do you know father and mother?" asked ida, with sudden hope. "did they send you for me?" "i will tell you that by and by, my child. but i want to ask you a few questions first. why does this woman, peg, lock you in whenever she goes away?" "i suppose," said ida, "she is afraid i'll run away." "then she knows you don't want to live with her?" "oh, yes, she knows that," said the child, frankly. "i have asked her to take me home, but she says she won't for a year." "and how long have you been with her?" "about three weeks, but it seems a great deal longer." "what does she make you do?" "i can't tell what she made me do first." "why not?" "because she would be very angry." "suppose i should promise to deliver you from her, would you be willing to go with me?" "and you would carry me back to my father and mother?" asked ida, eagerly. "certainly, i would restore you to your mother," was the evasive reply. "then i will go with you." ida ran quickly to get her bonnet and shawl. "we had better go at once," said somerville. "peg might return, you know, and then there would be trouble." "oh, yes, let us go quickly," said ida, turning pale at the remembered threats of peg. neither knew as yet that peg could not return if she would; that, at this very moment, she was in legal custody on a charge of a serious nature. still less did ida know that in going she was losing the chance of seeing jack and her real mother, of whose existence, even, she was not yet aware; and that this man, whom she looked upon as her friend, was in reality her worst enemy. "i will conduct you to my own rooms, in the first place," said her companion. "you must remain in concealment for a day or two, as peg will undoubtedly be on the look-out for you, and we want to avoid all trouble." ida was delighted with her escape, and with the thoughts of soon seeing her friends in new york. she put implicit faith in her guide, and was willing to submit to any conditions which he saw fit to impose. at length they reached his lodgings. they were furnished more richly than any room ida had yet seen; and formed, indeed, a luxurious contrast to the dark and scantily furnished apartment which she had occupied since her arrival in philadelphia. "well, you are glad to get away from peg?" asked john somerville, giving ida a comfortable seat. "oh, so glad!" said ida. "and you wouldn't care about going back?" the child shuddered. "i suppose," she said, "peg will be very angry. she would beat me, if she got me back again." "but she shan't. i will take good care of that." ida looked her gratitude. her heart went out to those who appeared to deal kindly with her, and she felt very grateful to her companion for delivering her from peg. "now," said somerville, "perhaps you will be willing to tell me what it was peg required you to do." "yes," said ida; "but she must never know that i told." "i promise not to tell her." "it was to pass bad money." "ha!" exclaimed her companion, quickly. "what sort of bad money?" "it was bad bills." "did she do much in that way?" "a good deal. she goes out every day to buy things with the money." "i am glad to learn this," said john somerville, thoughtfully. "why?" asked ida, curiously; "are you glad she is wicked?" "i am glad, because she won't dare to come for you, knowing i can have her put in prison." "then i am glad, too." "ida," said her companion, after a pause, "i am obliged to go out for a short time. you will find books on the table, and can amuse yourself by reading. i won't make you sew, as peg did," he added, smiling. "i like to read," she said. "i shall enjoy myself very well." "if you get tired of reading, you can draw. you will find plenty of paper on my desk." mr. somerville went out, and ida, as he had recommended, read for a time. then, growing tired, she went to the window and looked out. a carriage was passing up the street slowly, on account of a press of other carriages. ida saw a face that she knew. forgetting her bonnet in her sudden joy, she ran down the stairs into the street, and up to the carriage window. "oh! jack!" she exclaimed; "have you come for me?" it was mrs. clifton's carriage, just returning from peg's lodgings. "why, it's ida!" exclaimed jack, almost springing through the window of the carriage in his excitement. "where did you come from, and where have you been all this time?" he opened the door of the carriage and drew ida in. "my child, my child! thank god, you are restored to me!" exclaimed mrs. clifton. she drew the astonished child to her bosom. ida looked up into her face in bewilderment. was it nature that prompted her to return the lady's embrace? "my god! i thank thee!" murmured mrs. clifton, "for this, my child, was lost, and is found." "ida," said jack, "this lady is your mother." "my mother!" repeated the astonished child. "have i got two mothers?" "this is your real mother. you were brought to our house when you were an infant, and we have always taken care of you; but this lady is your real mother." ida hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry. "and you are not my brother, jack?" "no, i am your guardian," said jack, smiling. "you shall still consider him your brother, ida," said mrs. clifton. "heaven forbid that i should seek to wean your heart from the friends who have cared so kindly for you! you may keep all your old friends, and love them as dearly as ever. you will only have one friend the more." "where are we going?" asked ida, suddenly. "we are going home." "what will the gentleman say?" "what gentleman?" "the one that took me away from peg's. why, there he is now!" mrs. clifton followed the direction of ida's finger, as she pointed to a gentleman passing. "is he the one?" asked mrs. clifton, in surprise. "yes, mamma," answered ida, shyly. mrs. clifton pressed ida to her bosom. it was the first time she had ever been called mamma, for when ida had been taken from her she was too young to speak. the sudden thrill which this name excited made her realize the full measure of her present happiness. arrived at the house, jack's bashfulness returned. even ida's presence did not remove it. he hung back, and hesitated about going in. mrs. clifton observed this. "jack," she said, "this house is to be your home while you are in philadelphia. come in, and thomas shall go for your luggage." "perhaps i had better go with him," said jack. "uncle abel will be glad to know that ida is found." "very well; only return soon. as you are ida's guardian," she added, smiling, "you will need to watch over her." "well!" thought jack, as he re-entered the elegant carriage, and gave the proper direction to the coachman, "won't uncle abel be a little surprised when he sees me coming home in this style! mrs. clifton's a trump! maybe that ain't exactly the word, but ida's in luck anyhow." chapter xxxiv never too late to mend meanwhile peg was passing her time wearily enough in prison. it was certainly provoking to be deprived of her freedom just when she was likely to make it most profitable. after some reflection she determined to send for mrs. clifton, and reveal to her all she knew, trusting to her generosity for a recompense. to one of the officers of the prison she communicated the intelligence that she had an important revelation to make to mrs. clifton, absolutely refusing to make it unless the lady would visit her in prison. scarcely had mrs. clifton returned home after recovering her child, than the bell rang, and a stranger was introduced. "is this mrs. clifton?" he inquired. "it is." "then i have a message for you." the lady looked at him inquiringly. "let me introduce myself, madam, as one of the officers connected with the city prison. a woman was placed in confinement this morning, who says she has a most important communication to make to you, but declines to make it except to you in person." "can you bring her here, sir?" "that is impossible. we will give you every facility, however, for visiting her in prison." "it must be peg," whispered ida--"the woman that carried me off." such a request mrs. clifton could not refuse. she at once made ready to accompany the officer. she resolved to carry ida with her, fearful that, unless she kept her in her immediate presence, she might disappear again as before. as jack had not yet returned, a hack was summoned, and they proceeded at once to the prison. ida shuddered as she passed within the gloomy portal which shut out hope and the world from so many. "this way, madam!" they followed the officer through a gloomy corridor, until they came to the cell in which peg was confined. peg looked up in surprise when she saw ida enter with mrs. clifton. "what brought you two together?" she asked, abruptly. "a blessed providence," answered mrs. clifton. "i saw jack with her," said ida, "and i ran out into the street. i didn't expect to find my mother." "there is not much for me to tell, then," said peg. "i had made up my mind to restore you to your mother. you see, ida, i've moved," she continued, smiling grimly. "oh, peg," said ida, her tender heart melted by the woman's misfortunes, "how sorry i am to find you here!" "are you sorry?" asked peg, looking at her in curious surprise. "you haven't much cause to be. i've been your worst enemy; at any rate, one of the worst." "i can't help it," said the child, her face beaming with a divine compassion. "it must be so sad to be shut up here, and not be able to go out into the bright sunshine. i do pity you." peg's heart was not wholly hardened. few are. but it was long since it had been touched, as now, by this warm-hearted pity on the part of one whom she had injured. "you're a good girl, ida," she said, "and i'm sorry i've injured you. i didn't think i should ever ask forgiveness of anybody; but i do ask your forgiveness." the child rose, and advancing toward her old enemy, took her large hand in hers and said: "i forgive you, peg." "from your heart?" "with all my heart." "thank you, child. i feel better now. there have been times when i have thought i should like to lead a better life." "it is not too late now, peg." peg shook her head. "who will trust me when i come out of here?" she said. "i will," said mrs. clifton. "you will?" repeated peg, amazed. "yes." "after all i have done to harm you! but i am not quite so bad as you may think. it was not my plan to take ida from you. i was poor, and money tempted me." "who could have had an interest in doing me this cruel wrong?" asked the mother. "one whom you know well--mr. john somerville." "surely you are wrong!" exclaimed mrs. clifton, in unbounded astonishment. "that cannot be. what object could he have?" "can you think of none?" queried peg, looking at her shrewdly. mrs. clifton changed color. "perhaps so," she said. "go on." peg told the whole story, so circumstantially that there was no room for doubt. "i did not believe him capable of such great wickedness," ejaculated mrs. clifton, with a pained and indignant look. "it was a base, unmanly revenge to take. how could you lend yourself to it?" "how could i?" repeated peg. "madam, you are rich. you have always had whatever wealth could procure. how can such as you understand the temptations of the poor? when want and hunger stare us in the face we have not the strength that you have in your luxurious homes." "pardon me," said mrs. clifton, touched by these words, half bitter, half pathetic. "let me, at any rate, thank you for the service you have done me now. when you are released from your confinement come to me. if you wish to change your mode of life, and live honestly henceforth, i will give you the chance." "after all the injury i have done you, you are yet willing to trust me?" "who am i that i should condemn you? yes, i will trust you, and forgive you." "i never expected to hear such words," said peg, her heart softened, and her arid eyes moistened by unwonted emotion; "least of all from you. i should like to ask one thing." "what is it?" "will you let her come and see me sometimes?" pointing to ida as she spoke. "it will remind me that this is not all a dream--these words which you have spoken." "she shall come," said mrs. clifton, "and i will come too, sometimes." "thank you." they left the prison behind them, and returned home. there was a visitor awaiting them. "mr. somerville is in the drawing room," said the servant. "he said he would wait till you came in." mrs. clifton's face flushed. "i will go down and see him," she said. "ida, you will remain here." she descended to the drawing room, and met the man who had injured her. he had come with the resolve to stake his all upon one desperate cast. his fortunes were desperate. but he had one hope left. through the mother's love for the daughter, whom she had mourned so long, whom as he believed he had it in his power to restore to her, he hoped to obtain her consent to a marriage which would retrieve his fortunes and gratify his ambition. mrs. clifton entered the room, and seated herself quietly. she bowed slightly, but did not, as usual, offer her hand. but, full of his own plans, mr. somerville took no note of this change in her manner. "how long is it since ida was lost?" inquired somerville, abruptly. mrs. clifton heard this question in surprise. why was it that he had alluded to this subject? "seven years," she answered. "and you believe she yet lives?" "yes, i am certain of it." john somerville did not understand her. he thought it was only because a mother is reluctant to give up hope. "it is a long time," he said. "it is--a long time to suffer," said mrs. clifton, with deep meaning. "how could anyone have the heart to work me this great injury? for seven years i have led a sad and solitary life--seven years that might have been gladdened and cheered by my darling's presence!" there was something in her tone that puzzled john somerville, but he was far enough from suspecting that she knew the truth, and at last knew him too. "rosa," he said, after a pause, "i, too, believe that ida still lives. do you love her well enough to make a sacrifice for the sake of recovering her?" "what sacrifice?" she asked, fixing her eye upon him. "a sacrifice of your feelings." "explain. you speak in enigmas." "listen, then. i have already told you that i, too, believe ida to be living. indeed, i have lately come upon a clew which i think will lead me to her. withdraw the opposition you have twice made to my suit, promise me that you will reward my affection by your hand if i succeed, and i will devote myself to the search for ida, resting not day or night till i have placed her in your arms. this i am ready to do. if i succeed, may i claim my reward?" "what reason have you for thinking you would be able to find her?" asked mrs. clifton, with the same inexplicable manner. "the clew that i spoke of." "and are you not generous enough to exert yourself without demanding of me this sacrifice?" "no, rosa," he answered, firmly, "i am not unselfish enough. i have long loved you. you may not love me; but i am sure i can make you happy. i am forced to show myself selfish, since it is the only way in which i can win you." "but consider a moment. put it on a different ground. if you restore me my child now, will not even that be a poor atonement for the wrong you did me seven years since"--she spoke rapidly now--"for the grief, and loneliness, and sorrow which your wickedness and cruelty have wrought?" "i do not understand you," he said, faltering. "it is sufficient explanation, mr. somerville, to say i have seen the woman who is now in prison--your paid agent--and that i need no assistance to recover ida. she is in my house." "confusion!" he uttered only this word, and, rising, left the presence of the woman whom he had so long deceived and injured. his grand scheme had failed. chapter xxxv jack's return it is quite time to return to new york, from which ida was carried but three short weeks before. "i am beginning to feel anxious about jack," said mrs. harding. "it's more than a week since we heard from him. i'm afraid he's got into some trouble." "probably he's too busy to write," said the cooper, wishing to relieve his wife's anxiety, though he, too, was not without anxiety. "i told you so," said rachel, in one of her usual fits of depression. "i told you jack wasn't fit to be sent on such an errand. if you'd only taken my advice you wouldn't have had so much worry and trouble about him now. most likely he's got into the house of reformation, or somewhere. i knew a young man once who went away from home, and never came back again. nobody ever knew what became of him till his body was found in the river half eaten by fishes." "how can you talk so, rachel?" said mrs. harding, "and about your own nephew, too?" "this is a world of trial and disappointment," said rachel, "and we might as well expect the worst, for it's sure to come." "at that rate there wouldn't be much joy in life," said timothy. "no, rachel, you are wrong. god did not send us into the world to be melancholy. he wants us to enjoy ourselves. now, i have no idea that jack has jumped into the river, or become food for the fishes. even if he should happen to tumble in, he can swim." "i suppose," said rachel, with mild sarcasm, "you expect him to come home in a coach and four, bringing ida with him." "well," said the cooper, good-humoredly, "that's a good deal better to anticipate than your suggestion, and i don't know but it's as probable." rachel shook her head dismally. "bless me!" interrupted mrs. harding, looking out of the window, in a tone of excitement, "there's a carriage just stopped at the door, and--yes, it is jack and ida, too!" the strange fulfillment of her own ironical suggestion struck even aunt rachel. she, too, hastened to the window, and saw a handsome carriage drawn, not by four horses, but by two, standing before the door. jack had already jumped out, and was now assisting ida to alight. no sooner was ida on firm ground than she ran into the house, and was at once clasped in the arms of her adopted mother. "oh, mother," she exclaimed, "how glad i am to see you once more!" "haven't you a kiss for me, too, ida?" said the cooper, his face radiant with joy. "you don't know how much we've missed you." "and i am so glad to see you all, and aunt rachel too!" to her astonishment, aunt rachel, for the first time in her remembrance, kissed her. there was nothing wanting to her welcome home. but the observant eyes of the spinster detected what had escaped the cooper and his wife, in their joy at ida's return. "where did you get this handsome dress, ida?" she asked. then, for the first time, the cooper's family noticed that ida was more elegantly dressed than when she went away. she looked like a young princess. "that mrs. hardwick didn't give you this gown, i'll be bound!" said aunt rachel. "oh, i've so much to tell you," said ida, breathlessly. "i've found my mother--my other mother!" a pang struck to the honest hearts of timothy harding and his wife. ida must leave them. after all the happy years which they had watched over and cared for her, she must leave them at length. while they were silent in view of their threatened loss, an elegantly dressed lady appeared on the threshold. smiling, radiant with happiness, mrs. clifton seemed, to the cooper's family, almost a being from another sphere. "mother," said ida, taking the hand of the stranger, and leading her up to mrs. harding, "this is my other mother, who has always taken such good care of me, and loved me so well." "mrs. harding," said mrs, clifton, her voice full of feeling, "how can i ever thank you for your kindness to my child?" "my child!" it was hard for mrs. harding to hear another speak of ida this way. "i have tried to do my duty by her," she said, simply. "i love her as if she were my own." "yes," said the cooper, clearing his throat, and speaking a little huskily, "we love her so much that we almost forgot that she wasn't ours. we have had her since she was a baby, and it won't be easy at first to give her up." "my good friends," said mrs. clifton, earnestly, "i acknowledge your claim. i shall not think of asking you to make that sacrifice. i shall always think of ida as only a little less yours than mine." the cooper shook his head. "but you live in philadelphia," he said. "we shall lose sight of her." "not unless you refuse to come to philadelphia, too." "i am a poor man. perhaps i might not find work there." "that shall be my care, mr. harding. i have another inducement to offer. god has bestowed upon me a large share of this world's goods. i am thankful for it since it will enable me in some slight way to express my sense of your great kindness to ida. i own a neat brick house, in a quiet street, which you will find more comfortable than this. just before i left philadelphia, my lawyer, by my directions, drew up a deed of gift, conveying the house to you. it is ida's gift, not mine. ida, give this to mr. harding." the child took the parchment and handed it to the cooper, who took it mechanically, quite bewildered by his sudden good fortune. "this for me?" he said. "it is the first installment of my debt of gratitude; it shall not be the last," said mrs. clifton. "how shall i thank you, madam?" said the cooper. "to a poor man, like me, this is a most munificent gift." "you will best thank me by accepting it," said mrs. clifton. "let me add, for i know it will enhance the value of the gift in your eyes, that it is only five minutes' walk from my house, and ida will come and see you every day." "yes, mamma," said ida. "i couldn't be happy away from father and mother, and jack and aunt rachel." "you must introduce me to aunt rachel," said mrs. clifton, with a grace all her own. ida did so. "i am glad to make your acquaintance, miss rachel," said mrs. clifton. "i need not say that i shall be glad to see you, as well as mr. and mrs. harding, at my house very frequently." "i'm much obleeged to ye," said aunt rachel; "but i don't think i shall live long to go anywheres. the feelin's i have sometimes warn me that i'm not long for this world." "you see, mrs. clifton," said jack, his eyes dancing with mischief, "we come of a short-lived family. grandmother died at eighty-two, and that wouldn't give aunt rachel long to live." "you impudent boy!" exclaimed aunt rachel, in great indignation. then, relapsing into melancholy: "i'm a poor, afflicted creetur, and the sooner i leave this scene of trial the better." "i'm afraid, mrs. clifton," said jack, "aunt rachel won't live to wear that silk dress you brought along. i'd take it myself, but i'm afraid it wouldn't be of any use to me." "a silk dress!" exclaimed rachel, looking up with sudden animation. it had long been her desire to have a new silk dress, but in her brother's circumstances she had not ventured to hint at it. "yes," said mrs. clifton, "i ventured to purchase dresses for both of the ladies. jack, if it won't be too much trouble, will you bring them in?" jack darted out, and returned with two ample patterns of heavy black silk, one for his mother, the other for his aunt. aunt rachel would not have been human if she had not eagerly examined the rich fabric with secret satisfaction. she inwardly resolved to live a little longer. there was a marked improvement in her spirits, and she indulged in no prognostications of evil for an unusual period. mrs. clifton and ida stopped to supper, and before they returned to the hotel an early date was fixed upon for the hardings to remove to philadelphia. in the evening jack told the eventful story of his adventures to eager listeners, closing with the welcome news that he was to receive the reward of a thousand dollars offered for the detection of the counterfeiters. "so you see, father, i am a man of fortune!" he concluded. "after all, rachel, it was a good thing we sent jack to philadelphia," said the cooper. rachel did not notice this remark. she was busily discussing with her sister-in-law the best way of making up her new silk. chapter xxxvi conclusion as soon as arrangements could be made, mr. harding and his whole family removed to philadelphia. the house which mrs. clifton had given them exceeded their anticipations. it was so much better and larger than their former dwelling that their furniture would have appeared to great disadvantage in it. but mrs. clifton had foreseen this, and they found the house already furnished for their reception. even aunt rachel was temporarily exhilarated in spirits when she was ushered into the neatly furnished chamber which was assigned to her use. through mrs. clifton's influence the cooper was enabled to establish himself in business on a larger scale, and employ others, instead of working himself for hire. ida was such a frequent visitor that it was hard to tell which she considered her home--her mother's elegant residence, or the cooper's comfortable dwelling. jack put his thousand dollars into a savings bank, to accumulate till he should be ready to go into business for himself, and required it as capital. a situation was found for him in a merchant's counting-room, and in due time he was admitted into partnership and became a thriving young merchant. ida grew lovelier as she grew older, and her rare beauty and attractive manners caused her to be sought after. it may be that some of my readers are expecting that she will marry jack; but they will probably be disappointed. they are too much like brother and sister for such a relation to be thought of. jack reminds her occasionally of the time when she was his little ward, and he was her guardian and protector. one day, as rachel was walking up chestnut street, she was astonished by a hearty grasp of the hand from a bronzed and weather-beaten stranger. "release me, sir," she said, hysterically. "what do you mean by such conduct?" "surely you have not forgotten your old friend, capt. bowling," said the stranger. rachel brightened up. "i didn't remember you at first," she said, "but now i do." "now tell me, how are all your family?" "they are all well, all except me--i don't think i am long for this world." "oh, yes, you are. you are too young to think of leaving us yet," said capt. bowling, heartily. rachel was gratified by this unusual compliment. "are you married?" asked capt. bowling, abruptly. "i shall never marry," she said. "i shouldn't dare to trust my happiness to a man." "not if i were that man?" said the captain, persuasively. "oh, capt. bowling!" murmured rachel, agitated. "how can you say such things?" "i'll tell you why, miss harding. i'm going to give up the sea, and settle down on land. i shall need a good, sensible wife, and if you'll take me, i'll make you mrs. bowling at once." "this is so unexpected, capt. bowling," said rachel; but she did not look displeased. "do you think it would be proper to marry so suddenly?" "it will be just the thing to do. now, what do you say--yes or no." "if you really think it will be right," faltered the agitated spinster. "then it's all settled?" "what will timothy say?" "that you've done a sensible thing." two hours later, leaning on capt. bowling's arm, mrs. rachel bowling re-entered her brother's house. "why, rachel, where have you been?" asked mrs. harding, and she looked hard at rachel's companion. "this is my consort, capt. bowling," said rachel, nervously. "this is mrs. bowling, ma'am," said the captain. "when were you married?" asked the cooper. it was dinner time, and both he and jack were at home. "only an hour ago. we'd have invited you, but time was pressing." "i thought you never meant to be married, aunt rachel," said jack, mischievously. "i--i don't expect to live long, and it won't make much difference," said rachel. "you'll have to consult me about that," said capt. bowling. "i don't want you to leave me a widower too soon." "i propose that we drink mrs. bowling's health," said jack. "can anybody tell me why she's like a good ship?" "because she's got a good captain," said mrs. harding. "that'll do, mother; but there's another reason--because she's well manned." capt. bowling evidently appreciated the joke, judging from his hearty laughter. he added that it wouldn't be his fault if she wasn't well rigged, too. the marriage has turned out favorably. the captain looks upon his wife as a superior woman, and rachel herself has few fits of depression nowadays. they have taken a small house near mr. harding's, and rachel takes no little pride in her snug and comfortable home. one word more. at the close of her term of imprisonment, peg came to mrs. clifton and reminded her of her promise. dick was dead, and she was left alone in the world. imprisonment had not hardened her, as it often does. she had been redeemed by the kindness of those whom she had injured. mrs. clifton found her a position, in which her energy and administrative ability found fitting exercise, and she leads a laborious and useful life in a community where her history is not known. as for john somerville, with the last remnants of a once handsome fortune, he purchased a ticket to australia, and set out on a voyage for that distant country. but he never reached his destination. the vessel was wrecked in a violent storm, and he was not among the four that were saved. henceforth ida and her mother are far from his evil machinations, and we may confidently hope for them a happy and peaceful life. the next volume in this series will be shifting for himself. what answer? anna e. dickinson 1868 what answer? chapter i "_in flower of youth and beauty's pride._" dryden a crowded new york street,--fifth avenue at the height of the afternoon; a gallant and brilliant throng. looking over the glittering array, the purple and fine linen, the sweeping robes, the exquisite equipages, the stately houses; the faces, delicate and refined, proud, self-satisfied, that gazed out from their windows on the street, or that glanced from the street to the windows, or at one another,--looking over all this, being a part of it, one might well say, "this is existence, and beside it there is none other. let us dress, dine, and be merry! life is good, and love is sweet, and both shall endure! let us forget that hunger and sin, sorrow and self-sacrifice, want, struggle, and pain, have place in the world." yet, even with the words, "poverty, frost-nipped in a summer suit," here and there hurried by; and once and again through the restless tide the sorrowful procession of the tomb made way. more than one eye was lifted, and many a pleasant greeting passed between these selected few who filled the street and a young man who lounged by one of the overlooking windows; and many a comment was uttered upon him when the greeting was made:-"a most eligible _parti_!" "handsome as a god!" "o, immensely rich, i assure you!" "_isn't_ he a beauty!" "pity he wasn't born poor!" "why?" "o, because they say he carried off all the honors at college and law-school, and is altogether overstocked with brains for a man who has no need to use them." "will he practise?" "doubtful. why should he?" "ambition, power,--gratify one, gain the other." "nonsense! he'll probably go abroad and travel for a while, come back, marry, and enjoy life." "he does that now, i fancy." "looks so." and indeed he did. there was not only vigor and manly beauty, splendid in its present, but the "possibility of more to be in the full process of his ripening days,"--a form alert and elegant, which had not yet all of a man's muscle and strength; a face delicate, yet strong,--refined, yet full of latent power; a mass of rippling hair like burnished gold, flung back on the one side, sweeping low across brow and cheek on the other; eyes "of a deep, soft, lucent hue,- eyes too expressive to be blue, too lovely to be gray." people involuntarily thought of the pink and flower of chivalry as they looked at him, or imagined, in some indistinct fashion, that they heard the old songs of percy and douglas, or the later lays of the cavaliers, as they heard his voice,--a voice that was just now humming one of these same lays:- "then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all, and don your helmes amaine; death's couriers, fame and honor, call us to the field againe." "stuff!" he cried impatiently, looking wistfully at the men's faces going by,--"stuff! _we_ look like gallants to ride a tilt at the world, and die for honor and fame,--we!" "i thank god, willie, you are not called upon for any such sacrifice." "ah, little mother, well you may!" he answered, smiling, and taking her hand,--"well you may, for i am afraid i should fall dreadfully short when the time came; and then how ashamed you'd be of your big boy, who took his ease at home, with the great drums beating and the trumpets blowing outside. and yet--i should like to be tried!" "see, mother!" he broke out again,--"see what a life it is, getting and spending, living handsomely and doing the proper thing towards society, and all that,--rubbing through the world in the old hereditary way; though i needn't growl at it, for i enjoy it enough, and find it a pleasant enough way, heaven knows. lazy idler! enjoying the sunshine with the rest. heigh-ho!" "you have your profession, willie. there's work there, and opportunity sufficient to help others and do for yourself." "ay, and i'll _do_ it! but there is so much that is poor and mean, and base and tricky, in it all,--so much to disgust and tire one,--all the time, day after day, for years. now if it were only a huge giant that stands in your way, you could out rapier and have at him at once, and there an end,--laid out or triumphant. that's worth while!" "o youth, eager and beautiful," thought the mother who listened, "that in this phase is so alike the world over,--so impatient to do, so ready to brave encounters, so willing to dare and die! may the doing be faithful, and the encounters be patiently as well as bravely fought, and the fancy of heroic death be a reality of noble and earnest life. god grant it! amen." "meanwhile," said the gay voice,--"meanwhile it's a pleasant world; let us enjoy it! and as to do this is within the compass of a man's wit, therefore will i attempt the doing." while he was talking he had once more come to the window, and, looking out, fastened his eyes unconsciously but intently upon the face of a young girl who was slowly passing by,--unconsciously, yet so intently that, as if suddenly magnetized, a flicker of feeling went over it; the mouth, set with a steady sweetness, quivered a little; the eyes--dark, beautiful eyes--were lifted to his an instant, that was all. the mother beside him did not see; but she heard a long breath, almost a sigh, break from him as he started, then flashed out of the room, snatching his hat in the hall, and so on to the street, and away. away after her, through block after block, across the crowded avenue to broadway. "who is she? where did she come from? _i_ never saw her before. i wonder if mrs. russell knows her, or clara, or anybody! i will know where she lives, or where she is going at least,--that will be some clew! there! she is stopping that stage. i'll help her in! no, i won't,--she will think i am chasing her. nonsense! do you suppose she saw you at the window? of course! no, she didn't; don't be a fool! there! i'll get into the next stage. now i'll keep watch of that, and she'll not know. so--all right! go ahead, driver." and happy with some new happiness, eager, bright, the handsome young fellow sat watching that other stage, and the stylish little lace bonnet that was all he could see of his magnet, through the interminable journey down broadway. how clear the air seemed! and the sun, how splendidly it shone! and what a glad look was upon all the people's faces! he felt like breaking out into gay little snatches of song, and moved his foot to the waltz measure that beat time in his brain till the irate old gentleman opposite, whom nature had made of a sour complexion and art assisted to corns, broke out with an angry exclamation. that drew his attention for a moment. a slackening of speed, a halt, and the stage was wedged in one of the inextricable "jams" on broadway. vain the search for _her_ stage then; looking over the backs of the poor, tired horses, or from the sidewalk,--here, there, at this one and that one,--all for naught! stage and passenger, eyes, little lace bonnet, and all, had vanished away, as william surrey confessed, and confessed with reluctance and discontent. "no matter!" he said presently,--"no matter! i shall see her again. i know it! i feel it! it is written in the book of the fates! so now i shall content me with something"--that looks like her he did not say definitely, but felt it none the less, as, going over to the flower-basket near by, he picked out a little nosegay of mignonette and geranium, with a tea-rosebud in its centre, and pinned it at his button-hole. "delicate and fine!" he thought,--"delicate and fine!" and with the repetition he looked from it down the long street after the interminable line of stages; and somehow the faint, sweet perfume, and the fair flower, and the dainty lace bonnet, were mingled in wild and charming confusion in his brain, till he shook himself, and laughed at himself, and quoted shakespeare to excuse himself,--"a mad world, my masters!"--seeing this poor old earth of ours, as people always do, through their own eyes. "god bless ye! and long life to yer honor! and may the blessed virgin give ye the desire of yer heart!" called the irishwoman after him, as he put back the change in her hand and went gayly up the street. "sure, he's somebody's darlint, the beauty! the saints preserve him!" she said, as she looked from the gold piece in her palm to the fair, sunny head, watching it till it was lost in the crowd from her grateful eyes. evidently this young man was a favorite, for, as he passed along, many a face, worn by business and care, brightened as he smiled and spoke; many a countenance stamped with the trade-mark, preoccupied and hard, relaxed in a kindly recognition as he bowed and went by; and more than one found time, even in that busy whirl, to glance for a moment after him, or to remember him with a pleasant feeling, at least till the pavement had been crossed on which they met,--a long space at that hour of the day, and with so much more important matters--bull and bear, rise and fall, stock and account--claiming their attention. evidently a favorite, for, turning off into one of the side streets, coming into his father's huge foundry, faces heated and dusty, tired, stained, and smoke-begrimed, glanced up from their work, from forge and fire and engine, with an expression that invited a look or word,--and look and word were both ready. "the boss is out, sir," said one of the foremen, "and if you please, and have got the time to spare, i'd like to have a word with you before he comes in." "all right, jim! say your say." "well, sir, you'll likely think i'm sticking my nose into what doesn't concern me. 'tain't a very nice thing i've got to say, but if i don't say it i don't know who in thunder will; and, as it's my private opinion that somebody ought to, i'll just pitch in." "very good; pitch in." "very good it is then. only it ain't. very bad, more like. it's a nasty mess, and no mistake! and there's the cause of it!" pointing his brawny hand towards the door, upon which was marked, "office. private," and sniffing as though he smelt something bad in the air. "you don't mean my father!" flame shooting from the clear eyes. "be damned if i do. beg pardon. of course i don't. i mean the fellow as is perched up on a high stool in that there office, this very minute, poking into his books." "franklin?" "you've hit it. franklin,--abe franklin,--that's the ticket." "what's the matter with him? what has he done?" "done? nothing! not as i know of, anyway, except what's right and proper. 'tain't what he's done or's like to do. it's what he is." "and what may that be?" "well, he's a nigger! there's the long and short of it. nobody here'd object to his working in this place, providing he was a runner, or an errand-boy, or anything that it's right and proper for a nigger to be; but to have him sitting in that office, writing letters for the boss, and going over the books, and superintending the accounts of the fellows, so that he knows just what they get on saturday nights, and being as fine as a fiddle, is what the boys won't stand; and they swear they'll leave, every man of 'em, unless he has his walking papers,--double-quick too." "very well; let them. there are other workmen, good as they, in this city of new york." "hold on, sir! let me say my say first. there are seven hundred men working in this place: the most of 'em have worked here a long while. good work, good pay. there ain't a man of 'em but likes mr. surrey, and would be sorry to lose the place; so, if they won't bear it, there ain't any that will. wait a bit! i ain't through yet." "go on,"--quietly enough spoken, but the mouth shook under its silky fringe, and a fiery spot burned on either cheek. "all right. well, sir, i know all about franklin. he's a bright one, smart enough to stock a lot of us with brains and have some to spare; he don't interfere with us, and does his work well, too, i reckon,--though that's neither here nor there, nor none of our business if the boss is satisfied; and he looks like a gentleman, and acts like one, there's no denying that! and as for his skin,--well!" a smile breaking over his good-looking face, "his skin's quite as white as mine now, anyway," smearing his red-flannel arm over his grimy phiz; "but then, sir, it won't rub off. he's a nigger, and there's no getting round it. "all right, sir! give you your chance directly. don't speak yet,--ain't through, if _you_ please. well, sir, it's agen nature,--you may talk agen it, and work agen it, and fight agen it till all's blue, and what good'll it do? you can't get an irishman, and, what's more, a free-born american citizen, to put himself on a level with a nigger,--not by no manner of means. no, sir; you can turn out the whole lot, and get another after it, and another after that, and so on to the end of the chapter, and you can't find men among 'em all that'll stay and have him strutting through 'em, up to his stool and his books, grand as a peacock." "would they work _with_ him?" "at the same engines, and the like, do you mean?" "yes." "nary time, so 'tain't likely they'll work under him. now, sir, you see i know what i'm saying, and i'm saying it to _you_, mr. surrey, and not to your father, because he won't take a word from me nor nobody else,--and here's just the case. now i ain't bullying, you understand, and i say it because somebody else'd say it, if i didn't, uglier and rougher. abe franklin'll have to go out of this shop in precious short order, or every man here'll bolt next saturday night. there! now i've done, sir, and you can fire away." but as he showed no signs of "firing away," and stood still, pondering, jim broke out again:-"beg pardon, sir. if i've said anything you don't like, sorry for it. it's because mr. surrey is so good an employer, and, if you'll let me say so, because i like you so well," glancing over him admiringly,--"for, you see, a good engineer takes to a clean-built machine wherever he sees it,--it's just because of this i thought it was better to tell you, and get you to tell the boss, and to save any row; for i'd hate mortally to have it in this shop where i've worked, man and boy, so many years. will you please to speak to him, sir? and i hope you understand." "thank you, jim. yes, i understand; and i'll speak to him." was it that the sun was going down, or that some clouds were in the sky, or had the air of the shop oppressed him? whatever it was, as he came out he walked with a slower step from which some of the spring had gone, and the people's faces looked not so happy; and, glancing down at his rosebud, he saw that its fair petals had been soiled by the smoke and grime in which he had been standing; and, while he looked a dead march came solemnly sounding up the street, and a soldier's funeral went by,--rare enough, in that autumn of 1860, to draw a curious crowd on either side; rare enough to make him pause and survey it; and as the line turned into another street, and the music came softened to his ear, he once more hummed the words of the song which had been haunting him all the day:- "then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all, and don your helmes amaine; death's couriers, fame and honor, call us to the field againe,"-sang them to himself, but not with the gay, bright spirit of the morning. then he seemed to see the cavaliers, brilliant and brave, riding out to the encounter. now, in the same dim and fanciful way, he beheld them stretched, still and dead, upon the plain. chapter ii "_thou--drugging pain by patience._" arnold "laces cleaned, and fluting and ruffling done here,"--that was what the little sign swinging outside the little green door said. and, coming under it into the cosey little rooms, you felt this was just the place in which to leave things soiled and torn, and come back to find them, by some mysterious process, immaculate and whole. two rooms, with folding-doors between, in which through the day stood a counter, cut up on the one side into divers pigeon-holes rilled with small boxes and bundles, carefully pinned and labelled,--owner's name, time left, time to be called for, money due; neat and nice as a new pin, as every one said who had any dealings there. the counter was pushed back now, as always after seven o'clock, for the people who came in the evening were few; and then, when that was out of the way, it seemed more home-like and less shoppy, as mrs. franklin said every night, as she straightened things out, and peered through the window or looked from the front door, and wondered if "abram weren't later than usual," though she knew right well he was punctual as clock-work,--good clock-work too,--when he was going to his toil or hurrying back to his home. pleasant little rooms, with the cleanest and brightest of rag carpets on the floor; a paper on the walls, cheap enough, but gay with scarlet rosebuds and green leaves, rivalled by the vines and berries on the pretty chintz curtains; chairs of a dozen ages and patterns, but all of them with open, inviting countenances and a hospitable air; a wood fire that _looked_ like a wood fire crackling and sparkling on the hearth, shining and dancing over the ceiling and the floor and the walls, cutting queer capers with the big rocking-chair,--which turned into a giant with long arms,--and with the little figures on the mantel-shelf, and the books in their cases, softening and glorifying the two grand faces hanging in their frames opposite, and giving just light enough below them to let you read "john brown" and "phillips," if you had any occasion to read, and did not know those whom the world knows; and first and last, and through all, as if it loved her, and was loath to part with her for a moment, whether she poked the flame, or straightened a chair, or went out towards the little kitchen to lift a lid and smell a most savory stew, or came back to the supper-table to arrange and rearrange what was already faultless in its cleanliness and simplicity, wherever she went and whatever she did, this firelight fell warm about a woman, large and comfortable and handsome, with a motherly look to her person, and an expression that was all kindness in her comely face and dark, soft eyes,--eyes and face and form, though, that might as well have had "pariah" written all over them, and "leper" stamped on their front, for any good, or beauty, or grace, that people could find in them; for the comely face was a dark face, and the voice, singing an old methodist hymn, was no anglo-saxon treble, but an anglo-african voice, rich and mellow, with the touch of pathos or sorrow always heard in these tones. "there!" she said, "there he is!" as a step, hasty yet halting, was heard on the pavement; and, turning up the light, she ran quickly to open the door, which, to be sure, was unfastened, and to give the greeting to her "boy," which, through many a year, had never been omitted. _her_ boy,--you would have known that as soon as you saw him,--the same eyes, same face, the same kindly look; but the face was thinner and finer, and the brow was a student's brow, full of thought and speculation; and, looking from her hearty, vigorous form, you saw that his was slight to attenuation. "sit down, sonny, sit down and rest. there! how tired you look!" bustling round him, smoothing his thin face and rough hair. "now don't do that! let your old mother do it!" it pleased her to call herself old, though she was but just in her prime. "you've done enough for one day, i'm sure, waiting on other people, and walking with your poor lame foot till you're all but beat out. you be quiet now, and let somebody else wait on you." and, going down on her knees, she took up the lame foot, and began to unlace the cork-soled, high-cut shoe, and, drawing it out, you saw that it was shrunken and small, and that the leg was shorter than its fellow. "poor little foot!" rubbing it tenderly, smoothing the stocking over it, and chafing it to bring warmth and life to its surface. her "baby," she called it, for it was no bigger than when he was a little fellow. "poor, tired foot! ain't it a dreadful long walk, sonny?" "pretty long, mother; but i'd take twice that to do such work at the end." "yes, indeed, it's good work, and mr. surrey's a good man, and a kind one, that's sure! i only wish some others had a little of his spirit. such a shame to have you dragging all the way up here, when any dirty fellow that wants to can ride. i don't mind for myself so much, for i can walk about spry enough yet, and don't thank them for their old omnibuses nor cars; but it's too bad for you, so it is,--too bad!" "never mind, mother! keep a brave heart. 'there's a good time coming soon, a good time coming!' as i heard mr. hutchinson sing the other night,--and it's true as gospel." "maybe it is, sonny!" dubiously, "but i don't see it,--not a sign of it,--no indeed, not one! it gets worse and worse all the time, and it takes a deal of faith to hold on; but the good lord knows best, and it'll be right after a while, anyhow! and now _that's_ straight!" pulling a soft slipper on the lame foot, and putting its mate by his side; then going off to pour out the tea, and dish up the stew, and add a touch or two to the appetizing supper-table. "it's as good as a feast,"--taking a bite out of her nice home-made bread,--"better'n a feast, to think of you in that place; and i can't scarcely realize it yet. it seems too fine to be true." "that's the way i've felt all the month, mother! it has been just like a dream to me, and i keep thinking surely i'm asleep and will waken to find this is just an air-castle i've been building, or 'a vision of the night,' as the good book says." "well, it's a blessed vision, sure enough! and i hope to the good lord it'll last;--but you won't if you make a vision of your supper in that way. you just eat, abram! and have done your talking till you're through, if you can't do both at once. talking's good, but eating's better when you're hungry; and it's my opinion you ought to be hungry, if you ain't." so the teacups were filled and emptied, and the spoons clattered, and the stew was eaten, and the baked potatoes devoured, and the bread-and-butter assaulted vigorously, and general havoc made with the good things and substantial things before and between them; and then, this duty faithfully performed, the wreck speedily vanished away; and cups and forks, spoons and plates, knives and dishes, cleaned and cupboarded, mrs. franklin came, and, drawing away the book over which he was poring, said, while she smoothed face and hair once more, "come, abram, what is it?" "what's what, mother?" with a little laugh. "something ails you, sonny. that's plain enough. i know when anything's gone wrong with ye, sure, and something's gone wrong to-day." "o mother! you worry about me too much, indeed you do. if i'm a little tired or out of sorts,--which i haven't any right to be, not here,--or quiet, or anything, you think somebody's been hurting me, or abusing me, or that everything's gone wrong with me, when i do well enough all the time." "now, abram, you can't deceive me,--not that way. my eyes is mother's eyes, and they see plain enough, where you're concerned, without spectacles. who's been putting on you to-day? somebody. you don't carry that down look in your face and your eyes for nothing, i found that out long ago, and you've got it on to-night." "o mother!" "don't you 'o mother' me! i ain't going to be put off in that way, abram, an' you needn't think it. has mr. surrey been saying anything hard to you?" "no, indeed, mother; you needn't ask that." "nor none of the foremen?" "none." "has snipe been round?" "hasn't been near the office since mr. surrey dismissed him." "met him anywhere?" "nein!" laughing, "i haven't laid eyes on him." "well, the men have been saying or doing something then." "n-no; why, what an inquisitor it is!" "'n-no.' you don't say that full and plain, abram. something _has_ been going wrong with the men. now what is it? come, out with it." "well, mother, if you _will_ know, you will, i suppose; and, as you never get tired of the story, i'll go over the whole tale. "so long as i was mr. surrey's office-boy, to make his fires, and sweep and dust, and keep things in order, the men were all good enough to me after their fashion; and if some of them growled because they thought he favored me, mr. given, or some one said, 'o, you know his mother was a servant of mrs. surrey for no end of years, and of course mr. surrey has a kind of interest in him'; and that put everything straight again. "well! you know how good mr. willie has been to me ever since we were little boys in the same house,--he in the parlor and i in the kitchen; the books he's given me, and the chances he's made me, and the way he's put me in of learning and knowing. and he's been twice as kind to me ever since i refused that offer of his." "yes, i know, but tell me about it again." "well, mr. surrey sent me up to the house one day, just while mr. willie was at home from college, and he stopped me and had a talk with me, and asked me in his pleasant way, not as if i were a 'nigger,' but just as he'd talk to one of his mates, ever so many questions about myself and my studies and my plans; and i told him what i wanted,--how hard you worked, and how i hoped to fit myself to go into some little business of my own, not a barber-shop, or any such thing, but something that'd support you and keep you like a lady after while, and that would help me and my people at the same time. for, of course," i said, "every one of us that does anything more than the world expects us to do, or better, makes the world think so much the more and better of us all." "what did he say to that?" "i wish you'd seen him! he pushed back that beautiful hair of his, and his eyes shone, and his mouth trembled, though i could see he tried hard to hold it still, and put up his hand to cover it; and he said, in a solemn sort of way, 'franklin, you've opened a window for me, and i sha'n't forget what i see through it to-day.' and then he offered to set me up in some business at once, and urged hard when i declined." "say it all over again, sonny; what was it you told him?" "i said that would do well enough for a white man; that he could help, and the white man be helped, just as people were being and doing all the time, and no one would think a thought about it. but, sir," i said, "everybody says we can do nothing alone; that we're a poor, shiftless set; and it will be just one of the master race helping a nigger to climb and to stand where he couldn't climb or stand alone, and i'd rather fight my battle alone." "yes, yes! well, go on, go on. i like to hear what followed." "well, there was just a word or two more, and then he put out his hand and shook mine, and said good by. it was the first time i ever shook hands with a white _gentleman_. some white hands have shaken mine, but they always made me feel that they _were_ white and that mine was black, and that it was a condescension. i felt that, when they didn't mean i should. but there was nothing between us. i didn't think of his skin, and, for once in my life, i quite forgot i was black, and didn't remember it again till i got out on the street and heard a dirty little ragamuffin cry, 'hi! hi! don't that nagur think himself foine?' i suspect, in spite of my lameness, i had been holding up my head and walking like a man." in spite of his lameness he was holding up his head and walking like a man now; up and down and across the little room, trembling, excited, the words rushing in an eager flow from his mouth. his mother sat quietly rocking herself and knitting. she knew in this mood there was nothing to be said to him; and, indeed, what had she to say save that which would add fuel to the flame? "well!"--a long sigh,--"after that mr. surrey doubled my wages, and was kinder to me than ever, and watched me, as i saw, quite closely; and that was the way he found out about mr. snipe. "you see mr. snipe had been very careless about keeping the books; would come down late in the mornings, just before mr. surrey came in, and go away early in the afternoons, as soon as he had left. of course, the books got behindhand every month, and mr. snipe didn't want to stay and work overhours to make them up. one day he found out, by something i said, that i understood bookkeeping, and tried me, and then got me to take them home at night and go over them. i didn't know then how bad he was doing, and that i had no business to shield him, and all went smooth enough till the day i was too sick to get down to the office, and two of the books were at home. then mr. surrey discovered the whole thing. there was a great row, it seems; and mr. surrey examined the books, and found, as he was pleased to say, that i'd kept them in first-rate style; so he dismissed mr. snipe on the spot, with six months' pay,--for you know he never does anything by halves,--and put me in his place. "the men don't like it, i know, and haven't liked it, but of course they can't say anything to him, and they haven't said anything to me; but i've seen all along that they looked at me with no friendly eyes, and for the last day or two i've heard a word here and there which makes me think there's trouble brewing,--bad enough, i'm afraid; maybe to the losing of my place, though mr. surrey has said nothing about it to me." just here the little green door opened, and the foreman whom we have before seen--james given as the register had him entered, jim given as every one knew him--came in; no longer with grimy face and flannel sleeves, but brave in all his sunday finery, and as handsome a b'hoy, they said, at his engine-house, as any that ran with the machine; having on his arm a young lady whom he apostrophized as sallie, as handsome and brave as he. "evening,"--a nod of the head accompanying. "miss howard's traps done?" "i wish you wouldn't say 'traps,' jim," corrected sallie, _sotto voce_: "it's not proper. it's for a collar and pair of cuffs, mrs. franklin," she added aloud, putting down a little check. "not proper! goodness gracious me! there spoke snipe! come, sallie, you've pranced round with that stuck-up jackanapes till you're getting spoiled entirely, so you are, and i scarcely know you. not proper,--o my!" "spoiled, am i? thank you, sir, for the compliment! and you don't know me at all,--don't you? very well, then i'll say good night, and leave; for it wouldn't be proper to take a young lady you don't know to the theatre,--now, would it? good by!"--making for the door. "now don't, sallie, please." "don't what?" "don't talk that way." "don't yourself, more like. you're just as cross as cross can be, and disagreeable, and hateful,--all because i happen to know there's some other man in the world besides yourself, and smile at him now and then. 'don't,' indeed!" "come, sallie, you're too hard on a fellow. it's your own fault, you know well enough, if you will be so handsome. now, if you were an ugly old girl, or i was certain of you, i shouldn't feel so bad, nor act so neither. but when there's a lot of hungry chaps round, all gaping to gobble you up, and even poor little snipes trying to peck and bite at you, and you won't say 'yes' nor 'no' to me, how do you expect a man to keep cool? can't do it, nohow, and you needn't ask it. human nature's human nature, i suppose, and mine ain't a quiet nor a patient one, not by no manner of means. come, sallie, own up; you wouldn't like me so well as i hope you do if it was,--now, would you?" mrs. franklin smiled, though she had heard not a word of the lovers' quarrel, as she put a pin in the back of the ruffled collar which sallie had come to reclaim. a quarrel it had evidently been, and as evidently the lady was mollified, for she said, "don't be absurd, jim!" and jim laughed and responded, "all right, sallie, you're an angel! but come, we must hurry, or the curtain'll be up,"--and away went the dashing and handsome couple. abram, shutting in the shutters, and fastening the door, sat down to a quiet evening's reading, while his mother knitted and sewed,--an evening the likeness of a thousand others of which they never tired; for this mother and son, to whom fate had dealt so hard a measure, upon whom the world had so persistently frowned, were more to each other than most mothers and sons whose lines had fallen in pleasanter places,--compensation, as mr. emerson says, being the law of existence the world over. chapter iii "_every one has his day, from which he dates._" old proverb you see, surrey, the school is something extra, and the performances, and it will please clara no end; so i thought i'd run over, and inveigled you into going along for fear it should be stupid, and i would need some recreation." "which i am to afford?" "verily." "as clown or grindstone?--to make laugh, or sharpen your wits upon?" "far be it from me to dictate. whichever suits our character best. on the whole, i think the last would be the most appropriate; the first i can swear wouldn't!" "_pourquoi_?" "o, a woman's reason,--because!" "because why? am i cross?" "not exactly." "rough?" "as usual,--like a may breeze." "cynical?" "as epicurus." "irritable?" "'a countenance [and manner] more in sorrow than in anger.' something's wrong with you; who is she?" "she!" "ay,--she. that was a wise eastern king who put at the bottom of every trouble and mischief a woman." "fine estimate." "correct one. evidently he had studied the genus thoroughly, and had a poor opinion of it." "no wonder." "amazing! _you_ say 'no wonder'! astounding words! speak them again." "no wonder,--seeing that he had a mother, and that she had such a son. he must needs have been a bad fellow or a fool to have originated so base a philosophy, and how then could he respect the source of such a stream as himself?" "sir launcelot,--squire of dames!" "not sir launcelot, but squire of dames, i hope." "there you go again! now i shall query once more, who is she?" "no woman." "no?" "no, though by your smiling you would seem to say so!" "nay, i believe you, and am vastly relieved in the believing. take advice from ten years of superior age, and fifty of experience, and have naught to do with them. dost hear?" "i do." "and will heed?" "which?--the words or the acts of my counsellor? who, of a surety, preaches wisely and does foolishly, or who does wisely and preaches foolishly; for preaching and practice do not agree." "nay, man, thou art unreasonable; to perform either well is beyond the capacity of most humans, and i desire not to be blessed above my betters. then let my rash deeds and my prudent words both be teachers unto thee. but if it be true that no woman is responsible for your grave countenance this morning, then am i wasting words, and will return to our muttons. what ails you?" "i am belligerent." "i see,--that means quarrelsome." "and hopeless." "bad,--very! belligerent and hopeless! when you go into a fight always expect to win; the thought is half the victory." "suppose you are an atom against the universe?" "don't fight, succumb. there's a proverb,--a wise one,--napoleon's, 'god is on the side of the strongest battalions.'" "a lie,--exploded at waterloo. there's another proverb, 'one on the side of god is a majority.' how about that?" "transcendental humbug." "a truth demonstrated at wittenberg." "are you aching for the martyr's palm?" "i am afraid not. on the whole, i think i'd rather enjoy life than quarrel with it. but"--with a sudden blaze--"i feel to-day like fighting the world." "hey, presto! what now, young'un?" "i don't wonder you stare"--a little laugh. "i'm talking like a fool, and, for aught i know, feeling like one, aching to fight, and knowing that i might as well quarrel with the winds, or stab that water as it flows by." "as with what?" "the fellow i've just been getting a good look at." "what manner of fellow?" "ignorant, selfish, brutal, devilish." "tremendous! why don't you bind him over to keep the peace?" "because he is like the judge of old time, neither fears god nor respects his image,--when his image is carved in ebony, and not ivory." "what do you call this fellow?" "public opinion." "this big fellow is abusing and devouring a poor little chap, eh? and the chap's black?" "true." "and sometimes the giant is a gentleman in purple and fine linen, otherwise broadcloth; and sometimes in hodden gray, otherwise homespun or slop-shop; and sometimes he cuts the poor little chap with a silver knife, which is rhetoric, and sometimes with a wooden spoon, which is raw-hide. am i stating it all correctly?" "all correctly." "and you've been watching this operation when you had better have been minding your own business, and getting excited when you had better have kept cool, and now want to rush into the fight, drums beating and colors flying, to the rescue of the small one. don't deny it,--it's all written out in your eyes." "i sha'n't deny it, except about the business and the keeping cool. it's any gentleman's business to interfere between a bully and a weakling that he's abusing; and his blood must be water that does not boil while he 'watches the operation' as you say, and goes in." "to get well pommelled for his pains, and do no good to any one, himself included. let the weakling alone. a fellow that can't save himself is not worth saving. if he can't swim nor walk, let him drop under or go to the wall; that's my theory." "anglo-saxon theory--and practice." "good theory, excellent practice,--in the main. what special phase of it has been disturbing your equanimity?" "you know the franklins?" "of course: aunt mina's son--what's his name?--is a sort of _protã©gã©_ of yours, i believe: what of him?" "he is cleanly?" "a nice question. doubtless." "respectable?" "what are you driving at?" "intelligent?" "most true." "ambitious?" "or his looks belie him." "faithful, trusty, active, helpful, in every way devoted to my father's service and his work." "with sancho, i believe it all because your worship says so." "well, this man has just been discharged from my father's employ because seven hundred and forty-two other men gave notice to quit if he remained." "the reason?" "his skin." "the reason is not 'so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door, but it is enough.' of course they wouldn't work with him, and my uncle surrey, begging your pardon, should not have attempted anything so quixotic." "his skin covering so many excellent qualities, and these qualities gaining recognition,--that was the cause. they worked with him so long as he was a servant of servants: so soon as he demonstrated that he could strike out strongly and swim, they knocked him under; and, proving that he could walk alone, they ran hastily to shove him to the wall." "what! quoting my own words against me?" "anglo-saxon says we are the masters: we monopolize the strength and courage, the beauty, intelligence, power. these creatures,--what are they? poor, worthless, lazy, ignorant, good for nothing but to be used as machines, to obey. when lo! one of these dumb machines suddenly starts forth with a man's face; this creature no longer obeys, but evinces a right to command; and anglo-saxon speedily breaks him in pieces." "come, willie, i hope you're not going to assert these people our equals,--that would be too much." "they have no intelligence, anglo-saxon declares,--then refuses them schools, while he takes of their money to help educate his own sons. they have no ambition,--then closes upon them every door of honorable advancement, and cries through the key-hole, serve, or starve. they cannot stand alone, they have no faculty for rising,--then, if one of them finds foothold, the ground is undermined beneath him. if a head is seen above the crowd, the ladder is jerked away, and he is trampled into the dust where he is fallen. if he stays in the position to which anglo-saxon assigns him, he is a worthless nigger; if he protests against it, he is an insolent nigger; if he rises above it, he is a nigger not to be tolerated at all,--to be crushed and buried speedily." "now, willie, 'no more of this, an thou lovest me.' i came not out to-day to listen to an abolition harangue, nor a moral homily, but to have a good time, to be civil and merry withal, if you will allow it. of course you don't like franklin's discharge, and of course you have done something to compensate him. i know--you have found him another place. no,--you couldn't do that? "no, i couldn't." "well, you've settled him somewhere,--confess." "he has some work for the present; some copying for me, and translating, for this unfortunate is a scholar, you know." "very good; then let it rest. granted the poor devils have a bad time of it, you're not bound to sacrifice yourself for them. if you go on at this pace, you'll bring up with the long-haired, bloomer reformers, and then--god help you. no, you needn't say another word,--i sha'n't listen,--not one; so. here we are! school yonder,--well situated?" "capitally." "fine day." "very." "clara will be charmed to see you." "you flatter me. i hope so." "there, now you talk rationally. don't relapse. we will go up and hear the pretty creatures read their little pieces, and sing their little songs, and see them take their nice blue-ribboned diplomas, and fall in love with their dear little faces, and flirt a bit this evening, and to-morrow i shall take ma'm'selle clara home to mamma russell, and you may go your ways." "the programme is satisfactory." "good. come on then." all commencement days, at college or young ladies' school, if not twin brothers and sisters, are at least first cousins, with a strong family likeness. who that has passed through one, or witnessed one, needs any description thereof to furbish up its memories. this of professor hale's belonged to the great tribe, and its form and features were of the old established type. the young ladies were charming; plenty of white gowns, plenty of flowers, plenty of smiles, blushes, tremors, hopes, and fears; little songs, little pieces, little addresses, to be sung, to be played, to be read, just as tom russell had foreshadowed, and proving to be-"just the least of a bore!" as he added after listening awhile; "don't you think so, surrey?" "hush! don't talk." tom stared; then followed his cousin's eye, fixed immovably upon one little spot on the platform. "by jove!" he cried, "what a beauty! as father dryden would say, 'this is the porcelain clay of humankind.' no wonder you look. who is she,--do you know?" "no." "no! short, clear, and decisive. don't devour her, will. remember the sermon i preached you an hour ago. come, look at this,"--thrusting a programme into his face,--"and stop staring. why, boy, she has bewitched you,--or inspired you,"--surveying him sharply. and indeed it would seem so. eyes, mouth, face, instinct with some subtle and thrilling emotion. as gay tom russell looked, he involuntarily stretched out his hand, as one would put it between another and some danger of which that other is unaware, and remembered what he had once said in talking of him,--"if will surrey's time does come, i hope the girl will be all right in every way, for he'll plunge headlong, and love like distraction itself,--no half-way; it will be a life-and-death affair for him." "come, i must break in on this." "surrey!" "yes." "there's a pretty girl." no answer. "there! over yonder. third seat, second row. see her? pretty?" "very pretty." "miss--miss--what's her name? o, miss perry played that last thing very well for a school-girl, eh?" "very well." "admirable room this, for hearing; rare quality with chapels and halls; architects in planning generally tax ingenuity how to confuse sound. now these girls don't make a great noise, yet you can distinguish every word,--can't you?" no response. "i say, can't you?" "every word." tom drew a long breath. "professor hale's a sensible old fellow; i like the way he conducts this school." (mem. tom didn't know a thing about it.) "carries it on excellently." a pause. silence. "fine-looking, too. a man's physique has a deal to do with his success in the world. if he carries a letter of recommendation in his face, people take him on trust to begin with; and if he's a big fellow, like the professor yonder, he imposes on folks awfully; they pop down on their knees to him, and clear the track for him, as if he had a right to it all. bless me! i never thought of that before,--it's the reason you and i have got on so swimmingly,--is it not, now? certainly. you think so? of course." "of course,"--sedately and gravely spoken. tom groaned, for, with a face kind and bright, he was yet no beauty; while if surrey had one crowning gift in this day of fast youths and self-satisfied young america, it was that of modesty with regard to himself and any gifts and graces nature had blessed him withal. "clara has a nice voice." "very nice." "she is to sing, do you know?" "i know." "do you know when?" no reply. "she sings the next piece. are you ready to listen?" "ready." "good lord!" cried tom, in despair, "the fellow has lost his wits. he has turned parrot; he has done nothing but repeat my words for me since he sat here. he's an echo." "echo of nothingness?" queried the parrot, smilingly. "ah, you've come to yourself, have you? capital! now stay awake. there's clara to sing directly, and you are to cheer her, and look as if you enjoyed it, and throw her that bouquet when i tell you, and let her think it's a fine thing she has been doing; for this is a tremendous affair to her, poor child, of course." "how bright and happy she is! you will laugh at me, tom, and indeed i don't know what has come over me, but somehow i feel quite sad, looking at those girls, and wondering what fate and time have in store for them." "sunshine and bright hours." "the day cometh, and also the night,"--broke in the clear voice that was reading a selection from the scriptures. tom started, and willie took from his button-hole just such a little nosegay as that he had bought on broadway a fortnight before,--a geranium leaf, a bit of mignonette, and a delicate tea-rosebud, and, seeing it was drooping, laid it carefully upon the programme on his knee. "i don't want that to fade," he thought as he put it down, while he looked across the platform at the same face which he had so eagerly pursued through a labyrinth of carriages, stages, and people, and lost at last. "there! clara is talking to your beauty. i wonder if she is to sing, or do anything. if she does, it will be something dainty and fine, i'll wager. helloa! there's clara up,--now for it." clara's bright little voice suited her bright little face,--like her brother's, only a great deal prettier,--and the young men enjoyed both, aside from brotherly and cousinly feeling, cheered her "to the echo" as willie said, threw their bouquets,--great, gorgeous things they had brought from the city to please her,--and wished there was more of it all when it was through. "what next?" said willie. "heaven preserve us! your favorite subject. who would expect to tumble on such a theme here?--'slavery; by francesca ercildoune.' odd name,--and, by jove! it's the beauty herself." they both leaned forward eagerly as she came from her seat; slender, shapely, every fibre fine and exquisite, no coarse graining from the dainty head to the dainty foot; the face, clear olive, delicate and beautiful,- "the mouth with steady sweetness set, and eyes conveying unaware the distant hint of some regret that harbored there,"-eyes deep, tender, and pathetic. "what's this?" said tom. "queer. it gives me a heartache to look at her." "a woman for whom to fight the world, or lose the world, and be compensated a million-fold if you died at her feet," thought surrey, and said nothing. "what a strange subject for her to select!" broke in tom. it was a strange one for the time and place, and she had been besought to drop it, and take another; but it should be that or nothing, she asserted,--so she was left to her own device. oddly treated, too. tom thought it would be a pretty lady-like essay, and said so; then sat astounded at what he saw and heard. her face--this schoolgirl's face--grew pallid, her eyes mournful, her voice and manner sublime, as she summoned this monster to the bar of god's justice and the humanity of the world; as she arraigned it; as she brought witness after witness to testify against it; as she proved its horrible atrocities and monstrous barbarities; as she went on to the close, and, lifting hand and face and voice together, thrilled out, "i look backward into the dim, distant past, but it is one night of oppression and despair; i turn to the present, but i hear naught save the mother's broken-hearted shriek, the infant's wail, the groan wrung from the strong man in agony; i look forward into the future, but the night grows darker, the shadows deeper and longer, the tempest wilder, and involuntarily i cry out, 'how long, o god, how long?'" "heavens! what an actress she would make!" said somebody before them. "that's genius," said somebody behind them; "but what a subject to waste it upon!" "very bad taste, i must say, to talk about such a thing here," said somebody beside them. "however, one can excuse a great deal to beauty like that." surrey sat still, and felt as though he were on fire, filled with an insane desire to seize her in one arm like a knight of old, and hew his way through these beings, and out of this place, into some solitary spot where he could seat her and kneel at her feet, and die there if she refused to take him up; filled with all the sweet, extravagant, delicious pain that thrills the heart, full of passion and purity, of a young man who begins to love the first, overwhelming, only love of a lifetime. chapter iv "_'tis an old tale, and often told._" sir walter scott that evening some people who were near them were talking about it, and that made tom ask clara if her friend was in the habit of doing startling things. "should you think so to look at her now?" queried clara, looking across the room to where miss ercildoune stood. "indeed i shouldn't," tom replied; and indeed no one would who saw her then. "she's as sweet as a sugar-plum," he added, as he continued to look. "what does she mean by getting off such rampant discourses? she never wrote them herself,--don't tell _me_; at least somebody else put her up to it,--that strong-minded-looking teacher over yonder, for instance. _she_ looks capable of anything, and something worse, in the denouncing way; poor little beauty was her cat's-paw this morning." "o tom, how you talk! she is nobody's cat's-paw. i can tell you she does her own thinking and acting too. if you'd just go and do something hateful, or impose on somebody,--one of the waiters, for instance,--you'd see her blaze up, fast enough." "ah! philanthropic?" clara looked puzzled. "i don't know; we have some girls here who are all the time talking about benevolence, and charity, and the like, and they have a little sewing-circle to make up things to be sold for the church mission, or something,--i don't know just what; but francesca won't go near it." "democratic, then, maybe." "no, she isn't, not a bit. she's a thorough little aristocrat: so exclusive she has nothing to say to the most of us. i wonder she ever took me for a friend, though i do love her dearly." tom looked down at his bright little sister, and thought the wonder was not a very great one, but didn't say so; reserving his gallantries for somebody else's sister. "you seem greatly taken with her, tom." "i own the soft impeachment." "well, you'll have a fair chance, for she's coming home with me. i wrote to mamma, and she says, bring her by all means,--and mr. ercildoune gives his consent; so it is all settled." "mr. ercildoune! is there no mrs. e.?" "none,--her mother died long ago; and her father has not been here, so i can't tell you anything about him. there: do you see that elegant-looking lady talking with professor hale? that is her aunt, mrs. lancaster. she is english, and is here only on a visit. she wants to take francesca home with her in the spring, but i hope she won't." "why, what is it to you?" "i am afraid she will stay, and then i shall never see her any more." "and why stay? do you fancy england so very fascinating?" "no, it is not that; but francesca don't like america; she's forever saying something witty and sharp about our 'democratic institutions,' as she calls them; and, if you had looked this morning, you'd have seen that she didn't sing the star-spangled banner with the rest of us. her voice is splendid, and professor hale wanted her to lead, as she often does, but she wouldn't sing that, she said,--no, not for anything; and though we all begged, she refused,--flat." "shocking! what total depravity! i wonder is she converting surrey to her heresies." no, she wasn't; not unless silence is more potent than words; for after they had danced together surrey brought her to one of the great windows facing towards the sea, and, leaning over her chair, there was stillness between them as their eyes went out into the night. a wild night! great clouds drifted across the moon, which shone out anon, with light intensified, defining the stripped trees and desolate landscape, and then the beach, and "marked with spray the sunken reefs, and far away the unquiet, bright atlantic plain," while through all sounded incessantly the mournful roar of buffeting wind and surging tide; and whether it was the scene, or the solemn undertone of the sea, the dance music, which a little while before had been so gay, sounded like a wail. how could it be otherwise? passion is akin to pain. love never yet penetrated an intense nature and made the heart light; sentiment has its smiles, its blushes, its brightness, its words of fancy and feeling, readily and at will; but when the internal sub-soiling is broken up, the heart swells with a steady and tremendous pressure till the breast feels like bursting; the lips are dumb, or open only to speak upon indifferent themes. flowers may be played with, but one never yet cared to toy with flame. there are souls that are created for one another in the eternities, hearts that are predestined each to each, from the absolute necessities of their nature; and when this man and this woman come face to face, these hearts throb and are one; these souls recognize "my master!" "my mistress!" at the first glance, without words uttered or vows pronounced. these two young lives, so fresh, so beautiful; these beings, in many things such antipodes, so utterly dissimilar in person, so unlike, yet like; their whole acquaintance a glance on a crowded street and these few hours of meeting,--looked into one another's eyes, and felt their whole nature set each to each, as the vast tide "of the bright, rocking ocean sets to shore at the full moon." these things are possible. friendship is excellent, and friendship may be called love; but it is not love. it may be more enduring and placidly satisfying in the end; it may be better, and wiser, and more prudent, for acquaintance to beget esteem, and esteem regard, and regard affection, and affection an interchange of peaceful vows: the result, a well-ordered life and home. all this is admirable, no doubt; an owl is a bird when you can get no other; but the love born of a moment, yet born of eternity, which comes but once in a lifetime, and to not one in a thousand lives, unquestioning, unthinking, investigating nothing, proving nothing, sufficient unto itself,--ah, that is divine; and this divine ecstasy filled these two souls. unconsciously. they did not define nor comprehend. they listened to the sea where they sat, and felt tears start to their eyes, yet knew not why. they were silent, and thought they talked; or spoke, and said nothing. they danced; and as he held her hand and uttered a few words, almost whispered, the words sounded to the listening ear like a part of the music to which they kept time. they saw a multitude of people, and exchanged the compliments of the evening, yet these people made no more impression upon their thoughts than gossamer would have made upon their hands. "come, francesca!" said clara russell, breaking in upon this, "it is not fair for you to monopolize my cousin will, who is the handsomest man in the room; and it isn't fair for will to keep you all to himself in this fashion. here is tom, ready to scratch out his eyes with vexation because you won't dance with him; and here am i, dying to waltz with somebody who knows my step,--to say nothing of innumerable young ladies and gentlemen who have been casting indignant and beseeching glances this way: so, sir, face about, march!" and away the gay girl went with her prize, leaving francesca to the tender mercies of half a dozen young men who crowded eagerly round her, and from whom tom carried her off with triumph and rejoicing. the evening was over at last, and they were going away. tom had said good night. "you are to be in new york, at my uncle's, clara tells me." "it is true." "i may see you there?" for answer she put out her hand. he took it as he would have taken a delicate flower, laid his other hand softly, yet closely, over it, and, without any adieu spoken, went away. "tom always declared willie was a little queer, and i'm sure i begin to think so," said clara, as she kissed her friend and departed to her room. chapter v "_a breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, a little talking of outward things._" jean ingelow ah, the weeks that followed! people ate and drank and slept, lived and loved and hated, were born and died,--the same world that it had been a little while before, yet not the same to them,--never to seem quite the same again. a little cloud had fallen between them and it, and changed to their eyes all its proportions and hues. they were incessantly together, riding, or driving, or walking, looking at pictures, dancing at parties, listening to opera or play. "it seems to me will is going it at a pretty tremendous pace somewhere," said mr. surrey to his wife, one morning, after this had endured for a space. "it would be well to look into it, and to know something of this girl." "you are right," she replied. "yet i have such absolute faith in willie's fine taste and sense that i feel no anxiety." "nor i; yet i shall investigate a bit to-night at augusta's." "clara tells me that when miss ercildoune understood it was to be a great party, she insisted on ending her visit, or, at least, staying for a while with her aunt, but they would not hear of it." "mrs. lancaster goes back to england soon?" "very soon." "does any one know aught of miss ercildoune's family save that mrs. lancaster is her aunt?" "if 'any one' means me, i understand her father to be a gentleman of elegant leisure,--his home near philadelphia; a widower, with one other child,--a son, i believe; that his wife was english, married abroad; that mrs. lancaster comes here with the best of letters, and, for herself, is most evidently a lady." "good. now i shall take a survey of the young lady herself." when night came, and with it a crowd to mrs. russell's rooms, the opportunity offered for the survey, and it was made scrutinizingly. surrey was an only son, a well-beloved one, and what concerned him was investigated with utmost care. scrutinizingly and satisfactorily. they were dancing, his sunny head bent till it almost touched the silky blackness of her hair. "saxon and norman," said somebody near who was watching them; "what a delicious contrast!" "they make an exquisite picture," thought the mother, as she looked with delight and dread: delight at the beauty; dread that fills the soul of any mother when she feels that she no longer holds her boy,--that his life has another keeper,--and queries, "what of the keeper?" "well?" she said, looking up at her husband. "well," he answered, with a tone that meant, well. "she's thorough-bred. democratic or not, i will always insist, blood tells. look at her: no one needs to ask _who_ she is. i'd take her on trust without a word." "so, then, you are not her critic, but her admirer." "ah, my dear, criticism is lost in admiration, and i am glad to find it so." "and i. willie saw with our eyes, as a boy; it is fortunate that we can see with his eyes, as a man." so, without any words spoken, after that night, both mr. and mrs. surrey took this young girl into their hearts as they hoped soon to take her into their lives, and called her "daughter" in their thought, as a pleasant preparation for the uttered word by and by. thus the weeks fled. no word had passed between these two to which the world might not have listened. whatever language their hearts and their eyes spoke had not been interpreted by their lips. he had not yet touched her hand save as it met his, gloved or formal, or as it rested on his arm; and yet, as one walking through the dusk and stillness of a summer night feels a flower or falling leaf brush his check, and starts, shivering as from the touch of a disembodied soul, so this slight outward touch thrilled his inmost being; this hand, meeting his for an instant, shook his soul. indefinite and undefined,--there was no thought beyond the moment; no wish to take this young girl into his arms and to call her "wife" had shaped itself in his brain. it was enough for both that they were in one another's presence, that they breathed the same air, that they could see each other as they raised their eyes, and exchange a word, a look, a smile. whatever storm of emotion the future might hold for them was not manifest in this sunny and delightful present. upon one subject alone did they disagree with feeling,--in other matters their very dissimilarity proving an added charm. this was a curious question to come between lovers. all his life surrey had been a devotee of his country and its flag. while he was a boy kossuth had come to these shores, and he yet remembered how he had cheered himself hoarse with pride and delight, as the eloquent voice and impassioned lips of the great magyar sounded the praise of america, as the "refuge of the oppressed and the hope of the world." he yet remembered how when the hand, every gesture of which was instinct with power, was lifted to the flag,--the flag, stainless, spotless, without blemish or flaw; the flag which was "fair as the sun, clear as the moon," and to the oppressors of the earth "terrible as an army with banners,"--he yet remembered how, as this emblem of liberty was thus apostrophized and saluted, the tears had rushed to his boyish eyes, and his voice had said, for his heart, "thank god, i am an american!" one day he made some such remark to her. she answered, "i, too, am an american, but i do not thank god for it." at another time he said, as some emigrants passed them in the street, "what a sense of pride it gives one in one's country, to see her so stretch out her arms to help and embrace the outcast and suffering of the whole world!" she smiled--bitterly, he thought; and replied, "o just and magnanimous country, to feed and clothe the stranger from without, while she outrages and destroys her children within!" "you do not love america," he said. "i do not love america," she responded. "and yet it is a wonderful country." "ay," briefly, almost satirically, "a wonderful country, indeed!" "still you stay here, live here." "yes, it is my country. whatever i think of it, i will not be driven away from it; it is my right to remain." "her right to remain?" he thought; "what does she mean by that? she speaks as though conscience were involved in the thing. no matter; let us talk of something pleasanter." one day she gave him a clew. they were looking at the picture of a great statesman,--a man as famous for the grandeur of face and form as for the power and splendor of his intellect. "unequalled! unapproachable!" exclaimed surrey, at last. "i have seen its equal," she answered, very quietly, yet with a shiver of excitement in the tones. "when? where? how? i will take a journey to look at him. who is he? where did he grow?" for response she put her hand into the pocket of her gown, and took out a velvet case. what could there be in that little blue thing to cause such emotion? as surrey saw it in her hand, he grew hot, then cold, then fiery hot again. in an instant by this chill, this heat, this pain, his heart was laid bare to his own inspection. in an instant he knew that his arms would be empty did they hold a universe in which francesca ercildoune had no part, and that with her head on his heart the world might lapse from him unheeded; and, with this knowledge, she held tenderly and caressingly, as he saw, another man's picture in her hand. his own so shook that he could scarcely take the case from her, to open it; but, opened, his eyes devoured what was under them. a half-length,--the face and physique superb. of what color were the hair and eyes the neutral tints of the picture gave no hint; the brow princely, breaking the perfect oval of the face; eyes piercing and full; the features rounded, yet clearly cut; the mouth with a curious combination of sadness and disdain. the face was not young, yet it was so instinct with magnificent vitality that even the picture impressed one more powerfully than most living men, and one involuntarily exclaimed on beholding it, "this man can never grow old, and death must here forego its claim!" looking up from it with no admiration to express for the face, he saw francesca's smiling on it with a sort of adoration, as she, reclaiming her property, said,-"my father's old friends have a great deal of enjoyment, and amusement too, from his beauty. one of them was the other day telling me of the excessive admiration people had always shown, and laughingly insisted that when papa was a young man, and appeared in public, in london or paris, it was between two police officers to keep off the admiring crowd; and," laughing a gay little laugh herself, "of course i believed him! why shouldn't i?" he was looking at the picture again. "what an air of command he has!" "yes. i remember hearing that when daniel webster was in london, and walked unattended through the streets, the coal-heavers and workmen took off their hats and stood bareheaded till he had gone by, thinking it was royalty that passed. i think they would do the same for papa." "if he looks like a king, i know somebody who looks like a princess," thought the happy young fellow, gazing down upon the proud, dainty figure by his side; but he smiled as he said, "what a little aristocrat you are, miss ercildoune! what a pity you were born a yankee!" "i am not a yankee, mr. surrey," replied the little aristocrat, "if to be a yankee is to be a native of america. i was born on the sea." "and your mother, i know, was english." "yes, she was english." "is it rude to ask if your father was the same? "no!" she answered emphatically, "my papa is a virginian,--a virginia gentleman,"--the last word spoken with an untransferable accent,--"there are few enough of them." "so, so!" thought willie, "here my riddle is read. southern--virginia--gentleman. no wonder she has no love to spend on country or flag; no wonder we couldn't agree. and yet it can't be that,--what were the first words i ever heard from her mouth?" and, remembering that terrible denunciation of the "peculiar institution" of virginia and of the south, he found himself puzzled the more. just then there came into the picture-gallery, where they were wasting a pleasant morning, a young man to whom surrey gave the slightest of recognitions,--well-dressed, booted, and gloved, yet lacking the nameless something which marks the gentleman. his glance, as it rested on surrey, held no love, and, indeed, was rather malignant. "that fellow," said surrey, indicating him, "has a queer story connected with him. he was discharged from my father's employ to give place to a man who could do his work better; and the strange part of it"--he watched her with an amused smile to see what effect the announcement would have upon her virginia ladyship--"is that number two is a black man." a sudden heat flushed her cheeks: "do you tell me your father made room for a black man in his employ, and at the expense of a white one?" "it is even so." "is he there now?" surrey's beautiful saxon face crimsoned. "no: he is not," he said reluctantly. "ah! did he, this black man,--did he not do his work well?" "admirably." "is it allowable, then, to ask why he was discarded?" "it is allowable, surely. he was dismissed because the choice lay between him and seven hundred men." "and you"--her face was very pale now, the flush all gone out of it--"you have nothing to do with your father's works, but you are his son,--did you do naught? protest, for instance?" "i protested--and yielded. the contest would have been not merely with seven hundred men, but with every machinist in the city. justice _versus_ prejudice, and prejudice had it; as, indeed, i suppose it will for a good many generations to come: invincible it appears to be in the american mind." "invincible! is it so?" she paused over the words, scrutinizing him meanwhile with an unconscious intensity. "and this black man,--what of him? he was flung out to starve and die; a proper fate, surely, for his presumption. poor fool! how did he dare to think he could compete with his masters! you know nothing of _him _?" surely he must be mistaken. what could this black man, or this matter, be to her? yet as he listened her voice sounded to his ear like that of one in mortal pain. what held him silent? why did he not tell her, why did he not in some way make her comprehend, that he, delicate exclusive, and patrician, as the people of his set thought him, had gone to this man, had lifted him from his sorrow and despondency to courage and hope once more; had found him work; would see that the place he strove to fill in the world should be filled, could any help of his secure that end. why did the modesty which was a part of him, and the high-bred reserve which shrank from letting his own mother know of the good deeds his life wrought, hold him silent now? in that silence something fell between them. what was it? but a moment, yet in that little space it seemed to him as though continents divided them, and seas rolled between. "francesca!" he cried, under his breath,--he had never before called her by her christian name,--"francesca!" and stretched out his hand towards her, as a drowning man stretches forth his hand to life. "this room is stifling!" she said for answer; and her voice, dulled and unnatural, seemed to his strangely confused senses as though it came from a far distance,--"i am suffering: shall we go out to the air?" chapter vi "_but more than loss about me clings._" jean ingelow "no! no, i am mad to think it! i must have been dreaming! what could there have been in that talk to have such an effect as i have conjured up? she pitied franklin! yes, she pities every one whom she thinks suffering or wronged. dear little tender heart! of course it was the room,--didn't she say she was ill? it must have been awful; the heat and the closeness got into my head,--that's it. bad air is as bad as whiskey on a man's brain. what a fool i made of myself! not even answering her questions. what did she think of me? well." surrey in despair pushed away the book over which he had been bending all the afternoon, seeing for every word francesca, and on every page an image of her face. "i'll smoke myself into some sort of decent quiet, before i go up town, at least"; and taking his huge meerschaum, settling himself sedately, began his quieting operation with appalling energy. the soft rings, gray and delicate, taking curious and airy shapes, floated out and filled the room; but they were not soothing shapes, nor ministering spirits of comfort. they seemed filmy garments, and from their midst faces beautiful, yet faint and dim, looked at him, all of them like unto her face; but when he dropped his pipe and bent forward, the wreaths of smoke fell into lines that made the faces appear sad and bathed in tears, and the images faded from his sight. as the last one, with its visionary arms outstretched towards him, receded from him, and disappeared, he thought, "that is francesca's spirit, bidding me an eternal adieu"--and, with the foolish thought, in spite of its foolishness, he shivered and stretched out his arms in return. "of a verity," he then cried, "if nature failed to make me an idiot, i am doing my best to consummate that end, and become one of free choice. what folly possesses me? i will dissipate it at once,--i will see her in bodily shape,--that will put an end to such fancies,"--starting up, and beginning to pull on his gloves. "no! no, that will not do,"--pulling them off again. "she will think i am an uneasy ghost that pursues her. i must wait till this evening, but ah, what an age till evening!" fortunately, all ages, even lovers' ages, have an end. the evening came; he was at the fifth avenue,--his card sent up,--his feet impatiently travelling to and fro upon the parlor carpet,--his heart beating with happiness and expectancy. a shadow darkened the door; he flew to meet the substance,--not a sweet face and graceful form, but a servant, big and commonplace, bringing him his own card and the announcement, "the ladies is both out, sir." "impossible! take it up again." he said "impossible" because francesca had that morning told him she would be at home in the evening. "all right, sir; but it's no use, for there's nobody there, i know"; and he vanished for a second attempt, unsuccessful as the first. surrey went to the office, still determinedly incredulous. "are mrs. lancaster and miss ercildoune not in?" "no, sir; both out. keys here,"--showing them. "left for one of the five-o'clock trains; rooms not given up; said they would be back in a few days." "from what depot did they leave?" "don't know, sir. they didn't go in the coach; had a carriage, or i could tell you." "but they left a note, perhaps,--or some message?" "nothing at all, sir; not a word, nor a scrap. can i serve you in any way further?" "thanks! not at all. good evening." "good evening, sir." that was all. what did it mean?--to vanish without a sign! an engagement for the evening, and not a line left in explanation or excuse! it was not like her. there must be something wrong, some mystery. he tormented himself with a thousand fancies and fears over what, he confessed, was probably a mere accident; wisely determined to do so no longer,--but did, spite of such excellent resolutions and intent. this took place on the evening of saturday, the 13th of april, 1861. the events of the next few days doubtless augmented his anxiety and unhappiness. sunday followed,--a day filled not with a sabbath calm, but with the stillness felt in nature before some awful convulsion; the silence preceding earthquake, volcano, or blasting storm; a quiet broken from maine to the pacific slope when the next day shone, and men roused themselves from the sleep of a night to the duty of a day, from the sleep of generations, fast merging into death, at the trumpet-call to arms,--a cry which sounded through every state and every household in the land, which, more powerful than the old songs of percy and douglas, "brought children from their play, and old men from their chimney-corners," to emulate humanity in its strength and prime, and contest with it the opportunity to fight and die in a deathless cause. a cry which said, "there are wrongs to be redressed already long enough endured,--wrongs against the flag of the nation, against the integrity of the union, against the life of the republic; wrongs against the cause of order, of law, of good government, against right, and justice, and liberty, against humanity and the world; not merely in the present, but in the great future, its countless ages and its generations yet unborn." to this cry there sounded one universal response, as men dropped their work at loom, or forge, or wheel, in counting-room, bank, and merchant's store, in pulpit, office, or platform, and with one accord rushed to arms, to save these rights so frightfully and arrogantly assailed. one voice that went to swell this chorus was surrey's; one hand quick to grasp rifle and cartridge-box, one soul eager to fling its body into the breach at this majestic call, was his. he felt to the full all the divine frenzy and passion of those first days of the war, days unequalled in the history of nations and of the world. all the elegant dilettanteism, the delicious idleness, the luxurious ease, fell away, and were as though they had never been. all the airy dreams of a renewed chivalrous age, of courage, of heroism, of sublime daring and self-sacrifice, took substance and shape, and were for him no longer visions of the night, but realities of the day. still, while flags waved, drums beat, and cannon thundered; while friends said, "go!" the world stood ready to cheer him on, and fame and honor and greater things than these beckoned him to come; while he felt the whirl and excitement of it all,--his heart cried ceaselessly, "only let me see her--once--if but for a moment, before i go!" it was so little he asked of fate, yet too much to be granted. in vain he went every day, and many times a day, in the brief space left him, to her hotel. in vain he once more questioned clerk and servants; in vain haunted the house of his aunt, with the dim hope that clara might hear from her, or that in some undefined way he might learn of her whereabouts, and so accomplish his desire. but the days passed, too slowly for the ardent young patriot, all too rapidly for the unhappy lover. friday came. early in the day multitudes of people began to collect in the street, growing in numbers and enthusiasm as the hours wore on, till, in the afternoon, the splendid thoroughfare of new york from fourth street down to the cortlandt ferry--a stretch of miles--was a solid mass of humanity; thousands and tens of thousands, doubled, quadrupled, and multiplied again. through the morning this crowd in squads and companies traversed the streets, collected on the corners, congregating chiefly about the armory of their pet regiment, the seventh, on lafayette square,--one great mass gazing unweariedly at its windows and walls, then moving on to be replaced by another of the like kind, which, having gone through the same performance, gave way in turn to yet others, eager to take its place. so the fever burned; the excitement continued and augmented till, towards three o'clock in the afternoon, the mighty throng stood still, and waited. it was no ordinary multitude; the wealth, refinement, fashion, the greatness and goodness of a vast city were there, pressed close against its coarser and darker and homelier elements. men and women stood alike in the crowd, dainty patrician and toil-stained laborer, all thrilled by a common emotion, all vivified--if in unequal degree--by the same sublime enthusiasm. overhead, from every window and doorway and housetop, in every space and spot that could sustain one, on ropes, on staffs, in human hands, waved, and curled, and floated, flags that were in multitude like the swells of the sea; silk, and bunting, and painted calico, from the great banner spreading its folds with an indescribable majesty, to the tiny toy shaken in a baby hand. under all this glad and gay and splendid show, the faces seemed, perhaps by contrast, not sad, but grave; not sorrowful, but intense, and luminously solemn. gradually the men of the seventh marched out of their armory. hands had been wrung, adieus said, last fond embraces and farewells given. the regiment formed in the open square, the crowd about it so dense as to seem stifling, the windows of its building rilled with the sweetest and finest and fairest of faces,--the mothers, wives, and sweethearts of these young splendid fellows just ready to march away. surrey from his station gazed and gazed at the window where stood his mother, so well beloved, his relations and friends, many of them near and dear to him,--some of them with clear, bright eyes that turned from the forms of brothers in the ranks to seek his, and linger upon it wistfully and tenderly; yet looking at all these, even his mother, he looked beyond, as though in the empty space a face would appear, eyes would meet his, arms be stretched towards him, lips whisper a fond adieu, as he, breaking from the ranks, would take her to his embrace, and speak, at the same time, his love and farewell. a fruitless longing. four o'clock struck over the great city, and the line moved out of the square, through fourth street, to broadway. then began a march, which whoso witnessed, though but a little child, will remember to his dying day, the story of which he will repeat to his children, and his children's children, and, these dead, it will be read by eyes that shall shine centuries hence, as one of the most memorable scenes in the great struggle for freedom. hands were stretched forth to touch the cloth of their uniforms, and kissed when they were drawn back. mothers held up their little children to gain inspiration for a lifetime. a roar of voices, continuous, unbroken, rent the skies; while, through the deafening cheers, men and women, with eyes blinded by tears, repeated, a million times, "god bless--god bless and keep them!" and so, down the magnificent avenue, through the countless, shouting multitude, through the whirlwind of enthusiasm and adoration, under the glorious sweep of flags, the grand regiment moved from the beginning of its march to its close,--till it was swept away towards the capital, around which were soon to roll such bloody waves of death. meanwhile, where was miss ercildoune? surrey had thought her behavior strange the last morning they spent together. how much stranger, how unaccountable, indeed, would it have seemed to him, could he have seen her through the afternoon following! "what is wrong with you? are you ill, francesca?" her aunt had inquired as she came in, pulling off her hat with the air of one stifling, and throwing herself into a chair. "ill! o no!"--with a quick laugh,--"what could have made you think so? i am quite well, thank you; but i will go to my room for a little while and rest. i think i am tired." "do, dear, for i want you to take a trip up the hudson this afternoon. i have to see some english people who are living at a little village a score of miles out of town, and then i must go on to albany before i take you home. it will be pleasant at tanglewood over the sabbath,--unless you have some engagements to keep you here?" "o aunt alice, how glad i am! i was going home this afternoon without you. i thought you would come when you were ready; but this will do just as well,--anything to get out of town." "anything to get out of town? why, francesca, is it so hateful to you? 'going home! and this do almost as well!'--what does the child mean? is she the least little bit mad? i'm afraid so. she evidently needs some fresh country air, and rest from excitement. go, dear, and take your nap, and refresh yourself before five o'clock; that is the time we leave." as the door closed between them, she shook her head dubiously. '"going home this afternoon!' what does that signify? has she been quarrelling with that young lover of hers, or refusing him? i should not care to ask any questions till she herself speaks; but i fear me something is wrong." she would not have feared, but been certain, could she have looked then and there into the next room. she would have seen that the trouble was something deeper than she dreamed. francesca was sitting, her hands supporting an aching head, her large eyes fixed mournfully and immovably upon something which she seemed to contemplate with a relentless earnestness, as though forcing herself to a distressing task. what was this something? an image, a shadow in the air, which she had not evoked from the empty atmosphere, but from the depths of her own nature and soul,--the life and fate of a young girl. herself! what cause, then, for mournful scrutiny? she, so young, so brilliant, so beautiful, upon whom fate had so kindly smiled, admired by many, tenderly and passionately loved by at least one heart,--surely it was a delightful picture to contemplate,--this life and its future; a picture to bring smiles to the lips, rather than tears to the eyes. though, in fact, there were none dimming hers,--hot, dry eyes, full of fever and pain. what visions passed before them? what shadows of the life she inspected darkened them? what sunshine now and then fell upon it, reflecting itself in them, as she leaned forward to scan these bright spots, holding them in her gaze after other and gloomier ones had taken their places, as one leans forth from window or doorway to behold, long as possible, the vanishing form of some dear friend. looking at these, she cried out, "fool! to have been so happy, and not to have known what the happiness meant, and that it was not for me,--never for me! to have walked to the verge of an abyss,--to have plunged in, thinking the path led to heaven. heaven for me! ah,--i forgot,--i forgot. i let an unconscious bliss seize me, possess me, exclude memory and thought,--lived in it as though it would endure forever." she got up and moved restlessly to and fro across the room, but presently came back to the seat she had abandoned, and to the inspection which, while it tortured her, she yet evidently compelled herself to pursue. "come," she then said, "let us ask ourself some questions, constitute ourself confessor and penitent, and see what the result will prove." "did you think fate would be more merciful to you than to others?" "no, i thought nothing about fate." "did you suppose that he loved you sufficiently to destroy 'an invincible barrier?'" "i did not think of his love. i remembered no barrier. i only knew i was in heaven, and cared for naught beyond." "do you see the barrier now?" "i do--i do." "did _he_ help you to behold it; to discover, or to remember it? did he, or did he not?" "he did. too true,--he did." "does he love you?" "i--how should i know? his looks, his acts--i never thought--o willie, willie!"--her voice going out in a little gasping sob. "come,--none of that. no sentiment,--face the facts. think over all that was said, every word. have you done so?" "i have,--every word." "well?" "ah, stop torturing me. do not ask me any more questions. i am going away,--flying like a coward. i will not tempt further suffering. and yet--once more--only once? could that do harm? ah, god, my god, be merciful!" she cried, clasping her hands and lifting them above her bowed head. then remembering, in the midst of her anguish, some words she had been reading that morning, she repeated them with a bitter emphasis,--"what can wringing of the hands do, that which is ordained to alter?" as she did so she tore asunder her clasped hands, to drop them clinched by her side,--the gesture of despair substituted for that of hope. "it is not heaven i am to besiege!" she exclaimed. "will i never learn that? its justice cannot overcome the injustice of man. my god!" she cried then, with a sudden, terrible energy, "our punishment should be light, our rest sure, our paradise safe, at the end, since we have to make now such awful atonement; since men compel us to endure the pangs of purgatory, the tortures of hell, here upon earth." after that she sat for a long while silent, evidently revolving a thousand thoughts of every shape and hue, judging from the myriads of lights and shadows that flitted over her face. at last, rousing herself, she perceived that she had no more time to spend in this sorrowful employment,--that she must prepare to go away from him, as her heart said, forever. "forever!" it repeated. "this, then, is the close of it all,--the miserable end!" with that thought she shut her slender hand, and struck it down hard, the blood almost starting from the driven nails and bruised flesh, unheeding; though a little space thereafter she smiled, beholding it, and muttered, "so--the drop of savage blood is telling at last!" presently she was gone. it was a pleasant spot to which her aunt took her,--one of the pretty little villages scattered up and down the long sweep of the hudson. pleasant people they were too,--these english friends of mrs. lancaster,--who made her welcome, but did not intrude upon the solitude which they saw she desired. sabbath morning they all went to the little chapel, and left her, as she wished, alone. being so alone, after hearing their adieus, she went up to her room and sat down to devote herself once again to sorrowful contemplation,--not because she would, but because she must. poor girl! the bright spring sunshine streamed over her where she sat;--not a cloud in the sky, not a dimming of mist or vapor on all the hills, and the broad river-sweep which, placid and beautiful, rolled along; the cattle far off on the brown fields rubbed their silky sides softly together, and gazed through the clear atmosphere with a lazy content, as though they saw the waving of green grass, and heard the rustle of wind in the thick boughs, so soon to bear their leafy burden. stillness everywhere,--the blessed calm that even nature seems to feel on a sunny sabbath morn. stillness scarcely broken by the voices, mellowed and softened ere they reached her ear, chanting in the village church, to some sweet and solemn music, words spoken in infinite tenderness long ago, and which, through all the centuries, come with healing balm to many a sore and saddened heart: "come unto me," the voices sang,--"come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest." "ah, rest," she murmured while she listened,--"rest"; and with the repetition of the word the fever died out of her eyes, leaving them filled with such a look, more pitiful than any tears, as would have made a kind heart ache even to look at them; while her figure, alert and proud no longer, bent on the window ledge in such lonely and weary fashion that a strong arm would have involuntarily stretched out to shield it from any hardness or blow that might threaten, though the owner thereof were a stranger. there was something indescribably appealing and pathetic in her whole look and air. outside the window stood a slender little bird which had fluttered there, spent and worn, and did not try to flit away any further. too early had it flown from its southern abode; too early abandoned the warm airs, the flowers and leafage, of a more hospitable region, to find its way to a northern home; too early ventured into a rigorous clime; and now, shivering, faint, near to death, drooped its wings and hung its weary head, waiting for the end of its brief life to come. francesca, looking up with woeful eyes, beheld it, and, opening the window, softly took it in. "poor birdie!" she whispered, striving to warm it in her gentle hand and against her delicate cheek,--"poor little wanderer!--didst thou think to find thy mate, and build thy tiny nest, and be a happy mother through the long bright summer-time? ah, my pet, what a sad close is this to all these pleasant dreams!" the frail little creature could not eat even the bits of crumbs which she put into its mouth, nor taste a drop of water. all her soothing presses failed to bring warmth and life to the tiny frame that presently stretched itself out, dead,--all its sweet songs sung, its brief, bright existence ended forever. "ah, my little birdie, it is all over," whispered francesca, as she laid it softly down, and unconsciously lifted her hand to her own head with a self-pitying gesture that was sorrowful to behold. "like me," she did not say; yet a penetrating eye looking at them--the slight bird lying dead, its brilliant plumage already dimmed, the young girl gazing at it--would perceive that alike these two were fitted for the warmth and sunshine, would perceive that both had been thwarted and defrauded of their fair inheritance, would perceive that one lay spent and dead in its early spring. what of the other? "aunt alice," said francesca a few days after that, "can you go to new york this afternoon or to-morrow morning?" "certainly, dear. i purposed returning to-day or early in the morning to see the seventh march away. of course you would like to be there." "yes." she spoke slowly, and with seeming indifference. it was because she could scarcely control her voice to speak at all. "i should like to be there." francesca knew, what her aunt did not, that surrey was a member of the seventh, and that he would march away with it to danger,--perhaps to death. so they were there, in a window overlooking the great avenue,--mrs. lancaster, foreigner though she was, thrilled to the heart's core by the magnificent pageant; francesca straining her eyes up the long street, through the vast sea of faces, to fasten them upon just one face that she knew would presently appear in the throng. "ah, heavens!" cried mrs. lancaster, "what a sight! look at those young men; they are the choice and fine of the city. see, see! there is hunter, and winthrop, and pursuivant, and mortimer, and shaw, and russell, and, yes--no--it is, over there--your friend, surrey, himself. did you know, francesca?" francesca did not reply. mrs. lancaster turned to see her lying white and cold in her chair. endurance had failed at last. chapter vii "_the plain, unvarnished tale of my whole course of love._" shakespeare "what a handsome girl that is who always waits on us!" francesca had once said to clara russell, as they came out of hyacinth's with some dainty laces in their hands. "very," clara had answered. the handsome girl was sallie. at another time francesca, admiring some particular specimen of the pomps and vanities with which the store was crowded, was about carrying it away, but first experimented as to its fit. "o dear!" she cried, in dismay, "it is too short, and"--rummaging through the box--"there is not another like it, and it is the only one i want." "how provoking!" sympathized clara. "i could very easily alter that," said sallie, who was behind the counter; "i make these up for the shop, and i'll be glad to fix this for you, if you like it so much." "thanks. you are very kind. can you send it up to-morrow?" "this evening, if you wish it." "very good; i shall be your debtor." "well!" exclaimed clara, as they turned away, this is the first time in all my shopping i ever found a girl ready to put herself out to serve one. they usually act as if they were conferring the most overwhelming favor by condescending to wait upon you at all." "why, clara, i'm sure i always find them civil." "i know they seem devoted to you. i wonder why. oh!"--laughing and looking at her friend with honest admiration,--"it must be because you are so pretty." "excellent,--how discerning you are!" smiled francesca, in return. if clara had had a little more discernment, she would have discovered that what wrought this miracle was a friendly courtesy, that never failed to either equal or subordinate. six weeks after the seventh had marched out of new york, francesca, sitting in her aunt's room, was roused from evidently painful thought by the entrance of a servant, who announced, "if you please, a young woman to see you." "name?" "she gave none, miss." "send her up." sallie came in. "bird of paradise" francesca had called her more than once, she was so dashing and handsome; but the title would scarcely fit now, for she looked poor, and sad, and woefully dispirited. "ah, miss sallie, is it you? good morning." "good morning, miss ercildoune." she stood, and looked as though she had something important to say. presently francesca had drawn it from her,--a little story of her own sorrows and troubles. "the reason i have come to you, miss ercildoune, when you are so nearly a stranger, is because you have always been so kind and pleasant to me when i waited on you at the store, and i thought you'd anyway listen to what i have to say." "speak on, sallie." "i've been at hyacinth's now, over four years, ever since i left school. it's a good place, and they paid me well, but i had to keep two people out of it, my little brother frank and myself; frank and i are orphans. and i'm very fond of dress; i may as well confess that at once. so the consequence is, i haven't saved a cent against a rainy day. well," blushing scarlet, "i had a lover,--the best heart that ever beat,--but i liked to flirt, and plague him a little, and make him jealous; and at last he got dreadfully so about a young gentleman,--a mr. snipe, who was very attentive to me,--and talked to me about it in a way i didn't like. that made me worse. i don't know what possessed me; but after that i went out with mr. snipe a great deal more, to the theatre and the like, and let him spend his money on me, and get things for me, as freely as he chose. i didn't mean any harm, indeed i didn't,--but i liked to go about and have a good time; and then it made jim show how much he cared for me, which, you see, was a great thing to me; and so this went on for a while, till jim gave me a real lecture, and i got angry and wouldn't listen to anything he had to say, and sent him away in a huff"--here she choked--"to fight; to the war; and o dear! o dear!" breaking down utterly, and hiding her face in her shawl, "he'll be killed,--i know he will; and oh! what shall i do? my heart will break, i am sure." francesca came and stood by her side, put her hand gently on her shoulder, and stroked her beautiful hair. "poor girl!" she said, softly, "poor girl!" and then, so low that even sallie could not hear, "you suffer, too: do we all suffer, then?" presently sallie looked up, and continued: "up to that time, mr. snipe hadn't said anything to me, except that he admired me very much, and that i was pretty, too pretty to work so hard, and that i ought to live like a lady, and a good deal more of that kind of talk that i was silly enough to listen to; but when he found jim was gone, first, he made fun of him for 'being such a great fool as to go and be shot at for nothing,' and then he--o miss ercildoune, i can't tell you what he said; it makes me choke just to think of it. how dared he? what had i done that he should believe me such a thing as that? i don't know what words i used when i did find them, and i don't care, but they must have stung. i can't tell you how he looked, but it was dreadful; and he said, 'i'll bring down that proud spirit of yours yet, my lady. i'm not through with you,--don't think it,--not by a good deal'; and then he made me a fine bow, and laughed, and went out of the room. "the next day mr. dodd--that's one of our firm--gave me a week's notice to quit: 'work was slack,' he said, 'and they didn't want so many girls.' but i'm just as sure as sure can be that mr. snipe's at the bottom of it, for i've been at the store, as i told you, four years and more, and they always reckoned me one of their best hands, and mr. dodd and mr. snipe are great friends. since then i've done nothing but try to get work. i must have been into a thousand stores, but it's true work is slack; there's not a thing been doing since the war commenced, and i can't get any place. i've been to miss russell and some of the ladies who used to come to the store, to see if they'd give me some fine sewing; but they hadn't any for me, and i don't know what in the world to do, for i understand nothing very well but to sew, and to stand in a store. i've spent all my money, what little i had, and--and--i've even sold some of my clothes, and i can't go on this way much longer. i haven't a relative in the world; nor a home, except in a boarding-house; and the girls i know all treat me cool, as though i had done something bad, because i've lost my place, i suppose, and am poor. "all along, at times, mr. snipe has been sending me things,--bouquets, and baskets of fruit, and sometimes a note, and, though i won't speak to him when i meet him on the street, he always smiles and bows as if he were intimate; and last night, when i was coming home, tired enough from my long search, he passed me and said, with such a look, 'you've gone down a peg or two, haven't you, sallie? come, i guess we'll be friends again before long.' you think it's queer i'm telling you all this. i can't help it; there's something about you that draws it all out of me. i came to ask you for work, and here i've been talking all this while about myself. you must excuse me; i don't think i would have said so much, if you hadn't looked so kind and so interested"; and so she had,--kind as kind could be, and interested as though the girl who talked had been her own sister. "i am glad you came, sallie, and glad that you told me all this, if it has been any relief to you. you may be sure i will do what i can for you, but i am afraid that will not be a great deal, here; for i am a stranger in new york, and know very few people. perhaps--would you go away from here?" "would i?--o wouldn't i? and be glad of the chance. i'd give anything to go where i couldn't get sight or sound of that horrid snipe. can't i go with you, miss ercildoune?" "i have no counter behind which to station you," said francesca, smiling. "no, i know,--of course; but"--looking at the daintily arrayed figure--"you have plenty of elegant things to make, and i can do pretty much anything with my needle, if you'd like to trust me with some work. and then--i'm ashamed to ask so much of you, but a few words from you to your friends, i'm sure, would send me all that i could do, and more." "you think so?" miss ercildoune inquired, with a curious intonation to her voice, and the strangest expression darkening her face. "very well, it shall be tried." sallie was nonplussed by the tone and look, but she comprehended the closing words fully and with delight. "you will take me with you," she cried. "o, how good, how kind you are! how shall i ever be able to thank you?" "don't thank me at all," said miss ercildoune, "at least not now. wait till i have done something to deserve your gratitude." but sallie was not to be silenced in any such fashion, and said her say with warmth and meaning; then, after some further talk about time and plans, went away carrying a bit of work which miss ercildoune had found, or made, for her, and for which she had paid in advance. "god bless her!" thought sallie; "how nice and how thoughtful she is! most ladies, if they'd done anything for me, would have given me some money and made a beggar of me, and i should have felt as mean as dish-water. but now"--she patted her little bundle and walked down the street, elated and happy. francesca watched her out of the door with eyes that presently filled with tears. "poor girl!" she whispered; "poor sallie! her lover has gone to the wars with a shadow between them. ah, that must not be; i must try to bring them together again, if he loves her dearly and truly. he might die,"--she shuddered at that,--"die, as other men die, in the heat and flame of battle. my god! my god! how shall i bear it? dead! and without a word! gone, and he will never know how well i love him! o willie, willie! my life, my love, my darling, come back, come back to me." vain cry!--he cannot hear. vain lifting of an agonized face, beautiful in its agony!--he cannot see. vain stretching forth of longing hands and empty arms!--he is not there to take them to his embrace. carry thy burden as others have carried it before thee, and learn what multitudes, in times past and in time present, have learned,--the lesson of endurance when happiness is denied, and of patience and silence when joy has been withheld. go thou thy way, sorrowful and suffering soul, alone; and if thy own heart bleeds, strive thou to soothe its pangs, by medicining the wounds and healing the hurts of another. a few days thereafter, when miss ercildoune went over to philadelphia, sallie and frank bore her company. she had become as thoroughly interested in them as though she had known and cared for them for a long while; and as she was one who was incapable of doing in an imperfect or partial way aught she attempted, and whose friendship never stopped short with pleasant sounding words, this interest had already bloomed beautifully, and was fast ripening into solid fruit. she had written in advance to desire that certain preparations should be made for her _protã©gã©s_,--preparations which had been faithfully attended to; and thus, reaching a strange city, they felt themselves not strangers, since they had a home ready to receive them, and this excellent friend by their side. the home consisted of two rooms, neat, cheerful, high up,--"the airier and healthier for that," as sallie decided when she saw them. "i believe everything is in order," said the good-natured-looking old lady, the mistress of the establishment. "my lodgers are all gentlemen who take their meals out, and i shall be glad of some company. any one whom friend comstock recommends will be all right, i know." as mrs. healey's style of designation indicated, friend comstock was a quakeress, well known, greatly esteemed, an old friend of miss ercildoune, and of miss ercildoune's father. she it was to whom francesca had written, and who had found this domicile for the wanderers, and who at the outset furnished sallie with an abundance of fine and dainty sewing. indeed, without giving the matter special thought, she was surprised to discover that, with one or two exceptions, the people miss ercildoune sent her were of the peaceful and quiet sect. this bird of brilliant plumage seemed ill assorted with the sober-hued flock. she found in this same bird a helper in more ways than one. it was not alone that she gave her employment and paid her well, nor that she sent her others able and willing to do the same. she found frankie a good school, and saw him properly installed. she never came to them empty-handed; through the long, hot summer-time she brought them fruit and flowers from her home out of town; and when she came not herself, if the carriage was in the city it stopped with these same delightful burdens. sallie declared her an angel, and frank, with his mouth stuffed full, stood ready to echo the assertion. so the heated term wore away,--before it ended, telling heavily on sallie. her anxiety about jim, her close confinement and constant work, the fever everywhere in the spiritual air through that first terrible summer of the war, bore her down. "you need rest," said miss ercildoune to her one day, looking at her with kindly solicitude,--"rest, and change, and fresh air, and freedom from care. i can't give you the last, but i can the first if you will accept them. you need some country living." "o miss ercildoune, will you let me do your work at your own home? i know it would do me good just to be under the same roof with you, and then i should have all the things you speak of combined and another one added. if you only will!" this was not the plan francesca had proposed to herself. she had intended sending sallie away to some pleasant country or seaside place, till she was refreshed and ready to come to her work once more. sallie did not know what to make of the expression of the face that watched her, nor of the exclamation, "why not? let me try her." but she had not long to consider, for miss ercildoune added, "be it so. i will send in for you to-morrow, and you shall stay till you are better and stronger, or--till you please to come home,"--the last words spoken in a bitter and sorrowful tone. the next day sallie found her way to the superb home of her employer. superb it was, in every sense. never before had she been in such a delightful region, never before realized how absolutely perfect breeding sets at ease all who come within the charm of its magic sphere,--employed, acquaintance, or friend. there was a shadow, however, in this house,--a shadow, the premonition of which she had seen more than once on the face of its mistress ere she ever beheld her home; a shadow to which, for a few days, she had no clew, but which was suddenly explained by the arrival of the master of this beautiful habitation; a shadow from which most people would have fled as from the breath of a pestilence, or the shade of the tomb; nay, one from which, but a few short months before, sallie herself would have sped with feet from which she would have shaken the very dust of the threshold when she was beyond its doors,--but not now. now, as she beheld it, she sat still to survey it, with surprise that deepened into indignation and compassion, that many a time filled her eyes with tears, and brought an added expression of respect to her voice when she spoke to these people who seemed to have all the good things that this world can offer, upon whom fortune had expended her treasures, yet-whatever it was, sallie came from that home with many an old senseless prejudice destroyed forever, with a new thought implanted in her soul, the blossoming of which was a noxious vapor in the nostrils of some who were compelled to inhale it, but as a sweet-smelling savor to more than one weary wayfarer, and to that god to whom the darkness and the light are alike, and who, we are told by his own word, is no respecter of persons. "poor, dear miss ercildoune!" half sobbed, half scolded sallie, as she sat at her work, blooming and, fresh, the day after her return. "what a tangled thread it is, to be sure," jerking at her knotty needleful. "well, i know what i'll do,--i'll treat her as if she was a queen born and crowned, just so long as i have anything to do with her,--so i will." and she did. chapter viii "_for hearts of truest mettle absence doth join, and time doth settle._" anonymous it were a vain endeavor to attempt the telling of what filled the heart and soul of surrey, as he marched away that day from new york, and through the days and weeks and months that followed. fired by a sublime enthusiasm for his country; thirsting to drink of any cup her hand might present, that thus he might display his absolute devotion to her cause; burning with indignation at the wrongs she had suffered; thrilled with an adoring love for the idea she embodied; eager to make manifest this love at whatever cost of pain and sorrow and suffering to himself,--through all this the man never once was steeped in forgetfulness in the soldier; the divine passion of patriotism never once dulled the ache, or satisfied the desire, or answered the prayer, or filled the longing heart, that through the day marches and the night watches cried, and would not be appeased, for his darling. "surely," he thought as he went down broadway, as he reflected, as he considered the matter a thousand times thereafter,--"surely i was a fool not to have spoken to her then; not to have seen her, have devised, have forced some way to reach her, not to have met her face to face, and told her all the love with which she had filled my heart and possessed my soul. and then to have been such a coward when i did write to her, to have so said a say which was nothing"; and he groaned impatiently as he thought of the scene in his room and the letter which was its final result. how he had written once, and again, and yet again, letters short and long, letters short and burning, or lengthy and filled almost to the final line with delicate fancies and airy sentiment, ere he ventured to tell that of which all this was but the prelude; how, at the conclusion of each attempt, he had watched these luminous effusions blaze and burn as he regularly committed them to the flames; how he found it difficult to decide which he enjoyed the most,--writing them out, or seeing them burn; how at last he had put upon paper some such words as these:-"after these delightful weeks and months of intercourse, i am to go away from you, then, without a single word of parting, or a solitary sentence of adieu. need i tell you how this pains me? i have in vain besieged the house that has held you; in vain made a thousand inquiries, a thousand efforts to discover your retreat and to reach your side, that i might once more see your face and take your hand ere i went from the sight and touch of both, perchance forever. this i find may not be. the hour strikes, and in a little space i shall march away from the city to which my heart clings with infinite fondness, since it is filled with associations of you. i have again and again striven to write that which will be worthy the eyes that are to read, and striven in vain. 'tis a fine art to which i do not pretend. then, in homely phrase, good by. give me thy spiritual hand, and keep me, if thou wilt, in thy gentle remembrance. adieu! a kind adieu, my friend; may the brighter stars smile on thee, and the better angels guard thy footsteps wherever thou mayst wander, keep thy heart and spirit bright, and let thy thoughts turn kindly back to me, i pray very, very often. and so, once more, farewell." remembering all this, thinking what he would do and say were the doing and saying yet possible in an untried future, the time sped by. he waited and waited in vain. he looked, yet was gratified by no sight for which his eyes longed. he hoped, till hope gave place to despondency and almost despair: not a word came to him, not a line of answer or remembrance. this long silence was all the more intolerable, since the time that intervened did but the more vividly stamp upon his memory the delights of the past, and color with softer and more exquisite tints the recollection of vanished hours,--hours spent in galloping gayly by her side in the early morning, or idly and deliciously lounged away in picture-galleries or concert-rooms, or in a conversation carried on in some curious and subtle shape between two hearts and spirits with the help of very few uttered words; hours in which he had whirled her through many a fairy maze and turn of captivating dance-music, or in some less heated and crowded room, or cool conservatory, listened to the voice of the siren who walked by his side, "while the sweet wind did gently kiss the flowers and make no noise," and the strains of "flute, violin, bassoon," and the sounds of the "dancers dancing in tune," coming to them on the still air of night, seemed like the sounds from another and a far-off world,--listened, listened, listened, while his silver-tongued enchantress builded castles in the air, or beguiled his thought, enthralled his heart, his soul and fancy, through many a golden hour. thinking of all this, his heart well found expression for its feelings in the half-pleasing, half-sorrowful lines which almost unconsciously repeated themselves again and again in his brain:- "still o'er those scenes my memory wakes, and fondly broods with miser care; time but the impression deeper makes, as streams their channels deeper wear." thinking of all this, he took comfort in spite of his trouble. "perhaps," he said to himself, "he was mistaken. perhaps"--o happy thought!--it was but make-believe displeasure which had so tortured him. perhaps--yes, he would believe it--she had never received his letter; they had been careless, they had failed to give it her or to send it aright. he would write her once again, in language which would relieve his heart, and which she must comprehend. he loved her; perhaps, ah, perhaps she loved him a little in return: he would believe so till he was undeceived, and be infinitely happy in the belief. is it not wondrous how even the tiniest grain of love will permeate the saddest and sorest recesses of the heart, and instantly cause it to pulsate with thoughts and emotions the sweetest and dearest in life? o love, thou sweet, thou young and rose lipped cherubim, how does thy smile illuminate the universe! how does thy slightest touch electrify the soul! how gently and tenderly dost thou lead us up to heaven! with surrey, to decide was to act. the second letter, full of sweetest yet intensest love,--his heart laid bare to her,--was written; was sent, enclosed in one to his aunt. tom was away in another section, fighting manfully for the dear old flag, or the precious missive would have been intrusted to his care. he sent it thus that it might reach her sooner. now that he had a fresh hope, he could not wait to write for her address, and forward it himself to her hands; he must adopt the speediest method of putting it in her possession. in a little space came answer from mrs. russell, enclosing the letter he had sent: a kindly epistle it was. he was a sort of idol with this same aunt, so she had put many things on paper that were steeped in gentleness and affection ere she said at the end, "i re-enclose your letter. i have seen miss ercildoune. she restores it to you; she implores you never to write her again,--to forget her. i add my entreaties to hers. she begs of me to beseech you not to try her by any further appeals, as she will but return them unopened." that was all. what could it mean? he loved her so absolutely, he had such exalted faith in her kindness, her gentleness, her fairness and superiority,--in _her_,--that he could not believe she would so thrust back his love, purely and chivalrously offered, with something that seemed like ignominy, unless she had a sufficient reason--or one she deemed such--for treating so cruelly him and the offering he laid at her feet. but she had spoken. it was for him, then, when she bade silence, to keep it; when she refused his gift, to refrain from thrusting it upon her attention and heart. but ah, the silence and the refraining! ah, the time--the weary, sore, intolerable time--that followed! summer, and autumn, and winter, and the seasons repeated once again, he tramped across the soil of virginia, already wet with rebel and patriot blood; he felt the shame and agony of bull run; he was in the night struggle at ball's bluff, where those wondrous harvard boys found it "sweet to die for their country," and discovered, for them, "death to be but one step onward in life." he lay in camp, chafing with impatience and indignation as the long months wore away, and the thousands of graves about washington, filled by disease and inaction, made "all quiet along the potomac." he went down to yorktown; was in the sweat and fury of the seven days' fight; away in the far south, where fever and pestilence stood guard to seize those who were spared by the bullet and bayonet; and on many a field well lost or won. through it all marching or fighting, sick, wounded thrice and again; praised, admired, heroic, promoted,--from private soldier to general,--through two years and more of such fiery experience, no part of the tender love was burned away, tarnished, or dimmed. sometimes, indeed, he even smiled at himself for the constant thought, and felt that he must certainly be demented on this one point at least, since it colored every impression of his life, and, in some shape, thrust itself upon him at the most unseemly and foreign times. one evening, when the mail for the division came in, looking over the pile of letters, his eye was caught by one addressed to james given. the name was familiar,--that of his father's old foreman, whom he knew to be somewhere in the army; doubtless the same man. unquestionably, he thought, that was the reason he was so attracted to it; but why he should take up the delicate little missive, scan it again and again, hold it in his hand with the same touch with which he would have pressed a rare flower, and lay it down as reluctantly as he would have yielded a known and visible treasure,--that was the mystery. he had never seen francesca's writing, but he stood possessed, almost assured, of the belief that this letter was penned by her hand; and at last parted with it slowly and unwillingly, as though it were the dear hand of which he mused; then took himself to task for this boyish weakness and folly. nevertheless, he went in pursuit of jim, not to question him,--he was too thorough a gentleman for that,--but led on partly by his desire to see a familiar face, partly by this folly, as he called it with a sort of amused disdain. folly, however, it was not, save in such measure as the subtle telegraphings between spirit and spirit can be thus called. unjustly so called they are, constantly; it being the habit of most people to denounce as heresy or ridicule as madness things too high for their sight or too deep for their comprehension. as these people would say, "oddly enough," or "by an extraordinary coincidence," this very letter was from miss ercildoune,--a letter which she wrote as she purposed, and as she well knew how to write, in behalf of sallie. it was ostensibly on quite another theme; asking some information in regard to a comrade, but so cunningly devised and executed as to tell him in few words, and unsuspiciously, some news of sallie,--news which she knew would delight his heart, and overthrow the little barrier which had stood between them, making both miserable, but which he would not, and she could not, clamber over or destroy. it did its work effectually, and made two hearts thoroughly happy,--this letter which had so strangely bewitched surrey; which, in his heart, spite of the ridicule of his reason, he was so sure was hers; and which, indeed, was hers, though he knew not that till long afterward. "so," he thought, as he went through the camp, "given is here, and near. i shall be glad to see a face from home, whatever kind of a face it may be, and given's is a good one; it will be a pleasant rememberance." "whither away?" called a voice behind him. "to the 29th," he answered the questioner, one of his officers and friends, who, coming up, took his arm,--"in pursuit of a man." "what's his name?" "given,--christened james. what are you laughing at? do you know him?" "no, i don't know him, but i've heard some funny stories about him; he's a queer stick, i should think." "something in that way.--helloa! brooks, back again?" to a fine, frank-looking young fellow,--"and were you successful?" "yes, to both your questions. in addition i'll say, for your rejoicing, that i give in, cave, subside, have nothing more to say against your pet theory,--from this moment swear myself a rank abolitionist, or anything else you please, now and forever,--so help me all ye black gods and goddesses!" "phew! what's all this?" cried whittlesly, from the other side of his colonel; "what are you driving at? i'll defy anybody to make head or tail of that answer." "surrey understands." "not i; your riddle's too much for me." "didn't you go in pursuit of a dead man?" queried whittlesly. "just that." "did the dead man convert you?" "no, colonel, not precisely. and yet yes, too; that is, i suppose i shouldn't have been converted if he hadn't died, and i gone in search of him." "i believe it; you're such an obstinate case that you need one raised from the dead to have any effect on you." "obstinate! o, hear the pig-headed fellow talk! you're a beauty to discourse on that point, aren't you!" "surrey laughed, and stopped at the call of one of his men, who hailed him as he went by. evidently a favorite here as in new york, in camp as at home; for in a moment he was surrounded by the men, who crowded about him, each with a question, or remark, to draw special attention to himself, and a word or smile from his commander. whatever complaint they had to enter, or petition to make, or favor to beg, or wish to urge, whatever help they wanted or information they desired, was brought to him to solve or to grant, and--never being repulsed by their officer--they speedily knew and loved their friend. thus it was that the two men standing at a little distance, watching the proceeding, were greatly amused at the motley drafts made upon his attention in the shape of tents, shoes, coats, letters to be sent or received, books borrowed and lent, a man sick, or a chicken captured. they brought their interests and cares to him,--these big, brown fellows,--as though they were children, and he a parent well beloved. "one might think him the father of the regiment," said brooks, with a smile. "the mother, more like: it must be the woman element in him these fellows feel and love so." "perhaps; but it would have another effect on them, if, for instance, he didn't carry that sabre-slash on his hand. they've seen him under steel and fire, and know where he's led them." "what is this you were joking about with him, a while ago?" "what! about turning abolitionist?" "precisely." "o, you know he's rampant on the slavery question. i believe it's the only thing he ever loses his temper over, and he has lost it with me more than once. i've always been a rank heretic with regard to cuffee, and the result was, we disagreed." "yes, i know. but what connection has that with your expedition?" "just what i want to know," added surrey, coming up at the moment. "ah! you're in time to hear the confession, are you?" "'an honest confession--'you know what the wise man says." "come, don't flatter yourself we will think you so because you quote him. be quiet, both of you, and let me go on to tell my tale." "attention!" "proceed!" "thus, then. you understand what my errand was?" "not exactly; lieutenant hunt was drowned somewhere, wasn't he?" "yes: fell overboard from a tug; the men on board tried to save him, and then to recover his body, and couldn't do either. some of his people came down here in pursuit of it, and i was detailed with a squad to help them in their search. "well, the naval officers gave us every facility in their power; the river was dragged twice over, and the woods along-shore ransacked, hoping it might have been washed in and, maybe, buried; but there wasn't sight or trace of it. while we were hunting round we stumbled on a couple of darkies, who told us, after a bit of questioning, that darky number three, somewhere about, had found the body of a federal officer on the river bank, and buried it. on that hint we acted, posted over to the fellow's shanty, and found, not him, but his wife, who was ready enough to tell us all she knew. she showed us some traps of the buried officer, among them a pair of spurs, which his brother recognized directly. when she was quite sure that we were all correct, and that the thing had fallen into the right hands, she fished out of some safe corner his wallet, with fifty-seven dollars in it. i confess i stared, for they were slaves, both of them, and evidently poor as job's turkey, and it has always been one of my theories that a nigger invariably steals when he gets a chance. however, i wasn't going to give in at that." "of course you weren't," said the colonel. "did you ever read about the man who was told that the facts did not sustain his theory, and of his sublime answer? 'very well,' said he, 'so much the worse for the facts!'" "come, colonel, you talk too much. how am i ever to get on with my narrative, if you keep interrupting me in this style? be quiet." "word of command. quiet. quiet it is. continue." "no, i said, of course they expect some reward,--that's it." "what an ass you must be!" broke in whittlesly. "hadn't you sense enough to see they could keep the whole of it, and nobody the wiser? and of course they couldn't have supposed any one was coming after it,--could they? "how am i to know what they thought? if you don't stop your comments, i'll stop the story; take your choice." "all right: go ahead." "while i was considering the case, in came the master of the mansion,--a thin, stooped, tired-looking little fellow,--'sam,' he told us, was his name; then proceeded to narrate how he had found the body, and knew the uniform, and was kind and tender with it because of its dress, 'for you see, sah, we darkies is all union folks'; how he had brought it up in the night, for fear of his secesh master, and made a coffin for it, and buried it decently. after that he took us out to a little spot of fresh earth, covered with leaves and twigs, and, digging down, we came to a rough pine box made as well as the poor fellow knew how to put it together. opening it, we found all that was left of poor hunt, respectably clad in a coarse, clean white garment which sam's wife had made as nicely as she could out of her one pair of sheets. 'it wa'n't much,' said the good soul, with tears in her eyes, 'it wa'n't much we's could do for him, but i washed him, and dressed him, peart as i could, and sam and me, we buried him. we wished, both on us, that we could have done heaps more for him, but we did all that we could,'--which, indeed, was plain enough to be seen. "before we went away, sam brought from a little hole, which he burrowed in the floor of his cabin, a something, done up in dirty old rags; and when we opened it, what under the heavens do you suppose we found? you'll never guess. three hundred dollars in bank-bills, and some important papers, which he had taken and hid,--concealed them even from his wife, because, he said, the guerillas often came round, and they might frighten her into giving them up if she knew they were there. "i collapsed at that, and stood with open mouth, watching for the next proceeding. i knew there was to be some more of it, and there was. hunt's brother offered back half the money; _offered_ it! why, he tried to force it on the fellow, and couldn't. his master wouldn't let him buy himself and his wife,--i suspect, out of sheer cussedness,--and he hadn't any other use for money, he said. besides, he didn't want to take, and wouldn't take, anything that looked like pay for doing aught for a 'linkum sojer,' alive or dead. "'they'se going to make us all free, sometime,' he said, 'that's enough. don't look like it, jest yet, i knows; but i lives in faith; it'll come byumby' when the fellow said that, i declare to you, surrey, i felt like hiding my face. at last i began to comprehend what your indignation meant against the order forbidding slaves coming into our lines, and commanding their return when they succeed in entering. just then we all seemed to me meaner than dirt." "as we are; and, as dirt, deserve to be trampled underfoot, beaten, defeated, till we're ready to stand up and fight like men in this struggle." "amen to that, colonel," added whittlesly. "well, i'm pretty nearly ready to say so myself," finished brooks, half reluctantly. chapter ix "_the best-laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley._" burns they didn't find jim in the camp of his regiment, so went up to head-quarters to institute inquiries. "given?" a little thought and investigation. "oh! given is out on picket duty." "whereabouts?" the direction indicated. "thanks! we'll find him." having commenced the search, surrey was determined to end it ere he turned back, and his two friends bore him company. as they came down the road, they saw in the distance a great stalwart fellow, red-shirted and conspicuous, evidently absorbed in some singular task,--what they did not perceive, till, coming to closer quarters, they discovered, perched by his side, a tin cup filled with soap-suds, a pipe in his mouth, and that by the help of the two he was regaling himself with the pastime of blowing bubbles. "i'll wager that's jim," said surrey, before he saw his face. "it's like him, certainly: from what i've heard of him, i think he would die outright if he couldn't amuse himself in some shape." "why, the fellow must be a curiosity worth coming here to see." "pretty nearly." surrey walked on a little in advance, and tapped him on the shoulder. down came the pipe, up went the hand in a respectful military salute, but before it was finished he saw who was before him. "wow!" he exclaimed, "if it ain't mr. willie surrey. my! ain't i glad to see you? how _do_ you do? the sight of you is as good as a month's pay." "come, given, don't stun me with compliments," cried surrey, laughing and putting out his hand to grasp the big, red paw that came to meet it, and shake it heartily. "if i'd known you were over here, i'd have found you before, though my regiment hasn't been down here long." jim at that looked sharply at the "eagles," and then over the alert, graceful person, finishing his inspection with an approving nod, and the emphatic declaration, "well, if i know what's what, and i rayther reckon i do, you're about the right figger for an officer, and on the whole i'd sooner pull off my cap to you than any other fellow i've seen round,"--bringing his hand once more to the salute. "why, jim, you have turned courtier; army life is spoiling you," protested the inspected one; protesting,--yet pleased, as any one might have been, at the evidently sincere admiration. "nary time," jim strenuously denied; and, these little courtesies being ended, they talked about enlistment, and home, and camp, and a score of things that interested officer and man alike. in the midst of the confab a dust was seen up the road, coming nearer, and presently out of it appeared a family carriage somewhat dilapidated and worse for wear, but still quite magnificent; enthroned on the back seat a fullblown f.f.v. with rather more than the ordinary measure of superciliousness belonging to his race; driven, of course, by his colored servant. jim made for the middle of the road, and, holding his bayonet in such wise as to threaten at one charge horse, negro, and chivalry, roared out, "tickets!" at such an extraordinary and unceremonious demand the knight flushed angrily, frowned, made an expressive gesture with his lips and his nose which suggestively indicated that there was something offensive in the air between the wind and his gentility, ending the pantomime by finding a pass and handing it over to his "nigger," then--not deigning to speak--motioned him and it to the threatening figure. as this black man came forward, brooks, looking at him a moment, cried excitedly, "by jove! it's sam." "no? hunt's sam?" "yes, the very same; and i suppose that's his cantankerous old master." surrey ran forward to jim, for the three had fallen back when the carriage came near, and said a few sentences to him quickly and earnestly. "all right, colonel! just as you please," he replied. "you leave it to me; i'll fix him." then, turning to sam, who stood waiting, demanded, "well, have you got it?" "yes, massa." "fork over,"--and looking at it a moment pronounced "all right! move on!" elucidating the remark by a jerk at the coat-collar of the unsuspecting sam, which sent him whirling up the road at a fine but uncomfortable rate of speed. "now, sir, what do you want?" addressing the astounded chevalier, who sat speechlessly observant of this unlooked-for proceeding. "want?" cried the irate virginian, his anger loosening his tongue, "want? i want to go on, of course; that was my pass." "was it now? i want to know! that's singular! why didn't you offer it yourself then?" "because i thought my nigger a fitter person to parley with a lincoln vandal," loftily responded his eminence. "that's kind of you, i'm sure. sorry i can't oblige you in return,--very; but you'll just have to turn tail and drive back again. that bit of paper says 'pass the bearer,' and the bearer's already passed. you can't get two men through this picket on one man's pass, not if one is a nigger and t'other a skunk; so, sir, face about, march!" this was an unprepared-for dilemma. mr. v. looked at the face of the "lincoln vandal," but saw there no sign of relenting; then into the distance whither he was anxiously desirous to tend; glanced reflectively at the bayonet in the centre and the narrow space on either side the road; and finally called to his black man to come back. sam approached with reluctance, and fell back with alacrity when the glittering steel was brandished towards his own breast. "where's your pass, sirrah?" demanded jim, with asperity. "here, massa," said the chattel, presenting the same one which had already been examined. "won't do," said jim. "can't come that game over this child. that passes you to fairfax,--can't get any one from fairfax on that ticket. come," flourishing the shooting-stick once more, "move along"; which sam proceeded to do with extraordinary readiness. "now, sir," turning to the again speechless chevalier, "if you stay here any longer, i shall take you under arrest to head-quarters: consequently, you'd better accept the advice of a disinterested friend, and make tracks, lively." by this time the scion of a latter-day chivalry seemed to comprehend the situation, seized his lines, wheeled about, and went off at a spanking trot over the "sacred soil,"--jim shouting after him, "i say, mr. f.f.v. if you meet any 'lincoln vandals,' just give them my respects, will you?" to which as the knight gave no answer, we are left in doubt to this day whether given's commission was ever executed. "there! my mind's relieved on that point," announced jim, wiping his face with one hand and shaking the other after the retreating dust. "mean old scoot! i'll teach him to insult one of our boys,--'lincoln vandals' indeed! i'd like to have whanged him!" with a final shake and a final explosion, cooling off as rapidly as he had heated, and continuing the interrupted conversation with recovered temper and _sangfroid_. he was delighted at meeting surrey, and surrey was equally glad to see once more his old favorite, for jim and he had been great friends when he was a little boy and had watched the big boy at work in his father's foundry,--a favoritism which, spite of years and changes, and wide distinctions of social position, had never altered nor cooled, and which showed itself now in many a pleasant shape and fashion so long as they were near together. they aided and abetted one another in more ways than one. jim at surrey's request, and by a plan of his proposing, succeeded in getting sam's wife away from her home,--not from any liking for the expedition, or interest in either of the "niggers," as he stoutly asserted, but solely to please the colonel. if that, indeed, were his only purpose, he succeeded to a charm, for when surrey saw the two reunited, safe from the awful clutch of slavery, supplied with ample means for the journey and the settlement thereafter, and on their way to a good northern home, he was more than pleased,--he was rejoiced, and said, "thank god!" with all his heart, and reverently, as he watched them away. before the summer ended jim was down with what he called "a scratch"; a pretty ugly wound, the surgeon thought it, and the colonel remembered and looked after him with unflagging interest and zeal. many a book and paper, many a cooling drink and bit of fruit delicious to the parched throat and fevered lips, found their way to the little table by his side. surrey was never too busy by reason of his duties, or among his own sick and wounded men, to find time for a chat, or a scrap of reading, or to write a letter for the prostrate and helpless fellow, who suffered without complaining, as, indeed, they did all about him, only relieving himself now and then by a suppressed growl. and so, with occasional episodes of individual interest, with marches and fightings, with extremes of heat and cold, of triumph and defeat, the long months wore away. these men were soldiers, each in his place in the great war with the record of which all the world is familiar, a tale written in blood, and flame, and tears,--terrible, yet heroic; ghastly, yet sublime. as soldiers in such a conflict, they did their duty and noble endeavor,--jim, a nameless private in the ranks,--surrey, not braver perchance, but so conspicuous with all the elements which fit for splendid command, so fortunate in opportunities for their display, so eminent in seizing them and using them to their fullest extent, regardless of danger and death, as to make his name known and honored by all who watched the progress of the fight, read its record with interest, and knew its heroes and leaders with pride and love. in the winter of '63 jim's regiment was ordered away to south carolina; and he who at parting looked with keen regret on the face of the man who had been so faithful and well tried a friend, would have looked upon it with something deeper and sadder, could he at the same time have gazed a little way into the future, and seen what it held in store for him. four months after he marched away, surrey's brigade was in that awful fight and carnage of chancellorsville, where men fought like gods to counteract the blunders, and retrieve the disaster, induced by a stunned and helpless brain. there was he stricken down, at the head of his command, covered with dust and smoke; twice wounded, yet refusing to leave the field,--his head bound with a handkerchief, his eyes blazing like stars beneath its stained folds, his voice cheering on his men; three horses shot under him; on foot then; contending for every inch of the ground he was compelled to yield; giving way only as he was forced at the point of the bayonet; his men eager to emulate him, to follow him into the jaws of death, to fall by his side,--thus was he prostrated; not dead, as they thought and feared when they seized him and bore him at last from the field, but insensible, bleeding with frightful abundance, his right arm shattered to fragments; not dead, yet at death's door--and looking in. may blossoms had dropped, and june harvests were ripe on all the fields, ere he could take advantage of the unsolicited leave, and go home. home--for which his heart longed! he was not, however, in too great haste to stop by the way, to pause in washington, and do what he had sooner intended to accomplish,--solicit, as a special favor to himself, as an honor justly won by the man for whom he entreated it, a promotion for jim. "it is impossible now," he was informed, "but the case should be noted and remembered. if anything could certainly secure the man an advance, it was the advocacy of general surrey"; and so, not quite content, but still satisfied that jim's time was in the near future, he went on his way. as the cars approached philadelphia his heart beat so fast that it almost stifled him, and he leaned against the window heavily for air and support. it was useless to reason with himself, vain to call good judgment to his counsels and summon wisdom to his aid. this was her home. somewhere in this city to which he was so rapidly hastening, she was moving up and down, had her being, was living and loving. after these long years his eyes so ached to see her, his heart was so hungry for her presence, that it seemed to him as though the sheer longing would call her out of her retreat, on to the streets through which he must pass, across his path, into the sight of his eyes and reach of his hand. he had thought that he felt all this before. he found, as the space diminished between them,--as, perchance, she was but a stone's throw from his side,--that the pain, and the longing, and the intolerable desire to behold her once again, increased a hundred-fold. eager as he had been a little while before to reach his home, he was content to remain quietly here now. he laughed at himself as he stepped into a carriage, and, tired as he was,--for his amputated arm, not yet thoroughly healed, made him weak and worn,--drove through all the afternoon and evening, across miles and miles of heated, wearisome stones, possessed by the idea that somewhere, somehow, he should see her, he would find her before his quest was done. after that last painful rebuff, he did not dare to go to her home, could he find it, till he had secured from her, in some fashion, a word or sign. "this," he said, "is certainly doubly absurd, since she does not live in the city; but she is here to-day, i know,--she must be here"; and persisted in his endeavor,--persisted, naturally, in vain; and went to bed, at last, exhausted; determined that to-morrow should find him on his journey farther north, whatever wish might plead for delay, yet with a final cry for her from the depths of his soul, as he stretched out his solitary arm, ere sinking to restless sleep, and dreams of battle and death--sleep unrefreshing, and dreams ill-omened; as he thought, again and again, rousing himself from their hold, and looking out to the night, impatient for the break of day. when day broke he was unable to rise with its dawn. the effect of all this tension on his already overtaxed nerves was to induce a fever in the unhealed arm, which, though not painful, was yet sufficient to hold him close prisoner for several days; a delay which chafed him, and which filled his family at home with an intolerable anxiety, not that they knew its cause,--_that_ would have been a relief,--but that they conjectured another, to them infinitely worse than sickness or suffering, bad and sorrowful as were these. chapter x "_gentlemen, let not prejudice prepossess you._" izaak walton car no. 14, fifth street line, philadelphia, was crowded. travelling bags, shawls, and dusters marked that people were making for the 11 a.m. new york train, kensington depot. one pleasant-looking old gentleman whose face shone under a broad brim, and whose cleanly drabs were brought into distasteful proximity with the garments of a drunken coal-heaver, after a vain effort to edge away, relieved his mind by turning to his neighbor with the statement, "consistency is a jewel." "undoubtedly true, mr. greenleaf," answered the neighbor, "but what caused the remark?" "that,"--looking with mild disgust at the dirty and ragged leg sitting by his own. "here's this filthy fellow, a nuisance to everybody near him, can ride in these cars, and a nice, respectable colored person can't. so i couldn't help thinking, and saying, that consistency is a jewel." "well, it's a shame,--that's a fact; but of course nobody can interfere if the companies don't choose to let them ride; it's their concern, not ours." "there's a fine specimen now, out there on the sidewalk." the fine specimen was a large, powerfully made man, black as ebony, dressed in army blouse and trousers, one leg gone,--evidently very tired, for he leaned heavily on his crutches. the conductor, a kindly-faced young fellow, pulled the strap, and helped him on to the platform with a peremptory "move up front, there!" to the people standing inside. "why!" exclaimed the old friend,--"do my eyes deceive me?" then getting up, and taking the man by the arm, he seated him in his own place: "thou art less able to stand than i." tears rushed to his eyes as he said, "thank you, sir! you are too kind." evidently he was weak, and as evidently unaccustomed to find any one "too kind." "thee has on the army blue; has thee been fighting any?" "yes, sir!" he answered, promptly. "i didn't know black men were in the army; yet thee has lost a leg. where did that go?" "at newbern, sir." "at newbern,--ah! long ago? and how did it happen?" "fourteenth of march, sir. there was a land fight, and the gunboats came up to the rescue. some of us black men were upon board a little schooner that carried one gun. 'twasn't a great deal we could do with that, but we did the best we could; and got well peppered in return. this is what it did for me,"--looking down at the stump. "i guess thee is sorry now that thee didn't keep out of it, isn't thee?" "no, sir; no indeed, sir. if i had five hundred legs and fifty lives, i'd be glad to give them all in such a war as this." here somebody got out; the old friend sat down; and the coal-heaver, roused by the stir, lifted himself from his drunken sleep, and, looking round, saw who was beside him. a vile oath, an angry stare from his bloodshot eyes. "ye ----, what are ye doin' here? out wid ye, quick!" "what's the matter?" queried the conductor, who was collecting somebody's fare. "the matther, is it? matther enough! what's this nasty nagur doin' here? put him out, can't ye?" the conductor took no notice. "conductor!" spoke up a well-dressed man, with the air and manner of a gentleman, "what does that card say?" the conductor looked at the card indicated, upon which was printed "colored people not allowed in this car," legible enough to require less study than he saw fit to give it. "well!" he said. "well," was the answer,--"your duty is plain. put that fellow out." the conductor hesitated,--looked round the car. nobody spoke. "i'm sorry, my man! i hoped there would be no objection when i let you in; but our orders are strict, and, as the passengers ain't willing, you'll have to get off,"--jerking angrily at the bell. as the car slackened speed, a young officer, whom nobody noticed, got on. there was a moment's pause as the black man gathered up his crutches, and raised himself painfully. "stop!" cried a thrilling and passionate voice,--"stand still! of what stuff are you made to sit here and see a man, mangled and maimed in _your_ cause and for _your_ defence, insulted and outraged at the bidding of a drunken boor and a cowardly traitor?" the voice, the beautiful face, the intensity burning through both, electrified every soul to which she appealed. hands were stretched out to draw back the crippled soldier; eyes that a moment before were turned away looked kindly at him; a babel of voices broke out, "no, no," "let him stay," "it's a shame," "let him alone, conductor," "we ain't so bad as that," with more of the same kind; those who chose not to join in the chorus discreetly held their peace, and made no attempt to sing out of time and tune. the car started again. the _gentleman_, furious at the turn of the tide, cried out, "ho, ho! here's a pretty preacher of the gospel of equality! why, ladies and gentlemen, this high-flyer, who presumes to lecture us, is nothing but a"-the sentence was cut short in mid-career, the insolent sneer dashed out of his face,--face and form prone on the floor of the car,--while over him bent and blazed the young officer, whose entrance, a little while before, nobody had heeded. spurning the prostrate body at his feet, he turned to francesca, for it was she, and stretched out his hand,--his left hand,--his only one. it was time; all the heat, and passion, and color, had died out, and she stood there shivering, a look of suffering in her face. "miss ercildoune! you are ill,--you need the air,--allow me!" drawing her hand through his arm, and taking her out with infinite deference and care. "thank you! a moment's faintness,--it is over now," as they reached the sidewalk. "no, no, you are too ill to walk,--let me get you a carriage." hailing one that was passing by, he put her in, his hand lingering on hers, lingering on the folds of her dress as he bent to arrange it; his eyes clinging to her face with a passionate, woeful tenderness. "it is two years since i saw you, since i have heard from you," he said, his voice hoarse with the effort to speak quietly. "yes," she answered, "it is two years." stooping her head to write upon a card, her lips moved as if they said something,--something that seemed like "i must! only once!" but of course that could not be. "it is my address," she then said, putting the card in his hand. "i shall be happy to see you in my own home." "this afternoon?" eagerly. she hesitated. "whenever you may call. i thank you again,--and good morning." meanwhile the car had moved on its course: outwardly, peaceful enough; inwardly, full of commotion. the conservative gentleman, gathering himself up from his prone estate, white with passion and chagrin, saw about him everywhere looks of scorn, and smiles of derision and contempt, and fled incontinently from the sight. his coal-heaving _confrã¨re_, left to do battle alone, came to the charge valiant and unterrified. another outbreak of blasphemy and obscenity were the weapons of assault; the ladies looked shocked, the gentlemen indignant and disgusted. "friend," called the non-resistant broad-brim, beckoning peremptorily to the conductor,--"friend, come here." the conductor came. "if colored persons are not permitted to ride, i suppose it is equally against the rules of the company to allow nuisances in their cars. isn't it?" "you are right, sir," assented the conductor, upon whose face a smile of comprehension began to beam. "well, i don't know what thee thinks, or what these other people think, but i know of no worse nuisance than a filthy, blasphemous drunkard. there he sits,--remove him." there was a perfect shout of laughter and delight; and before the irate "citizen" comprehended what was intended, or could throw himself into a pugilistic attitude, he was seized, _sans_ ceremony, and ignominiously pushed and hustled from the car; the people therein, black soldier and all, drawing a long breath of relief, and going on their way rejoicing. everybody's eyes were brighter; hearts beat faster, blood moved more quickly; everybody felt a sense of elation, and a kindness towards their neighbor and all the world. a cruel and senseless prejudice had been lost in an impulse, generous and just; and for a moment the sentiment which exalted their humanity, vivified and gladdened their souls. chapter xi "_the future seemed barred by the corpse of a dead hope._" owen meredith so, then, after these long years he had seen her again. having seen her, he wondered how he had lived without her. if the wearisome months seemed endless in passing, the morning hours were an eternity. "this afternoon?" he had said. "be it so," she had answered. he did not dare to go till then. thinking over the scene of the morning, he scarcely dared go at all. she had not offered her hand; she had expressed no pleasure, either by look or word, at meeting him again. he had forced her to say, "come": she could do no less when he had just interfered to save her insult, and had begged the boon. "insult!" his arm ached to strike another blow, as he remembered the sentence it had cut short. of course the fellow had been drinking, but outrage of her was intolerable, whatever madness prompted it. the very sun must shine more brightly, and the wind blow softly, when she passed by. ah me! were the whole world what an ardent lover prays for his mistress, there were no need of death to enjoy the bliss of heaven. what could he say? what do? how find words to speak the measured feelings of a friend? how control the beatings of his heart, the passion of his soul, that no sign should escape to wound or offend her? she had bade him to silence: was he sufficiently master of himself to strike the lighter keys without sounding some deep chords that would jar upon her ear? he tried to picture the scene of their second meeting. he repeated again and again her formal title, miss ercildoune, that he might familiarize his tongue and his ear to the sound, and not be on the instant betrayed into calling the name which he so often uttered in his thoughts. he said over some civil, kindly words of greeting, and endeavored to call up, and arrange in order, a theme upon which he should converse. "i shall not dare to be silent," he thought, "for if i am, my silence will tell the tale; and if that do not, she will hear it from the throbbings of my heart. i don't know though,"--he laughed a little, as he spoke aloud,--bitterly it would have been, had his voice been capable of bitterness,--"perhaps she will think the organism of the poor thing has become diseased in camp and fightings,"--putting his hand up to his throat and holding the swollen veins, where the blood was beating furiously. presently he went down stairs and out to the street, in pursuit of some cut flowers which he found in a little cellar, a stone's throw from his hotel,--a fresh, damp little cellar, which smelt, he could not help thinking, like a grave. coming out to the sunshine, he shook himself with disgust. "faugh!" he thought, "what sick fancies and sentimental nonsense possess me? i am growing unwholesome. my dreams of the other night have come back to torment me in the day. these must put them to flight." the fancy which had sent him in pursuit of these flowers he confessed to be a childish one, but none the less soothing for that. he had remembered that the first day he beheld her a nosegay had decorated his button-hole; a fair, sweet-scented thing which seemed, in some subtle way, like her. he wanted now just such another,--some mignonette, and geranium, and a single tea-rosebud. here they were,--the very counterparts of those which he had worn on a brighter and happier day. how like they were! how changed was he! in some moods he would have smiled at this bit of girlish folly as he fastened the little thing over his heart; now, something sounded in his throat that was pitifully like a sob. don't smile at him! he was so young; so impassioned, yet gentle; and then he loved so utterly with the whole of his great, sore heart. by and by the time came to go, and eager, yet fearful, he went. it was a fresh, beautiful day in early june; and when the city, with its heat, and dust, and noise, was left behind, and all the leafy greenness--the soothing quiet of country sights and country sounds--met his ear and eye, a curious peace took possession of his soul. it was less the whisper of hope than the calm of assured reality. for the moment, unreasonable as it seemed, something made him blissfully sure of her love, spite of the rebuffs and coldness she had compelled him to endure. "this is the place, sir!" suddenly called his driver, stopping the horses in front of a stately avenue of trees, and jumping down to open the gates. "you need not drive in; you may wait here." this, then, was her home. he took in the exquisite beauty of the place with a keen pleasure. it was right that all things sweet and fine should be about her; he had before known that they were, but it delighted him to see them with his own eyes. walking slowly towards the house,--slowly, for he was both impelled and retarded by the conflicting feelings that mastered him,--he heard her voice at a little distance, singing; and directly she came out of a by-path, and faced him. he need not have feared the meeting; at least, any display of emotion; she gave no opportunity for any such thing. a frankly extended hand,--an easy "good afternoon, mr. surrey!" that was all. it was a cool, beautiful room into which she ushered him; a room filled with an atmosphere of peace, but which was anything but peaceful to him. he was restless, nervous; eager and excited, or absent and still. he determined to master his emotion, and give no outward sign of the tempest raging within. at the instant of this conclusion his eye was caught by an exquisite portrait miniature upon an easel near him. bending over it, taking it into his hands, his eyes went to and fro from the pictured face to the human one, tracing the likeness in each. marking his interest, francesca said, "it is my mother." "if the eyes were dark, this would be your veritable image." "or, if mine were blue, i should be a portrait of mamma, which would be better." "better?" "yes." she was looking at the picture with weary eyes, which he could not see. "i had rather be the shadow of her than the reality of myself: an absurd fancy!" she added, with a smile, suddenly remembering herself. "i would it were true!" he exclaimed. she looked a surprised inquiry. his thought was, "for then i should steal you, and wear you always on my heart." but of course he could speak no such lover's nonsense; so he said, "because of the fitness of things; you wished to be a shadow, which is immaterial, and hence of the substance of angels." truly he was improving. his effort to betray no love had led him into a ridiculous compliment. "what an idiot she will think me to say anything so silly!" he reflected; while francesca was thinking, "he has ceased to love me, or he would not resort to flattery. it is well!" but the pang that shot through her heart belied the closing thought, and, glancing at him, the first was denied by the unconscious expression of his eyes. seeing that, she directly took alarm, and commenced to talk upon a score of indifferent themes. he had never seen her in such a mood: gay, witty, brilliant,--full of a restless sparkle and fire; she would not speak an earnest word, nor hear one. she flung about bonmots, and chatted airy persiflage till his heart ached. at another time, in another condition, he would have been delighted, dazzled, at this strange display; but not now. in some careless fashion the war had been alluded to, and she spoke of chancellorsville. "it was there you were last wounded?" "yes," he answered, not even looking down at the empty sleeve. "it was there you lost your arm?" "yes," he answered again, "i am sorry it was my sword-arm." "it was frightful,"--holding her breath. "do you know you were reported mortally wounded? worse?" "i have heard that i was sent up with the slain," he replied, half-smiling. "it is true. i looked for your name in the columns of 'wounded' and 'missing,' and read it at last in the list of 'killed.'" "for the sake of old times, i trust you were a little sorry to so read it," he said, sadly, for the tone hurt him. "sorry? yes, i was sorry. who, indeed, of your friends would not be?" "who, indeed?" he repeated: "i am afraid the one whose regret i should most desire would sorrow the least." "it is very like," she answered, with seeming carelessness,--"disappointment is the rule of life." this would not do. he was getting upon dangerous ground. he would change the theme, and prevent any farther speech till he was better master of it. he begged for some music. she sat down at once and played for him; then sang at his desire. rich as she was in the gifts of nature, her voice was the chief,--thrilling, flexible, with a sympathetic quality that in singing pathetic music brought tears, though the hearer understood not a word of the language in which she sang. in the old time he had never wearied listening, and now he besought her to repeat for him some of the dear, familiar songs. if these held for her any associations, he did not know it; she gave no outward sign,--sang to him as sweetly and calmly as to the veriest stranger. what else had he expected? nothing; yet, with the unreasonableness of a lover, was disappointed that nothing appeared. taking up a piece at random, without pausing to remember the words, he said, spreading it before her, "may i tax you a little farther? i am greedy, i know, but then how can i help it?" it was the song of the princess. she hesitated a moment, and half closed the book. had he been standing where he could see her face, he would have been shocked by its pallor. it was over directly: she recovered herself, and, opening the music with a resolute air, began to sing:- "ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; the cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, with fold to fold, of mountain and of cape; but, o too fond, when have i answered thee? ask me no more. "ask me no more: what answer should i give? i love not hollow cheek or faded eye; yet, o my friend, i will not have thee die! ask me no more, lest i should bid thee live: ask me no more." she sang thus far with a clear, untrembling voice,--so clear and untrembling as to be almost metallic,--the restraint she had put upon herself making it unnatural. at the commencement she had estimated her strength, and said, "it is sufficient!" but she had overtaxed it, as she found in singing the last verse:- "ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed; i strove against the stream and all in vain; let the great river take me to the main; no more, dear love, for at a touch i yield: ask me no more." all the longing, the passion, the prayer of which a human soul is capable found expression in her voice. it broke through the affected coldness and calm, as the ocean breaks through its puny barriers when, after wind and tempest, all its mighty floods are out. surrey had changed his place, and stood fronting her. as the last word fell, she looked at him, and the two faces saw in each but a reflection of the same passion and pain: pallid, with eyes burning from an inward fire,--swayed by the same emotion,--she bent forward as he, stretching forth his arms, in a stifling voice cried, "come!" bent, but for an instant; then, by a superhuman effort, turned from him, and put out her hand with a gesture of dissent, though she could not control her voice to speak a word. at that he came close to her, not touching her hand or even her dress, but looking into her face with imploring eyes, and whispering, "francesca, my darling, speak to me! say that you love me! one word! you are breaking my heart!" not a word. "francesca!" she had mastered her voice. "go!" she then said, beseechingly. "oh, why did you ask me? why did i let you come?" "no, no," he answered. "i cannot go,--not till you answer me." "ah!" she entreated, "do not ask! i can give no such answer as you desire. it is all wrong,--all a mistake. you do not comprehend." "make me, then." she was silent. "forgive me. i am rude: i cannot help it. i will not go unless you say, 'i do not love you.' nothing but this shall drive me away." francesca's training in her childhood had been by a catholic governess; she never quite lost its effect. now she raised her hand to a little gold cross that hung at her neck, her fingers closing on it with a despairing clasp. "ah, christ, have pity!" her heart cried. "blessed mother of god, forgive me! have mercy upon me!" her face was frightfully pale, but her voice did not tremble as she gave him her hand, and said gently, "go, then, my friend. i do not love you." he took her hand, held it close for a moment, and then, without another look or word, put it tenderly down, and was gone. so absorbed was he in painful thought that, passing down the long avenue with bent head, he did not notice, nor even see, a gentleman who, coming from the opposite direction, looked at him at first carelessly, and then searchingly, as he went by. this gentleman, a man in the prime of life, handsome, stately, and evidently at home here, scrutinized the stranger with a singular intensity,--made a movement as though he would speak to him,--and then, drawing back, went with hasty steps towards the house. had willie looked up, beheld this face and its expression, returned the scrutiny of the one, and comprehended the meaning of the other, while memory recalled a picture once held in his hands, some things now obscured would have been revealed to him, and a problem been solved. as it was, he saw nothing, moved mechanically onward to the carriage, seated himself and said, "home!" this young man was neither presumptuous nor vain. he had been once repulsed and but now utterly rejected. he had no reason to hope, and yet--perhaps it was his poetical and imaginative temperament--he could not resign himself to despair. suddenly he started with an exclamation that was almost a cry. what was it? he remembered that, more than two years ago, on the last day he had been with her, he had begged the copy of a duet which they sometimes sang. it was in manuscript, and he desired to have it written out by her own hand. he had before petitioned, and she promised it; and when he thus again spoke of it, she laughed, and said, "what a memory it is, to be sure! i shall have to tie a bit of string on my finger to refresh it." "is that efficacious?" he had asked. "doubtless," she had replied, searching in her pocket for a scrap of anything that would serve. "will this do?" he then queried, bringing forth a coil of gold wire which he had been commissioned to buy for some fanciful work of his mother. "finely," she declared; "it is durable, it will give me a wide margin, it will be long in wearing out." "nay, then, you must have something more fragile," he had objected. at that they both laughed, as he twisted a fragment of it on the little finger of her right hand. "there it is to stay," he asserted, "till your promise is redeemed." that was the last time he had seen her till to-day. now, sitting, thinking of the interview just passed, suddenly he remembered, as one often recalls the vision of something seemingly unnoticed at the time, that, upon her right hand, the little finger of the right hand, there was a delicate ring,--a mere thread,--in fact, a wire of gold; the very one himself had tied there two years ago. in an instant, by one of those inexplicable connections of the brain or soul, he found himself living over an experience of his college youth. he had been spending the day in boston with a dear friend, some score of years his senior; a man of the rarest culture, and of a most sweet and gentle nature withal; and when evening came they had drifted naturally to the theatre,--the fool's paradise it may be sometimes, but to them on that occasion a real paradise. he remembered well the play. it was scott's _bride of lammermoor_. he had never read it, but, before the curtain rose, his friend had unfolded the story in so kind and skilful a manner as to have imbued him as fully with the spirit of the tale as though he had studied the book. what he chiefly recalled in the play was the scene in which ravenswood comes back to emily long after they had been plighted,--long after he had supposed her faithless,--long after he had been tossed on a sea of troubles, touching the seeming decay in her affections. just as she is about to be enveloped in the toils which were spread for her,--just as she is about to surrender herself to the hated nuptials, and submit to the embrace of one whom she loathed more than she dreaded death,--ravenswood, the man whom heaven had made for her, presents himself. what followed was quiet, yet intensely dramatic. ravenswood, wrought to the verge of despair, bursts upon the scene at the critical moment, detaches emily from her party, and leads her slowly forward. he is unutterably sad. he questions her very tenderly; asks her whether she is not enforced; whether she is taking this step of her own free will and accord; whether she has indeed dismissed the dear, old fond love for him from her heart forever? he must hear it from her own lips. when timidly and feebly informed that such is indeed the case, he requests her to return a certain memento,--a silver trinket which had been given her as the symbol of his love on the occasion of their betrothal. raising her hand to her throat she essays to draw it from her bosom. her fingers rest upon the chain which binds it to her neck, but the o'erfraught heart is still,--the troubled, but unconscious head droops upon his shoulder,--he lifts the chain from its resting-place, and withdraws the token from her heart. supporting her with one hand and holding this badge of a lost love with the other, he says, looking down upon her with a face of anguish, and in a voice of despair, "_and she could wear it thus!_" as this scene rose and lived before him, surrey exclaimed, "surely that must have been the perfection of art, to have produced an effect so lasting and profound,--'and she could wear it thus!'--ah," he said, as in response to some unexpressed thought, "but emily loved ravenswood. why--?" evidently he was endeavoring to answer a question that baffled him. chapter xii "_and down on aching heart and brain blow after blow unbroken falls._" boker "a letter for you, sir," said the clerk, as surrey stopped at the desk for his key. it was a bulky epistle, addressed in his aunt russell's hand, and he carried it off, wondering what she could have to say at such length. he was in no mood to read or to enjoy; but, nevertheless, tore open the cover, finding within it a double letter. taking the envelope of one from the folds of the other, his eye fell first upon his mother's writing; a short note and a puzzling one. * * * * * "my dear willie:-"i have tried to write you a letter, but cannot. i never wounded you if i could avoid it, and i do not wish to begin now. augusta and i had a talk about you yesterday which crazed me with anxiety. she told me it was my place to write you what ought to be said under these trying circumstances, for we are sure you have remained in philadelphia to see miss ercildoune. at first i said i would, and then my heart failed me. i was sure, too, that she could write, as she always does, much better than i; so i begged her to say all that was necessary, and i would send her this note to enclose with her letter. read it, i entreat you, and then hasten, i pray you, hasten to us at once. "take care of your arm, do not hurt yourself by any excitement; and, with dear love from your father, which he would send did he know i was writing, believe me always your devoted "mother." * * * * * "'trying circumstances!'--'miss ercildoune!'--what does it mean?" he cried, bewildered. "come, let us see." the letter which he now opened was an old and much-fingered one, written--as he saw at the first glance--by his aunt to his mother. why it was sent to him he could not conjecture; and, without attempting to so do, at once plunged into its pages:- * * * * * "continental hotel, philadelphia, june 27, 1861 "my dear laura:-"i can readily understand with what astonishment you will read this letter, from the amazement i have experienced in collecting its details. i will not weary you with any personal narration, but tell my tale at once. "miss ercildoune, as you know, was my daughter's intimate at school,--a school, the admittance to which was of itself a guarantee of respectability. of course i knew nothing of her family, nor of her,--save as clara wrote me of her beauty and her accomplishments, and, above all, of her style,--till i met mrs. lancaster. of her it is needless for me to speak. as you know, she is irreproachable, and her position is of the best. consequently when clara wrote me that her friend was to come to new york to her aunt, and begged to entertain her for a while, i added my request to her entreaty, and miss ercildoune came. ill-fated visit! would it had never been made! "it is useless now to deny her gifts and graces. they are, reluctantly i confess, so rare and so conspicuous--have so many times been seen, and known, and praised by us all,--that it would put me in the most foolish of attitudes should i attempt to reconsider a verdict so frequently pronounced, or to eat my own words, uttered a thousand times. "it is also, i presume, useless to deny that we were well pleased--nay, delighted--with willie's evident sentiment for her. indeed, so thoroughly did she charm me, that, had i not seen how absolutely his heart was enlisted in her pursuit, she is the very girl whom i should have selected, could i have so done, as a wife for tom and a daughter for myself. "i knew full well how deep was this feeling for her when he marched away, on that day so full of supreme splendor and pain, unable to see her and to say adieu. his eyes, his face, his manner, his very voice, marked his restlessness, his longing, and disappointment. i was positively angry with the girl for thwarting and hurting him so, and, whatever her excuse might be, for her absence at such a time. how constantly are we quarrelling with our best fates! "she remained in new york, as you know, for some weeks after the 19th; in fact, has been at home but for a little while. once or twice, so provoked with her was i for disappointing our pet, i could not resist the temptation of saying some words about him which, if she cared for him, i knew would wound her: and, indeed, they did,--wounded her so deeply, as was manifest in her manner and her face, that i had not the heart to repeat the experiment. "one week ago i had a letter from willie, enclosing another to her, and an entreaty, as he had written one which he was sure had miscarried, that i would see that this reached her hands in safety. so anxious was i to fulfil his request in its word and its spirit, and so certain that i could further his cause,--for i was sure this letter was a love-letter,--that i did not forward it by post, but, being compelled to come to burlington, i determined to go on to philadelphia, drive out to her home, and myself deliver the missive into her very hands. a most fortunate conclusion, as you will presently decide. "last evening i reached the city,--rested, slept here,--and this morning was driven to her father's place. for all our sakes, i was somewhat anxious, under the circumstances, that this should be quite the thing; and i confess myself, on the instant of its sight, more than satisfied. it is really superb!--the grounds extensive, and laid out with the most absolute taste. the house, large and substantial, looks very like an english mansion; with a certain quaint style and antique elegance, refreshing to contemplate, after the crude newness and ostentatious vulgarity of almost everything one sees here in america. it is within as it is without. although a great many lovely things are scattered about of recent make, the wood-work and the heavy furniture are aristocratic from their very age, and in their way, literally perfection. "miss ercildoune met me with not quite her usual grace and ease. she was, no doubt, surprised at my unexpected appearance, and--i then thought, as a consequence--slightly embarrassed. i soon afterwards discovered the constraint in her manner sprang from another cause. "i had reached the house just at lunch-time, and she would take me out to the table to eat something with her. i had hoped to see her father, and was disappointed when she informed me he was in the city. all i saw charmed me. the appointments of the table were like those of the house: everything exquisitely fine, and the silver massive and old,--not a new piece among it,--and marked with a monogram and crest. "i write you all this that you may the more thoroughly appreciate my absolute horror at the final _denouement_, and share my astonishment at the presumption of these people in daring to maintain such style. "i had given her willie's letter before we left the parlor, with a significant word and smile, and was piqued to see that she did not blush,--in fact, became excessively white as she glanced at the writing, and with an unsteady hand put it into her pocket. after lunch she made no motion to look at it, and as i had my own reasons for desiring her to peruse it, i said, 'miss francesca, will you not read your letter? that i may know if there is any later news from our soldier.' "she hesitated a moment, and then said, with what i thought an unnatural manner, 'certainly, if you so desire,' and, taking it out, broke the seal. 'allow me,' she added, going towards a window,--as though she desired more light, but in reality, i knew, to turn her back upon me,--forgetting that a mirror, hanging opposite, would reveal her face with distinctness to my gaze. "it was pale to ghastliness, with a drawn, haggard look about the mouth and eyes that shocked as much as it amazed me; and before commencing to read she crushed the letter in her hands, pressing it to her heart with a gesture which was less of a caress than of a spasm. "however, as she read, all this changed; and before she finished said, 'ah, willie, it is clear your cause needs no advocate.' positively, i did not know a human countenance could express such happiness; there was something in it absolutely dazzling. and evidently entirely forgetful of me, she raised the paper to her mouth, and kissed it again and again, pressing her lips upon it with such clinging and passionate fondness as would have imbued it with life were that possible." here willie flung down his aunt's epistle and tore from his pocket this self-same letter. he had kept it,--carried it about with him,--for two reasons: because it was _hers_, he said,--this avowal of his love was hers, whether she refused it or no, and he had no right to destroy her property; and because, as he had nothing else she had worn or touched, he cherished this sacredly since it had been in her dear hands. now he took it into his clasp as tenderly as though it were francesca's face, and kissed it with the self-same clinging and passionate fondness as this of which he had just read. here had her lips rested,--here; he felt their fragrance and softness thrilling him under the cold, dead paper, and pressed it to his heart while he continued to read:-"before she turned, i walked to another window,--wishing to give her time to recover calmness, or at least self-control, and was at once absorbed in contemplating a gentleman whom i felt assured to be mr. ercildoune. he stood with his back to me, apparently giving some order to the coachman: thus i could not see his face, but i never before was so impressed with, so to speak, the personality of a man. his physique was grand, and his air and bearing magnificent, and i watched him with admiration as he walked slowly away. i presume he passed the window at which she was standing, for she called, 'papa!' 'in a moment, dear,' he answered, and in a moment entered, and was presented; and i, raising my eyes to his face,--ah, how can i tell you what sight they beheld! "self-possessed as i think i am, and as i certainly ought to be, i started back with an involuntary exclamation, a mingling doubtless of incredulity and disgust. this man, who stood before me with all the ease and self-assertion of a gentleman, was--you will never believe it, i fear--_a mulatto_! "whatever effect my manner had on him was not perceptible. he had not seated himself, and, with a smile that was actually satirical, he bowed, uttered a few words of greeting, and went out of the room. "'how dared you?' i then cried, for astonishment had given place to rage, 'how dared you deceive me--deceive us all--so? how dared you palm yourself off as white and respectable, and thus be admitted to mr. hale's school and to the society and companionship of his pupils?' i could scarcely control myself when i thought of how shamefully we had all been cozened. "'pardon me, madam,' she answered with effrontery,--effrontery under the circumstances,--'you forget yourself, and what is due from one lady to another.' (did you ever hear of such presumption!) 'i practised no deceit upon professor hale. he knew papa well,--was his intimate friend at college, in england,--and was perfectly aware who was mr. ercildoune's daughter when she was admitted to his school. for myself, i had no confessions to make, and made none. i was your daughter's friend; as such, went to her house, and invited her here. i trust you have seen in me nothing unbecoming a gentlewoman, as, _up to this time_, i have beheld in you naught save the attributes of a lady. if we are to have any farther conversation, it must be conducted on the old plan, and not the extraordinary one you have just adopted; else i shall be compelled, in self-respect, to leave you alone in my own parlor.' "imagine if you can the effect of this speech upon me. i assure you i was composed enough outwardly, if not inwardly, ere she ended her sentence. having finished, i said, 'pardon me, miss ercildoune, for any words which may have offended your dignity. i will confine myself for the rest of our interview to your own rules!' "'it is well,' she responded. i had spoken satirically, and expected to see her shrink under it, but she answered with perfect coolness and _sang froid_. i continued, 'you will not deny that you are a negro, at least a mulatto.' "'pardon me, madam,' she replied; 'my father is a mulatto, my mother was an englishwoman. thus, to give you accurate information upon the subject, i am a quadroon.' "'quadroon be it!' i answered, angrily again, i fear. 'quadroon, mulatto, or negro, it is all one. i have no desire to split hairs of definition. you could not be more obnoxious were you black as erebus. i have no farther words to pass upon the past or the present, but something to say of the future. you hold in your hands a letter--a love-letter, i am sure--a declaration, as i fear--from my nephew, mr. surrey. you will oblige me by at once sitting down, writing a peremptory and unqualified refusal to his proposal, if he has made you one,--a refusal that will admit of no hope and no double interpretation,--and give it into my keeping before i leave this room.' "when i first alluded to willie's letter she had crimsoned, but before i closed she was so white i should have thought her fainting, but for the fire in her eyes. however, she spoke up clear enough when she said, 'and what, madam, if i deny your right to dictate any action whatever to me, however insignificant, and utterly refuse to obey your command?' "'at your peril do so,' i exclaimed. 'refuse, and i will write the whole shameful story, with my own comments; and you may judge for yourself of the effect it will produce.' "at that she smiled,--an indescribable sort of smile,--and shut her fingers on the letter she held,--i could not help thinking as though it were a human hand. 'very well, madam, write it. he has already told me'-"'that he loves you,' i broke in. 'do you think he would continue to do so if he knew what you are?' "'he knows me as well now,' she answered, 'as he will after reading any letter of yours.' "'incredible!' i exclaimed. 'when he wrote you that, he did not know, he could not have known, your birth, your race, the taint in your blood. i will never believe it.' "'no,' she said, 'i did not say he did. i said he knew _me_; so well, i think, judging from this,'--clasping his letter with the same curious pressure i had before noticed,--'that you could scarcely enlighten him farther. he knows my heart, and soul, and brain,--as i said, he knows _me_.' "'o, yes,' i answered,--or rather sneered, for i was uncontrollably indignant through all this,--'if you mean _that_, very likely. i am not talking lovers' metaphysics, but practical common-sense. he does not know the one thing at present essential for him to know; and he will abandon you, spurn you,--his love turned to scorn, his passion to contempt,--when he reads what i shall write him if you refuse to do what i demand!' "i expected to see her cower before me. conceive, then, if you can, my sensations when she cried, 'stop, madam! say what you will to me; insult, outrage me, if you please, and have not the good breeding and dignity to forbear; but do not presume to so slander him. do not presume to accuse him, who is all nobility and greatness of soul, of a sentiment so base, a prejudice so infamous. study him, madam, know him better, ere you attempt to be his mouth-piece.' "as she uttered these words, a horrible foreboding seized me, or, to speak more truthfully, i so felt the certainty of what she spoke, that a shudder of terror ran over me. i thought of him, of his character, of his principles, of his insane sense of honor, of his terrible will under all that soft exterior,--the hand of steel under the silken glove; i saw that if i persisted and she still refused to yield i should lose all. on the instant i changed my attack. "'it is true,' i said, 'having asked you to become his wife, he will marry you; he will redeem his pledge though it ruin his life and blast his career, to say nothing of the effect an unending series of outrages and mortifications will have upon his temper and his heart. a pretty love, truly, yours must be,--whatever his is,--to condemn him to so terrible an ordeal, so frightful a fate.' "she shivered at that, and i went on,--blaming my folly in not remembering, being a woman, that it was with a woman and her weakness i had to deal. "'he is young,' i continued; 'he has probably a long life before him. rich, handsome, brilliant,--a magnificent career opening to him,--position, ease, troops of friends,--you will ruthlessly ruin all this. married to you, white as you are, the peculiarity of your birth would in some way be speedily known. his father would disinherit him (it was not necessary to tell her he has a fortune in his own right), his family disown him, his friends abandon him, society close its doors upon him, business refuse to seek him, honor and riches elude his grasp. if you do not know the strength of this prejudice, which you call infamous, pre-eminently in the circle to which he belongs, i cannot tell it you. taking all this from him, what will you give him in return? ruining his life, can your affection make amends? blasting his career, will your love fill the gap? do you flatter yourself by the supposition that you can be father, mother, relatives, friends, society, wealth, position, honor, career,--all,--to him? your people are cursed in america, and they transfer their curse to any one mad enough, or generous enough (that was a diplomatic turn), to connect his fate with yours.' "before i was through, i saw that i had carried my point. all the fine airs went out of my lady, and she looked broken and humbled enough. i might have said less, but i ached to say more to the insolent. "'enough, madam,' she gasped, 'stop.' and then said, more to herself than to me, 'i could give heaven for him,'--the rest i rather guessed from the motion of her lips than from any sound,--'but i cannot ask him to give the world for me.' "'will you write the letter?' i asked. "'no.'--she said the word with evident effort, and then, still more slowly, 'i will give you a message. say "i implore you never to write me again,--to forget me. i beseech of you not to try me by any farther appeals, as i shall but return them unopened."' i wrote down the words as she spoke them. 'this is well,' i said when she finished; 'but it is not enough. i must have the letter.' "'the letter?' she said. 'what need of a letter? surely that is sufficient.' "'i do not mean your letter. i mean his,--the one which you hold in your hands.' "'this?' she queried, looking down on it,--'this?' "i thought the repetition senseless and affected, but i answered, 'yes,--that. he will not believe you are in earnest if you keep his avowal of love. you must give him up entirely. if you let me send that back, with your words, he shall never--at least from me--have clew or reason for your conduct. that will close the whole affair.' "'close the whole affair,' she repeated after me, mechanically,--'close the whole affair.' "i was getting heartily tired of this, and had no desire to listen to an echo conversation; so, without answering, i stretched out my hand for it. she held it towards me, then drew it back and raised it to her heart with the same gesture i had marked when she first opened it,--a gesture as i said, of that, which was less of a caress than a spasm. indeed, i think now that it was wholly physical and involuntary. then she handed it to me, and, motioning towards the door, said, 'go!' "i rose, and, infamous as i thought her past deceit, wearied as i was with the interview, small claim as she had upon me for the slightest consideration, i said 'you have done well, miss ercildoune! i commend you for your sensible decision, and for your ability, if late, to appreciate the situation. i wish you all success in life, i am sure; and, permit me to add, a future union with one of your own race, if that will bring you happiness.' "heavens! what a face and what eyes she turned upon me as, rising, she once more pointed to the door, and cried, 'go!' and indeed i went,--the girl actually frightened me. "when i got on to the lawn, i missed my bag and parasol, and had to return for them. i opened the door with some slight trepidation, but had no need for fear. she was lying prostrate upon the floor, as i saw on coming near, in a dead faint. she had evidently fallen so suddenly and with such force as to have hurt herself; her head had struck against an ornament of the bookcase, near which she had been standing; and a little stream of blood was trickling from her temple. it made me sick to behold it. as i looked at her where she lay, i could not but pity her a little, and think what a merciful fate it would be for her, and such as she, if they could all die,--and so put an end to what, i presume, though i never before thought of it, is really a very hard existence. "it was no time, however, to sentimentalize. i rang for a servant, and, having waited till one came, took my leave. "of course all this is very shocking and painful, but i am glad i came. the matter is ended now in a satisfactory manner. i think it has been well done. let us both keep our counsel, and the affair will soon become a memory with us, as it is nothing with every one else. "always your loving sister, "augusta." * * * * * it is better to be silent upon some themes than to say too little. words would fail to express the emotions with which willie read this history: let silence and imagination tell the tale. flinging down the paper with a passionate cry, he saw yet another letter,--the one in which these had been enfolded,--a letter written to him, and by mrs. russell. as by a flash, he perceived that there had been some blunder here, by which he was the gainer; and, partly at least, comprehended it. these two, mother and aunt, fearing the old fire had not yet burned to ashes,--nay, from their knowledge of him, sure of it,--hearing naught of his illness, for he did not care to distress them by any account thereof, were satisfied that he had either met, or was remaining to compass a meeting, with miss ercildoune. his mother had not the courage, or the baseness, to write such a letter as that to which mrs. russell urged her,--a letter which should degrade his love in his own eyes, and recall him from an unworthy pursuit. "very well!" mrs. russell had then said, "it will be better from you; it will look more like unwarranted interference from me; but i will write, and you shall send an accompanying line. let me have it to-morrow." the next morning mrs. surrey was not well enough to drive out, and thus sent her note by a servant, enclosing with it the letter of june 27th,--thinking that her sister might want it for reference. when it reached mrs. russell, it was almost mail-time, and with the simple thought, "so,--laura has written it, after all," she enclosed it in her own, and sent it off, post-haste; not even looking at the unsealed envelope, as mrs. surrey had taken for granted she would, and thus failing to know of its double contents. thus the very letter which they would have compassed land and sea to have prevented coming under his eyes, unwisely yet most fortunately kept in existence, was sent by themselves to his hands. without pausing to read a line of that which his aunt had written him, he tore it into fragments, flung it into the empty grate; and, bounding down the stairs and on to the street, plunged into a carriage and was whirled away, all too slowly, to the home he had left but a little space before with such widely, such painfully different emotions. chapter xiii "_i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honor more._" lovelace just after surrey, for the third time, had passed through the avenue of trees, two men appeared in it, earnestly conversing. one, the older, was the same who had met willie as he was going out, and had examined him with such curious interest. the other, in feature, form, and bearing, was so absolutely the counterpart of his companion that it was easy to recognize in them father and son,--a father and son whom it would be hard to match. "the finest type of the anglo-saxon race i have seen from america," was the verdict pronounced upon mr. ercildoune, when he was a young man studying abroad, by an enthusiastic and nationally ignorant englishman; "but then, sir," he added, "what very dark complexions you americans have! is it universal?" "by no means, sir," was mr. ercildoune's reply. "there are some exceedingly fine ones among my countrymen. i come from the south: that is a bad climate for the tint of the skin." "is it so?" exclaimed john bull,--"worse than the north?" "very much worse, sir, in more ways than one." perhaps robert ercildoune was a trifle fairer than his father, but there was still perceptible the shade which marked him as effectually an outcast from the freedom of american society, and the rights of american citizenship, as though it had been the badge of crime or the strait jacket of a madman. something of this was manifested in the conversation in which the two were engaged. "it is folly, robert, for you to carry your refinement and culture into the ranks as a common soldier, to fight and to die, without thanks. you are made of too good stuff to serve simply as food for powder." "better men than i, father, have gone there, and are there to-day; men in every way superior to me." "perhaps,--yes, if you will have it so. but what are they? white men, fighting for their own country and flag, for their own rights of manhood and citizenship, for a present for themselves and a future for their children, for honor and fame. what is there for you?" "for one thing, just that of which you spoke. perhaps not a present for me, but certainly a future for those that come after." "a future! how are you to know? what warrant or guarantee have you for any such future? do you judge by the past? by the signs of to-day? i tell you this american nation will resort to any means--will pledge anything, by word or implication--to secure the end for which it fights; and will break its pledges just so soon as it can, and with whomsoever it can with impunity. you, and your children, and your children's children after you, will go to the wall unless it has need of you in the arena." "i do not think so. this whole nation is learning, through pain and loss, the lesson of justice; of expediency, doubtless, but still of justice; and i do not think it will be forgotten when the war is ended. this is our time to wipe off a thousand stigmas of contempt and reproach: this"-"who is responsible for them? ourselves? what cast them there? our own actions? i trow not. mark the facts. i pay taxes to support the public schools, and am compelled to have my children educated at home. i pay taxes to support the government, and am denied any representation or any voice in regard to the manner in which these taxes shall be expended. i hail a car on the street, and am laughed to scorn by the conductor,--or, admitted, at the order of the passengers am ignominiously expelled. i offer my money at the door of any place of public amusement, and it is flung back to me with an oath. i enter a train to new york, and am banished to the rear seat or the 'negro car.' i go to a hotel, open for the accommodation of the public, and am denied access; or am requested to keep my room, and not show myself in parlor, office, or at table. i come within a church, to worship the good god who is no respecter of persons, and am shown out of the door by one of his insolent creatures. i carry my intelligence to the polls on election morning, and am elbowed aside by an american boor or a foreign drunkard, and, with opprobrious epithets by law officers and rabble, am driven away. all this in the north; all this without excuse of slavery and of the feeling it engenders; all this from arrogant hatred and devilish malignity. at last, the country which has disowned me, the government which has never recognized save to outrage me, the flag which has refused to cover or to protect me, are in direct need and utmost extremity. then do they cry for me and mine to come up to their help ere they perish. at least, they hold forth a bribe to secure me? at least, if they make no apology for the past, they offer compensation for the future? at least, they bid high for the services they desire? not at all! "they say to one man, 'here is twelve hundred dollars bounty with which to begin; here is sixteen dollars a month for pay; here is the law passed, and the money pledged, to secure you in comfort for the rest of life, if wounded or disabled, or help for your family, if killed. here is every door set wide for you to rise, from post to post; money yours, advancement yours, honor, and fame, and glory yours; the love of a grateful country, the applause of an admiring world.' "they say to another man,--you, or me, or sam out there in the field,--'there is no bounty for you, not a cent; there is pay for you, twelve dollars a month, the hire of a servant; there is no pension for you, or your family, if you be sent back from the front, wounded or dead; if you are taken prisoner you can be murdered with impunity, or be sold as a slave, without interference on our part. fight like a lion! do acts of courage and splendor! and you shall never rise above the rank of a private soldier. for you there is neither money nor honor, rights secured, nor fame gained. dying, you fall into a nameless grave: living, you come back to your old estate of insult and wrong. if you refuse these tempting offers, we brand you cowards. if, under these infamous restraints and disadvantages, you fail to equal the white troops by your side, you are written down--inferiors. if you equal them, you are still inferiors. if you perform miracles, and surpass them, you are, in a measure, worthy commendation at last; we consent to see in you human beings, fit for mention and admiration,--not as types of your color and of what you intrinsically are, but as exceptions; made such by the habit of association, and the force of surrounding circumstances.' "these are the terms the american people offer you, these the terms which you stoop to accept, these the proofs that they are learning a lesson of justice! so be it! there is need. let them learn it to the full! let this war go on 'until the cities be wasted without inhabitant, and the houses without man, and the land be utterly destroyed.' do not you interfere. leave them to the teachings and the judgments of god." ercildoune had spoken with such impassioned feeling, with such fire in his eyes, such terrible earnestness in his voice, that robert could not, if he would, interrupt him; and, in the silence, found no words for the instant at his command. ere he summoned them they saw some one approaching. "a fine looking fellow! fighting has been no child's play for him," said robert, looking, as he spoke, at the empty sleeve. mr. ercildoune advanced to meet the stranger, and surrey beheld the same face upon whose pictured semblance he had once gazed with such intense feelings, first of jealousy, and then of relief and admiration; the same splendor of life, and beauty, and vitality. surrey knew him at once, knew that it was francesca's father, and went up to him with extended hand. mr. ercildoune took the proffered hand, and shook it warmly. "i am happy to meet you, mr. surrey." "you know me?" said he with surprise. "i thought to present myself." "i have seen your picture." "and i yours. they must have held the mirror up to nature, for the originals to be so easily known. but may i ask where you saw mine? _yours_ was in miss ercildoune's possession." "as was yours," was answered after a moment's hesitation,--surrey thought, with visible reluctance. his heart flew into his throat. "she has my picture,--she has spoken of me," he said to himself. "i wonder what her father will think,--what he will do. come, i will to the point immediately." "mr. ercildoune," said he, aloud, "you know something of me? of my position and prospects?" "a great deal." "i trust, nothing disparaging or ignoble." "i know nothing for which any one could desire oblivion." "thanks. let me speak to you, then, of a matter which should have been long since proposed to you had i been permitted the opportunity. i love your daughter. i cannot speak about that, but you will understand all that i wish to say. i have twice--once by letter, once by speech--let her know this and my desire to call her wife. she has twice refused,--absolutely. you think this should cut off all hope?" ercildoune had been watching him closely. "if she does not love you," he answered, at the pause. "i do not know. i went away from here a little while ago with her peremptory command not to return. i should not have dared disobey it had i not learned--thought--in fact, but for some circumstances--i beg your pardon--i do not know what i am saying. i believed if i saw her once more i could change her determination,--could induce her to give me another response,--and came with that hope." "which has failed?" "which has thus far failed that she will not at all see me; will hold no communication with me. i should be a ruffian did i force myself on her thus without excuse or reason. my own love would be no apology did i not think, did i not dare to hope, that it is not aversion to me that induces her to act as she has done. believing so, may i beg a favor of you? may i entreat that you will induce her to see me, if only for a little while?" ercildoune smiled a sad, bitter smile, as he answered, "mr. surrey, if my daughter does not love you, it would be hopeless for you or for me to assail her refusal. if she does, she has doubtless rejected you for a reason which you can read by simply looking into my face. no words of mine can destroy or do that away." "there is nothing to destroy; there is nothing to do away. thank you for speaking of it, and making the way easy. there is nothing in all the wide world between us,--there can be nothing between us,--if she loves me; nothing to keep us apart save her indifference or lack of regard for me. i want to say so to her if she will give me the chance. will you not help me to it?" "you comprehend all that i mean?" "i do. it is, as i have said, nothing. that love would not be worth the telling that considered extraneous circumstances, and not the object itself." "you have counted all the consequences? i think not. how, indeed, should you be able? come with me a moment." the two went up to the house, across the wide veranda, into a room half library, half lounging-room, which, from a score of evidences strewn around, was plainly the special resort of the master. over the mantel hung the life-size portrait of an excessively beautiful woman. a fine, _spirituelle_ face, with proud lines around the mouth and delicate nostrils, but with a tender, appealing look in the eyes, that claimed gentle treatment. this face said, "i was made for sunshine and balmy airs, but, if darkness and storm assail, i can walk through them unflinching, though the progress be short; i can die, and give no sign." willie went hastily up to this, and stood, absorbed, before it. "francesca is very like her mother," said ercildoune, coming to his side. it was his own thought, but he made no answer. "i will tell you something of her and myself; a very little story; you can draw the moral. my father, who was a virginian, sent my brother and me to england when we were mere boys, to be trained and educated. after his fashion, doubtless, he loved us; for he saw that we had every advantage that wealth, and taste, and care could provide; and though he never sent for us, nor came to us, in all the years after we left his house,--and though we had no legal claim upon him,--he acknowledged us his children, and left us the entire proceeds of his immense estates, unincumbered. we were so young when we went abroad, had been so tenderly treated at home, had seen and known so absolutely nothing of the society about us, that we were ignorant as arabs of the state of feeling and prejudice in america against such as we, who carried any trace of negro blood. our treatment in england did but increase this oblivion. "we graduated at oxford; my brother, who was two years older than i, waiting upon me that we might go together through europe; and together we had three of the happiest years of life. on the continent i met _her_. you see what she is; you know francesca: it is useless for me to attempt to describe her. i loved her,--she loved me,--it was confessed. in a little while i called her wife; i would, if i could, tell you of the time that followed: i cannot. we had a beautiful home, youth, health, riches, friends, happiness, two noble boys. at last an evil fate brought us to america. i was to look after some business affairs which, my agent said, needed personal supervision. my brother, whose health had failed, was advised to try a sea-voyage, and change of scene and climate. my wife was enthusiastic about the glorious republic,--the great, free america,--the land of my birth. we came, carrying with us letters from friends in england, that were an open sesame to the most jealously barred doors. they flew wide at our approach, but to be shut with speed when my face was seen; hands were cordially extended, and drawn back as from a loathsome contact when mine went to meet them. in brief, we were outlawed, ostracised, sacrificed on the altar of this devilish american prejudice,--wholly american, for it is found nowhere else in the world,--i for my color, she for connecting her fate with mine. "i was so held as to be unable to return at once, and she would not leave me. then my brother drooped more and more. his disease needed the brightest and most cheerful influences. the social and moral atmosphere stifled him. he died; and we, with grief intensified by bitterness, laid him in the soil of his own country as though it had been that of the stranger and enemy. "at this time the anti-slavery movement was provoking profound thought and feeling in america. i at once identified myself with it; not because i was connected with the hated and despised race, but because i loathed all forms of tyranny, and fought against them with what measure of strength i possessed. doubtless this made me a more conspicuous mark for the shafts of malice and cruelty, and as i could nowhere be hurt as through her, malignity exhausted its devices there. she was hooted at when she appeared with me on the streets; she was inundated with infamous letters; she was dragged before a court of _justice_ upon the plea that she had defied the law of the state against amalgamation, forbidding the marriage of white and colored; though at the time it was known that she was english, that we were married in england and by english law. one night, in the midst of the riots which in 1838 disgraced this city, our house was surrounded by a mob, burned over us; and i, with a few faithful friends, barely succeeded in carrying her to a place of safety,--uncovered, save by her delicate night-robe and a shawl, hastily caught up as we hurried her away. the yelling fiends, the burning house, the awful horror of fright and danger, the shock to her health and strength, the storm,--for the night was a wild and tempestuous one, which drenched her to the skin,--from all these she might have recovered, had not her boy, her first-born, been carried into her, bruised and dead,--dead, through an accident of burning rafters and falling stones; an accident, they said; yet as really murdered as though they had wilfully and brutally stricken him down. "after that i saw that she, too, would die, were she not taken back to our old home. the preparations were hastily made; we turned our faces towards england; we hoped to reach it at least before another pair of eyes saw the light, but hoped in vain. there on the broad sea francesca was born. there her mother died. there was she buried." it was with extreme difficulty ercildoune had controlled his face and voice, through the last of this distressing recital, and with the final word he bowed his forehead on the picture-frame,--convulsed with agony,--while voiceless sobs, like spasms, shook his form. surrey realized that no words were to be said here, and stood by, awed and silent. what hand, however tender, could be laid on such a wound as this? presently he looked up, and continued: "i came back here, because, i said, here was my place. i had wealth, education, a thousand advantages which are denied the masses of people who are, like me, of mixed race. i came here to identify my fate with theirs; to work with and for them; to fight, till i died, against the cruel and merciless prejudice which grinds them down. i have a son, who has just entered the service of this country, perhaps to die under its flag. i have a daughter,"--willie flushed and started forward;--"i asked you when i began this recital, if you had counted all the consequences. you know my story; you see with what fate you link yours; reflect! francesca carries no mark of her birth; her father or brother could not come inside her home without shocking society by the scandal, were not the story earlier known. the man whom you struck down this morning is one of our neighbors; you saw and heard his brutal assault: are you ready to face more of the like kind? better than you i know what sentence will be passed upon you,--what measure awarded. it is for your own sake i say these things; consider them. i have finished." surrey had made to speak a half score of times, and as often checked himself,--partly that he should not interrupt his companion; partly that he might be master of his emotions, and say what he had to utter without heat or excitement. "mr. ercildoune," he now said, "listen to me. i should despise myself were i guilty of the wicked and vulgar prejudice universal in america. i should be beneath contempt did i submit or consent to it. two years ago i loved miss ercildoune without knowing aught of her birth. she is the same now as then; should i love her the less? if anything hard or cruel is in her fate that love can soften, it shall be done. if any painful burdens have been thrown upon her life, i can carry, if not the whole, then a part of them. if i cannot put her into a safe shelter where no ill will befall her, i can at least take her into my arms and go with her through the world. it will be easier for us, i think,--i hope,--to face any fate if we are together. ah, sir, do not prevent it; do not deny me this happiness. be my ambassador, since she will not let me speak for myself, and plead my own cause." in his earnestness he had come close to mr. ercildoune, putting out his one hand with a gesture of entreaty, with a tone in his voice, and a look in his face, irresistible to hear and behold. ercildoune took the hand, and held it in a close, firm grasp. some strong emotion shook him. the expression, a combination of sadness and scorn, which commonly held possession of his eyes, went out of them, leaving them radiant. "no," he said, "i will say nothing for you. i would not for worlds spoil your plea; prevent her hearing, from your own mouth, what you have to say. i will send her to you,"--and, going to a door, gave the order to a servant, "desire miss francesca to come to the parlor." then, motioning surrey to the room, he went away, buried in thought. standing in the parlor, for he was too restless to sit, he tried to plan how he should meet her; to think of a sentence which at the outset should disarm her indignation at being thus thrust upon him, and convey in some measure the thought of which his heart was full, without trespassing on her reserve, or telling her of the letter which he had read. then another fear seized him; it was two years since he had written,--two years since that painful and terrible scene had been enacted in the very room where he stood,--two years since she had confessed by deed and look that she loved him. might she not have changed? might she not have struggled for the mastery of this feeling with only too certain success? might she not have learned to regard him with esteem, perchance,--with friendship,--sentiment,--anything but that which he desired or would claim at her hands? silence and absence and time are pitiless destructives. might they not? aye, might they not? he paced to and fro, with quick, restless tread, at the thought. all his love and his longing cried out against such a cruel supposition. he stopped by the side of the bookcase against which she had fallen in that merciless and suffering struggle, and put his hand down on the little projection, which he knew had once cut and wounded her, with a strong, passionate clasp, as though it were herself he held. just then he heard a step,--her step, yet how unlike!--coming down the stairs. where he stood he could see her as she crossed the hall, coming unconsciously to meet him. all the brightness and airy grace seemed to have been drawn quite out of her. the alert, slender figure drooped as if it carried some palpable weight, and moved with a step slow and unsteady as that of sickness or age. her face was pathetic in its sad pallor, and blue, sorrowful circles were drawn under the deep eyes, heavy and dim with the shedding of unnumbered tears. it almost broke his heart to look at her. a feeling, pitiful as a mother would have for her suffering baby, took possession of his soul,--a longing to shield and protect her. tears blinded him; a great sob swelled in his throat; he made a step forward as she came into the room. "papa," she said, without looking up, "you wanted me?" there was no response. "papa!" in an instant an arm enfolded her; a presence, tender and strong, bent above her; a voice, husky with crowding emotions, yet sweet with all the sweetness of love, breathed, "my darling! my darling!" as _his_ fair, sunny hair swept her face. even then she remembered another scene, remembered her promise; even then she thought of him, of his future, and struggled to release herself from his embrace. what did he say? what could he say? where were the arguments he had planned, the entreaties he had purposed? where the words with which he was to tell his tale, combat her refusal, win her to a willing and happy assent? all gone. there was nothing but his heart and its caresses to speak for him. silent, with the ineffable stillness he kissed her eyes, her mouth, held her to his breast with a passionate fondness,--a tender, yet masterful hold, which said, "nothing shall separate us now." she felt it, recognized it, yielded without power to longer contend, clasped her arms about his neck, met his eyes, and dropped her face upon his heart with a long, tremulous sigh which confessed that heaven was won. chapter xiv "_the golden hours, on angel wings, flew o'er me and my dearie._" burns the evening that followed was of the brightest and happiest; even the adieus spoken to the soldier who was just leaving his home did not sadden it. they were in such a state of exaltation as to see everything with courageous and hopeful eyes, and sent robert off with the feeling that all these horrible realities they had known so long were but bogies to frighten foolish children, and that he would come back to them wearing, at the very least, the stars of a major-general. whatever sombre and painful thoughts filled ercildoune's heart he held there, that no gloom might fall from him upon these fresh young lives, nor sadden the cheery expectancy of his son. surrey, having carried the first line of defence, prepared for a vigorous assault upon the second. like all eager lovers, his primary anxiety was to hear "yes"; afterwards, the day. to that end he was pleading with every resource that love and impatience could lend; but francesca shook her head, and smiled, and said that was a long way off,--that was not to be thought of, at least till the war was over, and her soldier safe at home; but he insisted that this was the flimsiest, and poorest of excuses; nay, that it was the very reverse of the true and sensible idea, which was of course wholly on his side. he had these few weeks at home, and then must away once more to chances of battle and death. he did not say this till he had exhausted every other entreaty; but at last, gathering her close to him with his one loving arm,--"how fortunate," he had before said, "that it is the left arm, because if it were the other i could not hold you so near my heart!"--so holding her, he glanced down at the empty sleeve, and whispered, "my darling! who knows? i have been wounded so often, and am now only a piece of a fellow to come to you. it may be something more next time, and then i shall never call you wife. it would make no difference hereafter, i know: we belong to each other for time and eternity. but then i should like to feel that we were something more to one another than even betrothed lovers, before the end comes, if come it does, untimely. be generous, dearie, and say yes." he did not give utterance to another fear, which was that by some device she might again be taken away from him; that some cruel plan might be put in execution to separate them once more. he would not take the risk; he would bind her to him so securely that no device, however cunning,--no plan, however hard and shrewd,--could again divide them. she hesitated long; was long entreated; but the result was sure, since her own heart seconded every prayer he uttered. at last she consented; but insisted that he should go home at once, see the mother and father who were waiting for him with such anxious hearts, give to them--as was their due--at least a part of the time, and then, when her hasty bride-preparations were made, come back and take her wholly to himself. thus it was arranged, and he left her. into the mysteries which followed--the mysteries of hemming and stitching, of tucking and trimming, ruffling, embroidering, of all the hurry and delicious confusion of an elegant yet hasty bridal trousseau--let us not attempt to investigate. doubtless through those days, through this sweet and happy whirl of emotion, francesca had many anxious and painful hours: hours in which she looked at the future--for him more than for herself--with sorrowful anticipations and forebodings. but with each evening came a letter, written in the morning by his dear hand; a letter so full of happy, hopeful love, of resolute, manly spirit, that her cares and anxieties all took flight, and were but as a tale that is told, or as a dream of darkness when the sun shines upon a blessed reality. he wrote her that he had told his parents of his wishes and plans; and that, as he had known before, they were opposed, and opposed most bitterly; but he was sure that time would soften, and knowledge destroy this prejudice utterly. he wrote as he believed. they were so fond of him, so devoted to him who was their only child, that he was assured they would not and could not cast him off, nor hate that which he loved. he did not know that his father, who had never before been guilty of a base action,--his mother, who was fine to daintiness,--were both so warped by this senseless and cruel feeling--having seen francesca and known all her beautiful and noble elements of personal character--as to have written her a letter which only a losel should have penned and an outcast read. she did not tell him. being satisfied that they two belonged to one another; that if they were separated it would be as the tearing asunder of a perfect whole, leaving the parts rent and bleeding,--she would not listen to any voice that attempted, nor heed any hand that strove to drive an entering wedge, or to divide them. why, then, should she trouble him by the knowledge that this effort had again been made, and by those he trusted and honored. let it pass. the future must decide what the future must be, meanwhile, they were to live in a happy present. he learned of it, however, before he left his home. finding that neither persuasions, threats, nor prayers could move him,--that he would be true to honor and love,--they told him of what they had done; laid bare the whole intensity of their feeling; and putting her on the one side, placing themselves on the other, said, "choose,--this wife, or those who have loved you for a lifetime. cleave to her, and your father disowns you, your mother renounces, your home shuts its doors upon you, never to open. with the world and its judgment we have nothing to do; that is between it and you; but no judgment of indifferent strangers shall be more severe than ours." a painful position; a cruel alternative; but not for an instant did he hesitate. taking the two hands of father and mother into his solitary one, he said,--"father, i have always found you a gentleman; mother, you have shown all the graces of the christian character which you profess; yet in this you are supporting the most dishonorable sentiment, the most infidel unbelief, with which the age is shamed. you are defying the dictates of justice and the teachings of god. when you ask me to rank myself on your side, i cannot do it. were my heart less wholly enlisted in this matter, my reason and sense of right would rebel. here, then, for the present at least, we must say farewell." and so, with many a heart-ache and many a pang, he went away. as true love always grows with passing time, so his increased with the days, and intensified by the cruel heat which was poured upon it. he realized the torture to which, in a thousand ways, this darling of his heart had for a lifetime been subjected; and his tenderness and love--in which was an element of indignation and pathos--deepened with every fresh revelation of the passing hours. when he came back to her he had few words to speak, and no airy grace of sentence or caress to bestow; he followed her about in a curious, shadow-like way, with such a strain on his heart as made him many a time lift his hand to it, as if to check physical pain. for her, she was as one who had found a beloved master, able and willing to lighten all her burdens; a physician, whose slightest touch brought balm and healing to every aching wound. and so these two when the time came, spite of the absence of friends who should have been there, spite of warnings and denunciations and evil prophecies, stood up and said to those who listened what their hearts had long before confessed, that they were one for time and eternity; then, hand in hand, went out into the world. for the present it was a pleasant enough world to them. surrey had a lovely little place on the hudson to which he would carry her, and pleased himself by fitting it up with every convenience and beauty that taste could devise and wealth supply. how happy they were there! to be sure, nobody came to see them, but then they wished to see nobody; so every one was well satisfied. the delicious lovers' life of two years before was renewed, but with how much richer and deeper delights and blissfulness! they galloped on many a pleasant morning across miles and miles of country, down rocky slopes, and through wild and romantic glens. they drove lazily, on summer noons, through leafy fastnesses and cool forest paths; or sat idly by some little stream on the fresh, green moss, with a line dancing on the crystal water, amusing themselves by the fiction that it was fishing upon which they were intent, and not the dear delight of watching one another's faces reflected from the placid stream. they spent hours at home, reading bits of poems, or singing scraps of love-songs, talking a little, and then falling away into silence; or she sat perched on his knee or the elbow of his chair, smoothing his sunny hair, stroking his long, silky mustache, or looking into his answering eyes, till the world lapsed quite away from them, and they thought themselves in heaven. an idle, happy time! a time to make a worker sigh only to behold, and a benthamite lift his hands in deprecation and despair. a time which would not last, because it could not, any more than apple-blossoms and may flowers, but which was sweet and fragrant past all describing while it endured. some _kindly_ disposed person sent surrey a city paper with an item marked in such wise as to make him understand its unpleasant import without the reading. "come," he said, "we will have none of this; this owl does not belong to our sunshine,"--and so destroyed and forgot it. others, however, saw that which he scorned to read. he had not been into the city since he called at his father's house, and walked into the reception room of his aunt, and been refused interview or speech at either place. "very well," he thought, "i will go from this painful inhospitality and coldness to my paradise"; and he went, and remained. the only letter he wrote was to his old friend and favorite cousin, tom russell,--who was away somewhere in the far south, and from whom he had not heard for many a day,--and hoped that he, at least, would not disappoint him; would not disappoint the hearty trust he had in his breadth of nature and manly sensibility. and so, with clouds doubtless in the sky, but which they did not see,--the sun shone so bright for them; and some discords in the minor keys which they did not heed,--the major music was so sweet and intoxicating,--the brief, glad hours wore away, and the time for parting, with hasty steps, had almost reached and faced them. meanwhile, what was occurring to others, in other scenes and among other surroundings? chapter xv "_there are some deeds so grand that their mighty doers stand ennobled, in a moment, more than kings._" boker it was towards the evening of a blazing july day on morris island. the mail had just come in and been distributed. jim, with some papers and a precious missive from sallie in one hand, his supper in the other, betook himself to a cool spot by the river,--if, indeed, any spot could be called cool in that fiery sand,--and proceeded to devour the letter with wonderful avidity while the "grub," properly enough, stood unnoticed and uncared for. presently he stopped, rubbed his eyes, and re-read a paragraph in the epistle before him, then re-rubbed, and read it again; and then, laying it down, gave utterance to a long whistle, expressive of unbounded astonishment, if not incredulity. the whistle was answered by its counterpart, and jim, looking up, beheld his captain,--coolidge by name,--a fast, bright new york boy, standing at a little distance, and staring with amazed eyes at a paper he held in his hands. glancing from this to jim, encountering his look, he burst out laughing and came towards him. "helloa, given!" he called: jim was a favorite with him, as indeed with pretty much every one with whom he came in contact, officers and men,--"you, too, seem put out. i wonder if you've read anything as queer as that," handing him the paper and striking his finger down on an item; "read it." jim read:-"miscegenation. disgraceful freak in high life. fruit of an abolition war.--we are credibly informed that a young man belonging to one of the first families in the city, mr. w.a.s.,--we spare his name for the sake of his relatives,--who has been engaged since its outset in this fratricidal war, has just given evidence of its legitimate effect by taking to his bosom a nigger wench as _his wife_. of course he is disowned by his family, and spurned by his friends, even radical fanaticism not being yet ready for such a dose as this. however--" jim did not finish the homily of which this was the presage, but, throwing the paper on the ground, indignantly drove his heel through it, tearing and soiling it, and then viciously kicked it into the river. said the captain when this operation was completed, having watched it with curious eyes, "well, my man, are you aware of the fact that that is _my_ paper?" "don't care if it is. what in thunder did you bring the damned copperhead sheet to me for, if you didn't want it smashed? ain't you ashamed of yourself having such a thing round? how'd you feel if you were picked up dead by a reb, with that stuff in your pocket? say now!" coolidge laughed,--he was always ready to laugh: that was probably why the men liked him so well, and stood in awe of him not a bit. "feel? horridly, of course. bad enough, being dead, to yet speak, and tell 'em that paper didn't represent my politics: 'd that do?" jim shook his head dubiously. "what are you making such a devil of a row for, i'd like to know? it's too hot to get excited. 'tain't likely you know anything about willie surrey." "o ho! it is mr. will, then, is it? know him,--don't i, though? like a book. known him ever since he was knee-height of a grasshopper. i'd like to have that fellow"--shaking his fist toward the floating paper--"within arm's reach. wouldn't i pummel him some? o no, of course not,--not at all. only, if he wants a sound skin, i'd advise him, as a friend, to be scarce when i'm round, because it'd very likely be damaged." "you think it's all a copperhead lie, then! i should have thought so, at first, only i know surrey's capable of doing any quixotic thing if he once gets his mind fixed on it." "i know what i know," jim answered, slowly folding and unfolding sallie's letter, which he still held in his hand. "i know all about that young lady he's been marrying. she's young, and she's handsome--handsome as a picture--and rich, and as good as an angel; that's about what she is, if sallie howard and i know b from a bull's foot." "who is sallie howard?" queried the captain. "she? o,"--very red in the face,--"she's a friend of mine, and she's miss ercildoune's seamstress." "ercildoune? good name! is she the _lady_ upon whom surrey has been bestowing his--?" "yes, she is; and here's her photograph. sallie begged it of her, and sent it to me, once after she had done a kind thing by both of us. looks like a 'nigger wench,' don't she?" the captain seized the picture, and, having once fastened his eyes upon it, seemed incapable of removing them. "this? this her?" he cried. "great cã¦sar! i should think surrey would have the fellow out at twenty paces in no time. heavens, what a beauty!" jim grinned sardonically: "she is rather pretty, now,--ain't she?" "pretty! ugh, what an expression! pretty, indeed! i never saw anything so beautiful. but what a sad face it is!" "sad! well, 'tain't much wonder. i guess her life's been sad enough, in spite of her youth, and her beauty, and her riches, and all the rest." "why, how should that be?" "suppose you take another squint at that face." "well." "see anything peculiar about it?" "nothing except its beauty." "not about the eyes?" "no,--only i believe it is they that make the face so sorrowful." "very like. you generally see just such big mournful-looking eyes in the faces of people that are called--octoroons." "what?" cried the captain, dropping the picture in his surprise. "just so," jim answered, picking it up and dusting it carefully before restoring it to its place in his pocket-book. "so, then, it is part true, after all." "true!" exclaimed jim, angrily,--"don't make an ass of yourself, captain." "why, given, didn't you say yourself that she was an octoroon, or some such thing?" "suppose i did,--what then?" "i should say, then, that surrey has disgraced himself forever. he has not only outraged his family and his friends, and scandalized society, but he has run against nature itself. it's very plain god almighty never intended the two races to come together." "o, he didn't, hey? had a special despatch from him, that you know all about it? i've heard just such talk before from people who seemed to be pretty well posted about his intentions,--in this particular matter,--though i generally noticed they weren't chaps who were very intimate with him in any other way." the captain laughed. "thank you, jim, for the compliment; but come, you aren't going to say that nature hasn't placed a barrier between these people and us? an instinct that repels an anglo-saxon from a negro always and everywhere?" "ho, ho! that's good! why, captain, if you keep on, you'll make me talk myself into a regular abolitionist. instinct, hey? i'd like to know, then, where all the mulattoes, and the quadroons, and the octoroons come from,--the yellow-skins and brown-skins and skins so nigh white you can't tell 'em with your spectacles on! the darkies must have bleached out amazingly here in america, for you'd have to hunt with a long pole and a telescope to boot to find a straight-out black one anywhere round,--leastwise that's my observation." "that was slavery." "yes 'twas,--and then the damned rascals talk about the amalgamationists, and all that, up north. 'twan't the abolitionists; 'twas the slaveholders and their friends that made a race of half-breeds all over the country; but, slavery or no slavery, they showed nature hadn't put any barriers between them,--and it seems to me an enough sight decenter and more respectable plan to marry fair and square than to sell your own children and the mother that bore them. come, now, ain't it?" "well, yes, if you come to that, i suppose it is!" "you _suppose_ it is! see here,--i've found out something since i've been down here, and have had time to think; 'tain't the living together that troubles squeamish stomachs; it's the marrying. that's what's the matter!" "just about!" assented the captain, with an amused look, "and here's a case in point. surrey ought to have been shot for marrying one of that degraded race." "bah! he married one of his own race, if i know how to calculate." "there, jim, don't be a fool! if she's got any negro blood in her veins she's a nigger, and all your talk won't make her anything else." "i say, captain, i've heard that some of your ancestors were indians: is that so?" "yes: my great-grandmother was an indian chief's daughter,--so they say; and you might as well claim royalty when you have the chance." "bless me! your great-grandmother, eh? come, now, what do you call yourself,--an injun?" "no, i don't. i call myself an anglo-saxon." "what, not call yourself an injun,--when your great-grandmother was one? here's a pretty go!" "nonsense! 'tisn't likely that filtered indian blood can take precedence and mastery of all the anglo-saxon material it's run through since then." "hurray! now you've said it. lookee here, captain. you say the anglo-saxon's the master race of the world." "of course i do." "of course you do,--being a sensible fellow. so do i; and you say the negro blood is mighty poor stuff, and the race a long way behind ours." "of course, again." "now, captain, just take a sober squint at your own logic. you back anglo-saxon against the field; very well! here's miss ercildoune, we'll say, one eighth negro, seven eighths anglo-saxon. you make that one eighth stronger than all the other seven eighths: you make that little bit of negro master of all the lot of anglo-saxon. now i have such a good opinion of my own race that if it were t'other way about, i'd think the one eighth saxon strong enough to beat the seven eighths nigger. that's sound, isn't it? consequently, i call anybody that's got any mixture at all, and that knows anything, and keeps a clean face,--and ain't a rebel, nor yet a copperhead,--i call him, if it's a him, and her, if it's a she, one of us. and i mean to say to any such from henceforth, 'here's your chance,--go in, and win, if you can,--and anybody be damn'd that stops you!'" "blow away, jim," laughed the captain, "i like to hear you; and it's good talk if you don't mean it." "i'll be blamed if i don't." "come, you're talking now,--you're saying a lot more than you'll live up to,--you know that as well as i. people always do when they're gassing." "well, blow or no blow, it's truth, whether i live up to it or not." and he, evidently with not all the steam worked off, began to gather sticks and build a fire to fry his bit of pork and warm the cold coffee. just then they heard the plash of oars keeping time to the cadence of a plantation hymn, which came floating solemn and clear through the night:- "my brudder sittin' on de tree ob life, an' he yearde when jordan roll. roll jordan, roll jordan, roll jordan, roll, roll jordan, roll!" they both paused to listen as the refrain was again and again repeated. "there's nigger for you," broke out jim, "what'n thunder'd they mean by such gibberish as that?" the captain laughed. "come, given, don't quarrel with what's above your comprehension. doubtless there's a spiritual meaning hidden away somewhere, which your unsanctified ears can't interpret." "spiritual fiddlestick!" "worse and worse! what a heathen you're demonstrating yourself! violins are no part of the heavenly chorus." "much you know about it! hark,--they're at it again"; and again the voices and break of oars came through the night:- "o march, de angel march! o march, de angel march! o my soul arise in heaven, lord, for to yearde when jordan roll! roll jordan, roll jordan, roll jordan, roll." "well, i confess that's a little bit above my comprehension,--that is. spiritual or something else. lazy vermin! they'll paddle round in them boats, or lie about in the sun, and hoot all day and all night about 'de good lord' and 'de day ob jubilee,'--and think god almighty is going to interfere in their special behalf, and do big things for them generally." "it's a fact; they do all seem to be waiting for something." "well, i reckon they needn't wait any longer. the day of miracles is gone by, for such as them, anyway. they ain't worth the salt that feeds them, so far as i can discover." through the wash of the waters they could hear from the voices, as they sang, that their possessors were evidently drawing nearer. "sense or not," said the captain, "i never listen to them without a queer feeling. what they sing is generally ridiculous enough, but their voices are the most pathetic things in the world." here the hymn stopped; a boat was pulled up, and presently they saw two men coming from the sands and into the light of their fire,--ragged, dirty; one shabby old garment--a pair of tow pantaloons--on each; bareheaded, barefooted,--great, clumsy feet, stupid and heavy-looking heads; slouching walk, stooping shoulders; something eager yet deprecating in their black faces. "look at 'em, captain; now you just take a fair look at 'em; and then say that mr. surrey's wife belongs to the same family,--own kith and kin,--you ca-a-n't do it." "faugh! for heaven's sake, shut up! of course, when it comes to this, i can't say anything of the kind." "'nuff said. you see, i believe in mr. surrey, and what's more, i believe in miss ercildoune,--have reason to; and when i hear anybody mixing her up with these onry, good-for-nothing niggers, it's more'n i can stand, so don't let's have any more of it"; and turning with an air which said that subject was ended, jim took up his forgotten coffee, pulled apart some brands and put the big tin cup on the coals, and then bent over it absorbed, sniffing the savory steam which presently came up from it. meanwhile the two men were skulking about among the trees, watching, yet not coming near,--"at their usual work of waiting," as the captain said. "proper enough, too, let 'em wait. waiting's their business. now," taking off his tin and looking towards them, "what d'ye s'pose those anemiles want? pity the boat hadn't tipped over before they got here. camp's overrun now with just such scoots. here, you!" he called. the men came near. "where'd you come from?" one of them pointed back to the boat, seen dimly on the sand. "was that you howling a while ago, 'roll jordan,' or something?" "yes, massa." "and where did you come from?--no, you needn't look back there again,--i mean, where did you and the boat too come from?" "come from mass' george wingate's place, massa." "far from here?" "big way, massa." "what brought you here? what did you come for?" "if you please, massa, 'cause the linkum sojers was yere, an' de big guns, an' we yearde dat all our people's free when dey gets yere." "free! what'll such fellows as you do with freedom, hey?" the two looked at their interrogator, then at one another, opened their mouths as to speak, and shut them hopelessly,--unable to put into words that which was struggling in their darkened brains,--and then with a laugh, a laugh that sounded woefully like a sob, answered, "dunno, massa." "what fools!" cried jim, angrily; but the captain, who was watching them keenly, thought of a line he had once read, "there is a laughter sadder than tears." "true enough,--poor devils!" he added to himself. "are you hungry?" jim proceeded. "i hope massa don't think we's come yere for to git suthin' to eat," said the smaller of the two, a little, thin, haggard-looking fellow,--"we's no beggars. some ob de darkies is, but we's not dem kind,--jim an' me,--we's willin' to work, ain't we, jim?" "jim!" soliloquized given,--"my name, hey? we'll take a squint at this fellow." the squint showed two impoverished-looking wretches, with a starved look in their eyes, which he did not comprehend, and a starved look in their faces and forms, which he did. "come, now, are you hungry?" he queried once more. "if ye please, massa," began the little one who was spokesman,--'little folks always are gas-bags,' jim was fond of saying from his six feet of height,--"if ye please, massa, we's had nothin' to eat but berries an' roots an' sich like truck for long while." "well, why by the devil haven't you had something else then? what've you been doing with yourselves for 'long while'? what d'ye mean, coming here starved to death, making a fellow sick to look at you? hold your gab, and eat up that pork," pushing over his tin plate, "'n' that bread," sending it after, "'n' that hard tack,--'tain't very good, but it's better'n roots, i reckon, or berries either,--'n' gobble up that coffee, double-quick, mind; and don't you open your heads to talk till the grub's gone, slick and clean. ugh!" he said to the captain,--"sight o' them fellows just took my appetite away; couldn't eat to save my soul; lucky they came to devour the rations; pity to throw them away." the captain smiled,--he knew jim. "poor cusses!" he added presently, "eat like cannibals, don't they? hope they enjoy it. had enough?" seeing they had devoured everything put before them. "thankee, massa. yes, massa. bery kind, massa. had quite 'nuff." "well, now, you, sir!" looking at the little one,--"by the way, what's your name?" "'bijah, if ye please, massa." "'bijah? abijah, hey? well, i don't please; however, it's none of my name. well, 'bijah, how came you two to be looking like a couple of animated skeletons? that's the next question." "yes, massa." "i say, how came you to be starved? hai'n't they nothing but roots and berries up your way? mass' george wingate must have a jolly time, feasting, in that case. come, what's your story? out with the whole pack of lies at once." "i hope massa thinks we wouldn't tell nuffin but de truf," said jim, who had not before spoken save to say, "thankee,"--"cause if he don't bleeve us, ain't no use in talkin'." "you shut up! i ain't conversing with you, rawbones! speak when you're spoken to! come, 'bijah, fire away." "bery good, massa. ye see i'se mass' george wingate's boy. mass' george he lives in de back country, good long way from de coast,--over a hundred miles, jim calklates,--an' jim's smart at calklating; well, mass' george he's not berry good to his people; never was, an' he's been wuss'n ever since the linkum sojers cum round his way, 'cause it's made feed scurce ye see, an' a lot of de boys dey tuck to runnin' away,--so what wid one ting an' anoder, his temper got spiled, an' he was mighty hard on us all de time. "at las' i got tired of bein' cuffed an' knocked round, an' den i yearde dat if our people, any of dem, got to de fedral lines dey was free, so i said, 'cum, 'bijah,--freedom's wuth tryin' for'; an' one dark night i did up some hoe-cake an' a piece of pork an' started. i trabbeled hard's i could all night,--'bout fifteen mile, i reckon,--an' den as 'twas gittin' toward mornin' i hid away in a swamp. ye see i felt drefful bad, for i could year way off, but plain enuff, de bayin' of de hounds, an' i knew dat de men an' de guns an' de dogs was all after me; but de day passed an' dey didn't come. so de next night i started off agen, an' run an' walked hard all night, an' towards mornin' i went up to a little house standen off from de road, thinking it was a nigger house, an' jest as i got up to it out walked a white woman scarin' me awfully, an' de fust ting she axed me was what i wanted." "tight slave!" interrupted jim,--"what d'ye do then?" "well, massa, ye see i saw mighty quick i was in for a lie anyhow, so i said, 'is massa at home?' 'yes,' says she,--an' sure nuff, he cum right out. 'hello, nigger!' he said when he seed me, 'whar you cum from? so i tells him from pocotaligo, an' before he could ax any more queshuns, i went on an' tole him we cotched fifty yankees down dere yesterday, an' massa he was so tickled dat he let me go to barnwells to see my family, an' den i said i'd got off de track an' was dead beat an' drefful hungry, an' would he please to sell me suthin to eat. at dat de woman streaked right into de house, an' got me some bread an' meat, an' tole me to eat it up an' not talk about payin,'--'we don't charge good, faithful niggers nothin',' she said,--so i thanked her an' eat it all up, an' den, when de man had tole me how to go, i went right long till i got out ob sight ob de little house, an' den i got into de woods, an' turned right round de oder way an' made tracks fast as i could in dat direcshun." "ho! ho! you're about what i call a 'cute nigger," laughed jim. "come, go on,--this gets interesting." "well, directly i yearde de dogs. dere was a pond little way off; so i tuck to it, an' waded out till i could just touch my toes an' keep my nose above water so's to breathe. presently dey all cum down, an' i yearde mass' george say, 'i'll hunt dat nigger till i find him if takes a month. i'se goin' to make a zample of him,'--so i shook some at dat, for i know'd what mass' george's zamples was. arter while one ob de men says, 'he ain't yere,--he'd shown hisself before dis, if he was,' an' i spose i would, for i was pretty nearly choked, only i said to myself when i went in, 'i'll go to de bottom before i'll come up to be tuck,' so i jest held on by my toes an' waited. "i didn't dare to cum out when dey rode away to try a new scent, an' when i did i jest skulked round de edge ob de pond, ready to take to it agen if i yearde dem, an' when night cum i started off an' run an' walked agen hard's i could, an' den at day-dawn i tuck to anoder pond, an' went on a log dat was stickin' in de water, and broke down some rushes an' bushes enuf to lie down on an' cover me up, an' den i slept all day, for i was drefful tired an' most starved too. next evenin' when it got dark, i went on agen, an' trabblin through de woods i seed a little light, an' sartin dis time dat it was a darkey's cabin, i made for it, an' it was. it was his'n,"--pointing to the big fellow who stood beside him, and who nodded his head in assent. "i had a palaver before he'd let me in, but when i was in i seed what de matter was. he had a sojer dere, a linkum sojer, bad wounded, what he'd found in de woods,--he was a runaway hisself, ye see, like me,--an' he'd tuck him to dis ole cabin an'd been nussin him on for good while. when i seed dat i felt drefful bad, for i knowed dey was a huntin for me yet, an' i tought if de dogs got on de trail dey'd get to dis cabin, sure: an' den dey'd both be tuck. so i up an' tole dem, an' de sojer he says, 'come, jim, you've done quite enuff fur me, my boy. if you're in danger now, be off with you fast as you can,--an' god reward you, for i never can, for all you've done for me.' "'no,' says jim, 'capen, ye needn't talk in dat way, for i'se not goin to budge widout you. you got wounded fur me an' my people, an' now i'll stick by you an' face any thing fur you if it's death hisself!' that's just what jim said; an' de sojer he put his hand up to his face, an' i seed it tremble bad,--he was weak, you see,--an' some big tears cum out troo his fingers onto de back ob it. "den jim says, 'dis isn't a safe place for any on us, an' we'll have to take to our heels agen, an' so de sooner we's off de better.' so he did up some vittels,--all he had dere,--an' gave 'em to me to tote,--an' den before de capen could sneeze he had him up on his back, an' we was off. "it was pretty hard work i kin tell you, strong as jim was, an' we'd have to stop an' rest putty ofen; an' den, jim an' i, we'd tote him atween us on some boughs; an' den we had to lie by, some days, all day,--an' we trabbled putty slow, cause we'd lost our bearing an' was in a secesh country, we knowed,--an' we had nudin but berries an' sich to eat, an' got nigh starved. "one night we cum onto half a dozen fellows skulkin' in de woods, an' at fust dey made fight, but d'rectly dey know'd we was friends, fur dey was some more linkum sojers, an' dey'd lost dere way, or ruther, dey know'd where dey was, but dey didn't know how to git way from dere. dey was 'scaped pris'ners, dey told us; when i yearde where 'twas i know'd de way to de coast, an' said i'd show 'em de way if dey'd cum long wid us, so dey did; an' we got 'long all right till we got to de ribber up by mass' rhett's place." "yes, i know where it is," said the captain. "den what to do was de puzzle. de country was all full ob secesh pickets, an' dere was de ribber, an' we had no boat,--so jim, he says, 'i know what to do; fust i'll hide you yere,' an' he did all safe in de woods; 'an' den i'll git ye suthin to eat from de niggers round,' an' he did dat too, do he couldn't git much, for fear he'd be seen; an' den we, he and i, made some ropes out ob de tall grass like dat we'd ofen made fur mats, an' tied dem together wid some oder grass, an' stuck a board in, an' den made fur de yankee camp, an' yere we is." "yes," said the black man jim, here,--breaking silence,--"we'll show you de way back if you kin go up in a boat dey can rest in, fur dey's most all clean done out, an' de capen's wound is awful bad yit." "this captain,--what's his name?" inquired coolidge. "his name is here," said jim, carefully drawing forth a paper from his rags,--"he has on dis some figgers an' a map of de country he took before he got wounded, an' some words he writ wid a bit of burnt stick just before we cum away,--an' he giv it to me, an' tole me to bring it to camp, fur fear something might happen to him while we was away." "my god!" cried coolidge when he had opened the paper, and with hasty eyes scanned its contents, "it's tom russell; i know him well. this must be sent up to head-quarters, and i'll get an order, and a boat, and some men, to go for them at once." all of which was promptly done. "see here! i speak to be one of the fellows what goes," jim emphatically announced. "all right. i reckon we'll both go, given, if the general will let us,--and i think he will,"--which was a safe guess and a true one. the boat was soon ready and manned. 'bijah, too weak to pull an oar, was left behind; and jim, really not fit to do aught save guide them, still insisted on taking his share of work. they found the place at last, and the men; and taking them on board,--russell having to be moved slowly and carefully,--they began to pull for home. the tide was going out, and the river low: that, with the heavy laden boat, made their progress lingering; a fact which distressed them all, as they knew the night to be almost spent, and that the shores were so lined with batteries, open and masked, and the country about so scoured by rebels, as to make it almost sure death to them if they were not beyond the lines before the morning broke. the water was steadily and perceptibly ebbing,--the rowing growing more and more insecure,--the danger becoming imminent. "ease her off, there! ease her off!" cried the captain,--as a harsh, gravelly sound smote on his ear, and at the same moment a shot whizzed past them, showing that they were discovered,--"ease her off, there! or we're stuck!" the warning came too late,--indeed, could not have been obeyed, had it come earlier. the boat struck; her bottom grating hard on the wet sand. "great god! she's on a bar," cried coolidge, "and the tide's running out, fast." "yes, and them damned rebs are safe enough from _our_ fire," said one of the men. a few scattering shot fell about them. "they're going to make their mark on us, anyway," put in another. "and we can't send 'em anything in return, blast 'em!" growled a third. "that's the worst of it," broke out a fourth, "to be shot at like a rat in a hole." all said in a breath, and the balls by this time falling thick and fast,--a fiery, awful rain of death. the men were no cowards, and the captain was brave enough; but what could they do? to stand up was but to make figure-heads at which the concealed enemy could fire with ghastly certainty; to fire in return was to waste their ammunition in the air. the men flung themselves face foremost on the deck, silent and watchful. through it all jim had been sitting crouched over his oar. he, unarmed, could not have fought had the chance offered; breaking out, once and again, into the solemn-sounding chant which he had been singing when he came up in his boat the evening before:- "o my soul arise in heaven, lord, for to yearde when jordan roll, roll jordan, roll jordan, roll jordan, roll,"-the words falling in with the sound of the water as it lapsed from them. "stop that infernal noise, will you?" cried one of the men, impatiently. the noise stopped. "hush, harry,--don't swear!" expostulated another, beside whom was lying a man mortally wounded. "this is awful! 'tain't like going in fair and square, on your chance." "that's so,--it's enough to make a fellow pray," was the answer. here russell, putting up his hand, took hold of jim's brawny black one with a gesture gentle as a woman's. it hurt him to hear his faithful friend even spoken to harshly. all this, while the hideous shower of death was dropping about them; the water was ebbing, ebbing,--falling and running out fast to sea, leaving them higher and drier on the sands; the gray dawn was steadily brightening into day. at this fearful pass a sublime scene was enacted. "sirs!" said a voice,--it was jim's voice, and in it sounded something so earnest and strange, that the men involuntarily turned their heads to look at him. then this man stood up,--a black man,--a little while before a slave,--the great muscles swollen and gnarled with unpaid toil, the marks of the lash and the branding-iron yet plain upon his person, the shadows of a lifetime of wrongs and sufferings looking out of his eyes. "sirs!" he said, simply, "somebody's got to die to get us out of dis, and it may as well be me,"--plunged overboard, put his toil-hardened shoulders to the boat; a struggle, a gasp, a mighty wrench,--pushed it off clear; then fell, face foremost, pierced by a dozen bullets. free at last! chapter xvi "_ye died to live._" boker the next day jim was recounting this scene to some men in camp, describing it with feeling and earnestness, and winding up the narration by the declaration, "and the first man that says a nigger ain't as good as a white man, and a damn'd sight better'n those graybacks over yonder, well"-"well, suppose he does?"--interrupted one of the men. "o, nothing, billy dodge,--only he and i'll have a few words to pass on the subject, that's all"; doubling up his fist and examining the big cords and muscles on it with curious and well-satisfied interest. "see here, billy!" put in one of his comrades, "don't you go to having any argument with jim,--he's a dabster with his tongue, jim is." "yes, and a devil with his fist," growled a sullen-looking fellow. "just so,"--assented jim,--"when a blackguard's round to feel it." "well, given, do you like the darkies well enough to take off your cap to them?" queried a sergeant standing near. "what are you driving at now, hey?" "o, not much; but you'll have to play second fiddle to them to-night. the general thinks they're as good as the rest of us, and a little bit better, and has sent over for the fifty-fourth to lead the charge this evening. what have you got to say to that?" "bull, for them! that's what i've got to say. any objection?" looking round him. "nary objec!" "they deserve it!" "they fought like tigers over on james island!" "i hope they'll pepper the rebs well!"--"it ought to be a free fight, and no quarter, with them!" "yes, for they get none if they're taken!" "go in, fifty-fourth!" these and the like exclamations broke from the men on all sides, with absolute heartiness and good will. "it seems to me," sneered a dapper little officer who had been looking and listening, "that the niggers have plenty of advocates here." two or three of the men looked at jim. "you may bet your pile on that, major!" said he, with becoming gravity; "we love our friends, and we hate our enemies, and it's the dark-complected fellows that are the first down this way." "pretty-looking set of friends!" "well, they ain't much to look at, that's a fact; but i never heard of anybody saying you was to turn a cold shoulder on a helper because he was homely, except,"--this as the major was walking away, "except a secesh, or a fool, or one of little mac's staff officers." "homely? what are you gassing about?" objected a little fellow from massachusetts; "the fifty-fourth is as fine-looking a set of men as shoulder rifles anywhere in the army." "jack's sensitive about the credit of his state," chaffed a big ohioan. "he wants to crack up these fellows, seeing they're his comrades. i say, johnny, are all the white men down your way such little shavers as you?" "for a fellow that's all legs and no brains, you talk too much," answered johnny. "have any of you seen the fifty-fourth?" "i haven't." "nor i." "yes, i saw them at port royal." "and i." "and i." "well, the twenty-third was at beaufort while they were there, and i used to go over to their camp and talk with them. i never saw fellows so in earnest; they seemed ready to die on the instant, if they could help their people, or walk into the slaveholders any, first. they were just full of it; and yet it seemed absurd to call 'em a black regiment; they were pretty much all colors, and some of 'em as white as i am." "lord," said jim, "that's not saying much, you've got a smutty face." the men laughed, jack with the rest, as he dabbed at his heated, powder-stained countenance. "come," said he, "that's no fair,--they're as white as i am, then, when i've just scrubbed; and some of them are first-raters, too; none of your rag, tag, and bobtail. there's one i remember, a man from philadelphia, who walks round like a prince. he's a gentleman, every inch,--and he's rich,--and about the handsomest-looking specimen of humanity i've set eyes upon for an age." "rich, is he? how do you know he's rich?" "i was over one night with captain ware, and he and this man got to talking about the pay for the fifty-fourth. the government promised them regular pay, you see, and then when it got 'em refused to stick to its agreement, and they would take no less, so they haven't seen a dime since they enlisted; and it's a darned mean piece of business, that's my opinion of the matter, and i don't care who knows it," looking round belligerently. "come, bantam, don't crow so loud," interrupted the big ohioan; "nobody's going to fight you on that statement; it's a shame, and no mistake. but what about your paragon?" "i'll tell you. the captain was trying to convince him that they had better take what they could get till they got the whole, and that, after all, it was but a paltry difference. 'but,' said the man, 'it's not the money, though plenty of us are poor enough to make that an item. it's the badge of disgrace, the stigma attached, the dishonor to the government. if it were only two cents we wouldn't submit to it, for the difference would be made because we are colored, and we're not going to help degrade our own people, not if we starve for it. besides, it's our flag, and our government now, and we've got to defend the honor of both against any assailants, north or south,--whether they're republican congressmen or rebel soldiers.' the captain looked puzzled at that, and asked what he meant. 'why,' said he, 'the united states government enlisted us as soldiers. being such, we don't intend to disgrace the service by accepting the pay of servants.'" "that's the kind of talk," bawled jim from a fence-rail upon which he was balancing. "i'd like to have a shake of that fellow's paw. what's his name, d'ye know?" "ercildoune." "hey?" "ercildoune." "jemime! ercildoune,--from philadelphia, you say?" "yes,--do you know him?" "well, no,--i don't exactly know him, but i think i know something about him. his pa's rich as a nob, if it's the one i mean,"--and then finished sotto voce, "it's mrs. surrey's brother, sure as a gun!" "well, he ought to be rich, if he ain't. as we, that's the captain and me, were walking away, the captain said to one of the officers of the fifty-fourth who'd been listening to the talk, 'it's easy for that man to preach self-denial for a principle. he's rich, i've heard. it don't hurt him any; but it's rather selfish to hold some of the rest up to his standard; and i presume that such a man as he has no end of influence with them!' "'as he should,' said his officer. 'ercildoune has brains enough to stock a regiment, and refinement, and genius, and cultivation that would assure him the highest position in society or professional life anywhere out of america. he won't leave it though; for in spite of its wrongs to him he sees its greatness and goodness,--says that it is _his_, and that it is to be saved, it and all its benefits, for americans,--no matter what the color of their skin,--of whom he is one. he sees plain enough that this war is going to break the slave's chain, and ultimately the stronger chain of prejudice that binds his people to the grindstone, and he's full of enthusiasm for it, accordingly; though i'm free to confess, the magnanimity of these colored men from the north who fight, on faith, for the government, is to me something amazing.'" "'why,' said the captain,--'why, any more from the north than from the south?'" "why? the blacks down here can at least fight their ex-masters, and pay off some old scores; but for a man from the north who is free already, and so has nothing to gain in that way,--whose rights as a man and a citizen are denied,--for such a man to enlist and to fight, without bounty, pay, honor, or promotion,--without the promise of gaining anything whatever for himself,--condemned to a thankless task on the one side,--to a merciless death or even worse fate on the other,--facing all this because he has faith that the great republic will ultimately be redeemed; that some hands will gather in the harvest of this bloody sowing, though he be lying dead under it,--i tell you, the more i see of these men, the more i know of them, the more am i filled with admiration and astonishment. "now here's this one of whom we are talking, ercildoune, born with a silver spoon in his mouth: instead of eating with it, in peace and elegance, in some european home, look at him here. you said something about his lack of self-sacrifice. he's doing 'what he is from a principle; and beyond that, it's no wonder the men care for him: he has spent a small fortune on the most needy of them since they enlisted,--finding out which of them have families, or any one dependent on them, and helping them in the finest and most delicate way possible. there are others like him here, and it's a fortunate circumstance, for there's not a man but would suffer, himself,--and, what's more, let his family suffer at home,--before he'd give up the idea for which they are contending now." "'well, good luck to them!' said the captain as we came away; and so say i," finished jack. "and i,"--"and i," responded some of the men. "we must see this man when they come over here." "i'll bet you a shilling," said jim, pulling out a bit of currency, "that he'll make his mark to-night." "lend us the change, given, and i'll take you up," said one of the men. the others laughed. "he don't mean it," said jim: which, indeed, he didn't. nobody seemed inclined to run any risks by betting on the other side of so likely a proposition. this talk took place late in the afternoon, near the head-quarters of the commanding general; and the men directly scattered to prepare for the work of the evening: some to clean a bayonet, or furbish up a rifle; others to chat and laugh over the chances and to lay plans for the morrow,--the morrow which was for them never to dawn on earth; and yet others to sit down in their tents and write letters to the dear ones at home, making what might, they knew, be a final-farewell,--for the fight impending was to be a fierce one,--or to read a chapter in a little book carried from some quiet fireside, balancing accounts perchance, in anticipation of the call of the great captain to come up higher. through the whole afternoon there had been a tremendous cannonading of the fort from the gunboats and the land forces: the smooth, regular engineer lines were broken, and the fresh-sodded embankments torn and roughened by the unceasing rain of shot and shell. about six o'clock there came moving up the island, over the burning sands and under the burning sky, a stalwart, splendid-appearing set of men, who looked equal to any daring, and capable of any heroism; men whom nothing could daunt and few things subdue. now, weary, travel-stained, with the mire and the rain of a two days' tramp; weakened by the incessant strain and lack of food, having taken nothing for forty-eight hours save some crackers and cold coffee; with gaps in their ranks made by the death of comrades who had fallen in battle but a little time before,--under all these disadvantages, it was plain to be seen of what stuff these men were made, and for what work they were ready. as this regiment, the famous fifty-fourth, came up the island to take its place at the head of the storming party in the assault on wagner, it was cheered from all sides by the white soldiers, who recognized and honored the heroism which it had already shown, and of which it was soon to give such new and sublime proof. the evening, or rather the afternoon, was a lurid and sultry one. great masses of clouds, heavy and black, were piled in the western sky, fringed here and there by an angry red, and torn by vivid streams of lightning. not a breath of wind shook the leaves or stirred the high, rank grass by the water-side; a portentous and awful stillness filled the air,--the stillness felt by nature before a devastating storm. quiet, with the like awful and portentous calm, the black regiment, headed by its young, fair-haired, knightly colonel, marched to its destined place and action. when within about six hundred yards of the fort it was halted at the head of the regiments already stationed, and the line of battle formed. the prospect was such as might daunt the courage of old and well-tried veterans, but these soldiers of a few weeks seemed but impatient to take the odds, and to make light of impossibilities. a slightly rising ground, raked by a murderous fire, to within a little distance of the battery; a ditch holding three feet of water; a straight lift of parapet, thirty feet high; an impregnable position, held by a desperate and invincible foe. here the men were addressed in a few brief and burning words by their heroic commander. here they were besought to glorify their whole race by the lustre of their deeds; here their faces shone with a look which said, "though men, we are ready to do deeds, to achieve triumphs, worthy the gods!" here the word of command was given:-"we are ordered and expected to take battery wagner at the point of the bayonet. are you ready?" "ay, ay, sir! ready!" was the answer. and the order went pealing down the line, "ready! close ranks! charge bayonets! forward! double-quick, march!"--and away they went, under a scattering fire, in one compact line till within one hundred feet of the fort, when the storm of death broke upon them. every gun belched forth its great shot and shell; every rifle whizzed out its sharp-singing, death-freighted messenger. the men wavered not for an instant;--forward,--forward they went; plunged into the ditch; waded through the deep water, no longer of muddy hue, but stained crimson with their blood; and commenced to climb the parapet. the foremost line fell, and then the next, and the next. the ground was strewn with the wrecks of humanity, scattered prostrate, silent, where they fell,--or rolling under the very feet of the living comrades who swept onward to fill their places. on, over the piled-up mounds of dead and dying, of wounded and slain, to the mouth of the battery; seizing the guns; bayoneting the gunners at their posts; planting their flag and struggling around it; their leader on the walls, sword in hand, his blue eyes blazing, his fair face aflame, his clear voice calling out, "forward, my brave boys!"--then plunging into the hell of battle before him. forward it was. they followed him, gathered about him, gained an angle of the fort, and fought where he fell, around his prostrate body, over his peaceful heart,--shielding its dead silence by their living, pulsating ones,--till they, too, were stricken down; then hacked, hewn, battered, mangled, heroic, yet overcome, the remnant was beaten back. ably sustained by their supporters, anglo-african and anglo-saxon vied together to carry off the palm of courage and glory. all the world knows the last fought with heroism sublime: all the world forgets this and them in contemplating the deeds and the death of their compatriots. said napoleon at austerlitz to a young russian officer, overwhelmed with shame at yielding his sword, "young man, be consoled: those who are conquered by my soldiers may still have titles to glory." to say that on that memorable night the last were surpassed by the first is still to leave ample margin on which to write in glowing characters the record of their deeds. as the men were clambering up the parapet their color-sergeant was shot dead, the colors trailing stained and wet in the dust beside him. ercildoune, who was just behind, sprang forward, seized the staff from his dying hand, and mounted with it upward. a ball struck his right arm, yet ere it could fall shattered by his side, his left hand caught the flag and carried it onward. even in the mad sweep of assault and death the men around him found breath and time to hurrah, and those behind him pressed more gallantly forward to follow such a lead. he kept in his place, the colors flying,--though faint with loss of blood and wrung with agony,--up the slippery steep; up to the walls of the fort; on the wall itself, planting the flag where the men made that brief, splendid stand, and melted away like snow before furnace-heat. here a bayonet thrust met him and brought him down, a great wound in his brave breast, but he did not yield; dropping to his knees, pressing his unbroken arm upon the gaping wound,--bracing himself against a dead comrade,--the colors still flew; an inspiration to the men about him; a defiance to the foe. at last when the shattered ranks fell back, sullenly and slowly retreating, it was seen by those who watched him,--men lying for three hundred rods around in every form of wounded suffering,--that he was painfully working his way downward, still holding aloft the flag, bent evidently on saving it, and saving it as flag had rarely, if ever, been saved before. some of the men had crawled, some had been carried, some hastily caught up and helped by comrades to a sheltered tent out of range of the fire; a hospital tent, they called it, if anything could bear that name which was but a place where men could lie to suffer and expire, without a bandage, a surgeon, or even a drop of cooling water to moisten parched and dying lips. among these was jim. he had a small field-glass in his pocket, and forgot or ignored his pain in his eager interest of watching through this the progress of the man and the flag, and reporting accounts to his no less eager companions. black soldiers and white were alike mad with excitement over the deed; and fear lest the colors which had not yet dipped should at last bite the ground. now and then he paused at some impediment: it was where the dead and dying were piled so thickly as to compel him to make a detour. now and then he rested a moment to press his arm tighter against his torn and open breast. the rain fell in such torrents, the evening shadows were gathering so thickly, that they could scarcely trace his course, long before it was ended. slowly, painfully, he dragged himself onward,--step by step down the hill, inch by inch across the ground,--to the door of the hospital; and then, while dying eyes brightened,--dying hands and even shattered stumps were thrown into the air,--in brief, while dying men held back their souls from the eternities to cheer him,--gasped out, "i did--but do--my duty, boys,--and the dear--old flag--never once--touched the ground,"--and then, away from the reach and sight of its foes, in the midst of its defenders, who loved and were dying for it, the flag at last fell. * * * * * meanwhile, other troops had gone up to the encounter; other regiments strove to win what these men had failed to gain; and through the night, and the storm, and the terrific reception, did their gallant endeavor--in vain. * * * * * the next day a flag of truce went up to beg the body of the heroic young chief who had so led that marvellous assault. it came back without him. a ditch, deep and wide, had been dug; his body, and those of twenty-two of his men found dead upon and about him, flung into it in one common heap and the word sent back was, "we have buried him with his niggers." it was well done. the fair, sweet face and gallant breast lie peacefully enough under their stately monument of ebony. it was well done. what more fitting close of such a life,--what fate more welcome to him who had fought with them, had loved, and believed in them, had led them to death,--than to lie with them when they died? it was well done. slavery buried these men, black and white, together,--black and white in a common grave. let liberty see to it, then, that black and white be raised together in a life better than the old. chapter xvii "_spirits are not finely touched but to fine issues._" shakespeare surrey was to depart for his command on monday night, and as there were various matters which demanded his attention in town ere leaving, he drove francesca to the city on the preceding sunday,--a soft clear summer evening, full of pleasant sights and sounds. they scarcely spoke as, hand in hand, they sat drinking in the scene whilst the old gray, for they wished no high-stepping prancers for this ride, jogged on the even tenor of his way. above them, the blue of the sky never before seemed so deep and tender, while in it floated fleecy clouds of delicate amber, rose, and gold, like gossamer robes of happy spirits invisible to human eyes. the leaves and grass just stirred in the breeze, making a slight, musical murmur, and across them fell long shadows cast by the westering sun. a sentiment so sweet and pleasurable as to be tinged with pain, took possession of these young, susceptible souls, as the influences of the time closed about them. in our happiest moments, our moments of utmost exaltation, it is always thus:--when earth most nearly approaches the beatitudes of heaven, and the spirit stretches forward with a vain longing for the far off, which seems but a little way beyond; the unattained and dim, which for a space come near. "darling!" said surrey softly, "does it not seem easy now to die?" "yes, willie," she whispered, "i feel as though it would be stepping over a very little stream to some new and beautiful shore." doubtless, when a pure and great soul is close to eternity, ministering angels draw nigh to one soon to be of their number, and cast something of the peace and glory of their presence on the spirit yet held by its cerements of clay. at last the ride and the evening had an end. the country and its dear delights were mere memories,--fresh, it is true, but memories still, and no longer realities,--in the luxurious rooms of their hotel. evidently surrey had something to say, which he hesitated and feared to utter. again and again, when francesca was talking of his plans and purposes, trusting and hoping that he might see no hard service, nor be called upon for any exposing duty, "not yet awhile," she prayed, at least,--again and again he made as if to speak, and then, ere she could notice the movement, shook his head with a gesture of silence, or--she seeing it, and asking what it was he had to say--found ready utterance for some other thought, and whispered to himself, "not yet; not quite yet. let her rest in peace a little space longer." they sat talking far into the night, this last night that they could spend together in so long a time,--how long, god, with whom are hid the secrets of the future, could alone tell. they talked of what had passed, which was ended,--and of what was to come, which was not sure but full of hope,--but of both with a feeling that quickened their heart-throbs, and brought happy tears to their eyes. twice or thrice a sound from some far distance, undecided, yet full of a solemn melody, came through the open window, borne to their ears on the still air of night,--something so undefined as not consciously to arrest their attention, yet still penetrating their nerves and affecting some fine, inner sense of feeling, for both shivered as though a chill wind had blown across them, and surrey--half ashamed of the confession--said, "i don't know what possesses me, but i hear dead marches as plainly as though i were following a soldier's funeral." francesca at that grew white, crept closer to his breast, and spread out her arms as if to defend him by that slight shield from some impending danger; then both laughed at these foolish and superstitious fancies, and went on with their cheerful and tender talk. whatever the sound was, it grew plainer and came nearer; and, pausing to listen, they discovered it was a mighty swell of human voices and the marching of many feet. "a regiment going through," said they, and ran to the window to see if it passed their way, looking for it up the long street, which lay solemn and still in the moonlight. on either side the palace-like houses stood stately and dark, like giant sentinels guarding the magnificent avenue, from whence was banished every sight and sound of the busy life of day; not a noise, not a footfall, not a solitary soul abroad, not a wave nor a vestige of the great restless sea of humanity which a little space before surged through it, and which, in a little while to come, would rise and swell to its full, and then ebb, and fall, and drop away once more into silence and nothingness. through this white stillness there came marching a regiment of men, without fife or drum, moving to the music of a refrain which lifted and fell on the quiet air. it was the battle hymn of the republic,--and the two listeners presently distinguished the words,- "in the beauty of the lilies christ was born across the sea, with a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; as he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, while god is marching on." the effect of this; the thousand voices which sang; the marching of twice one thousand feet; the majesty of the words; the deserted street; the clear moonlight streaming over the men, reflected from their gleaming bayonets, brightening the faded blue of their uniforms, illumining their faces which, one and all, seemed to wear--and probably _did_ wear--a look more solemn and earnest than that of common life and feeling,--the combined effect of it all was something indescribably impressive:--inspiring, yet solemn. they stood watching and listening till the pageant had vanished, and then turned back into their room, francesca taking up the refrain and singing the line, "as he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, while god is marching on." surrey's face brightened at the rapt expression of hers. "sing it again, dearie!" he said. she sang it again. "do you mean it?" he asked then. "can you sing it, and mean it with all your heart, for me?" she looked at him with an expression of anxiety and pain. "what are you asking, willie?" he sat down; taking her upon his knee, and with the old fond gesture, holding her head to his heart,--"i should have told you before, dearie, but i did not wish to throw any shadow on the happy days we have been spending together; they were few and brief enough without marring them; and i was certain of the effect it would have upon you, by your incessant anxiety for robert." she drew a long, gasping sigh, and started away from his hold: "o willie, you are not going to--" his arm drew her back to her resting-place. "i do not return to my command, darling. i am to raise a black brigade." "freedmen?" "yes, dearie." "o willie,--and that act just passed!" "it is true; yet, after all, it is but one risk more." "one? o willie, it is a thousand. you had that many chances of escape where you were; you might be wounded and captured a score of times, and come home safe at last; but this!" "i know." "to go into every battle with the sentence of death hanging over you; to know that if you are anywhere captured, anyhow made prisoner, you are condemned to die,--o willie, i can't bear it; i can't bear it! i shall die, or go mad, to carry such a thought all the time." for answer he only held her close, with his face resting upon her hair, and in the stillness they could hear each other's heart beat. "it is god's service," he said, at last. "i know." "it will end slavery and the war more effectually than aught else." "i know." "it will make these freedmen, wherever they fight, free men. it will give them and their people a sense of dignity and power that might otherwise take generations to secure." "i know." "and i. both feeling and knowing this, who so fit to yield and to do for such a cause? if those who see do not advance, the blind will never walk." silence for a space again fell between them. francesca moved in his arm. "dearie." she looked up. "i want to do no half service. i go into this heart and soul, but i do not wish to go alone. it will be so much to me to know that you are quite willing, and bade me go. think what it is." she did. for an instant all sacrifices appeared easy, all burdens light. she could send him out to death unfaltering. one of those sublime moods in which martyrdom seems glorious filled and possessed her. she took away her clinging arms from his neck, and said, "go,--whether it be for life or for death; whether you come back to me or go up to god; i am willing--glad--to yield you to such a cause." it was finished. there was nothing more to be said. both had climbed the mount of sacrifice, and sat still with god. after a while the cool gray dawn stole into their room. the night had passed in this communion, and another day come. there were many "last things" which claimed surrey's attention; and he, wishing to get through them early so as to have the afternoon and evening undisturbed with francesca, plunged into a stinging bath to refresh him for the day, breakfasted, and was gone. he attended to his business, came across many an old acquaintance and friend, some of whom greeted him coldly; a few cut him dead; whilst others put out their hands with cordial frankness, and one or two congratulated him heartily upon his new condition and happiness. these last gave him fresh courage for the task which he had set himself. if friends regarded the matter thus, surely they--his father and mother--would relent, when he came to say what might be a final adieu. he ran up the steps, rang the bell, and, speaking a pleasant word to the old servant, went directly to his mother's room. his father had not yet gone down town; thus he found them together. they started at seeing him, and his mother, forgetting for the instant all her pride, chagrin, and anger, had her arms about his neck, with the cry, "o willie, willie," which came from the depths of her heart; then seeing her husband's face, and recovering herself, sat down cold and still. it was a painful interview. he could not leave without seeing them once more; he longed for a loving good by; but after that first outburst he almost wished he had not forced the meeting. he did not speak of his wife, nor did they; but a barrier as of adamant was raised between them, and he felt as though congealing in the breath of an iceberg. at length he rose to go. "father!" he said then, "perhaps you will care to know that i do not return to my old command, but have been commissioned to raise a brigade from the freedmen." both father and mother knew the awful peril of this service, and both cried, half in suffering, half in anger, "this is your wife's work!" while his father added, with a passionate exclamation, "it is right, quite right, that you should identify yourself with her people. well, go your way. you have made your bed; lie in it." the blood flushed into surrey's face. he opened his lips, and shut them again. at last he said, "father, will you never forego this cruel prejudice?" "never!" answered his mother, quickly. "never!" repeated his father, with bitter emphasis. "it is a feeling that will never die out, and ought never to die out, so long as any of the race remain in america. she belongs to it, that is enough." surrey urged no further; but with few words, constrained on their part,--though under its covering of pride the mother's heart was bleeding for him,--sad and earnest on his, the farewell was spoken, and they watched him out of the room. how and when would they see him again? there was one other call upon his time. the day was wearing into the afternoon, but he would not neglect it. this was to see his old _protã©gã©_, abram franklin, in whom he had never lost interest, and for whose welfare he had cared, though he had not seen him in more than two years. he knew that abram was ill, had been so for a long time, and wished to see him and speak to him a few friendly and cheering words,--sure, from what the boy's own hand had written, that this would be his last opportunity upon earth to so do. thus he went on from his father's stately palace up fifth avenue, turned into the quiet side street, and knocked at the little green door. mrs. franklin came to open it, her handsome face thinner and sadder than of old. she caught surrey's hand between both of hers with a delighted cry: "is it you, mr. willie? how glad i am to see you! how glad abram will be! how good of you to come!" and, holding his hand as she used when he was a boy, she led him up stairs to the sick-room. this room was even cosier than the two below; its curtains and paper cheerfuller; its furniture of quainter and more hospitable aspect; its windows letting in more light and air; everything clean and homely, and pleasant for weary, suffering eyes to look upon. abram was propped up in bed, his dark, intelligent face worn to a shadow, fiery spots breaking through the tawny hue upon cheeks and lips, his eyes bright with fever. surrey saw, as he came and sat beside him, that for him earthly sorrow and toil were almost ended. he had brought some fruit and flowers, and a little book. this last abram, having thanked him eagerly for all, stretched out his hand to examine. "you see, mr. willie, i have not gotten over my old love," he said, as his fingers closed upon it. "whittier? 'in war-time'? that is fine. i can read about it, if i can't do anything in it," and he lay for a while quietly turning over the pages. mrs. franklin had gone out to do an errand, and the two were alone. "do you know, mr. willie," said abram, putting his finger upon the titles of two successive poems, "the waiting," and "the summons," "i had hard work to submit to this sickness a few months ago? i fought against it strong; do you know why?" "not your special reason. what was it?" "i had waited so long, you see,--i, and my people,--for a chance. it made me quite wild to watch this big fight go on, and know that it was all about us, and not be allowed to participate; and at last when the chance came, and the summons, and the way was opened, i couldn't answer, nor go. it's not the dying i care for; i'd be willing to die the first battle i was in; but i want to do something for the cause before death comes." the book was lying open where it had fallen from his hand, and surrey, glancing down at the very poem of which he spoke, said gently, "here is your answer, franklin, better than any i can make; it ought to comfort you; listen, it is god's truth! 'o power to do! o baffled will! o prayer and action! ye are one; who may not strive may yet fulfil the harder task of standing still, and good but wished with god is done!'" "it is so," said abram. "you act and i pray, and you act for me and mine. i'd like to be under you when you get the troops you were telling me about; but--god knows best." surrey sat gazing earnestly into space, crowded by emotions called up by these last words, whilst abram lay watching him with admiring and loving eyes. "for me and mine," he repeated softly, his look fastening on the blue sleeve, which hung, limp and empty, near his hand. this he put out cautiously, but drew it back at some slight movement from his companion; then, seeing that he was still absorbed, advanced it, once more, and slowly, timidly, gently, lifted it to his mouth, pressing his lips upon it as upon a shrine. "for me and mine!" he whispered,--"for me and mine!" tears dimming the pathetic, dying eyes. the peaceful quiet was broken by a tempest of awful sound,--groans and shrieks and yells mingled in horrible discord, blended with the trampling of many feet,--noises which seemed to their startled and excited fancies like those of hell itself. the next moment a door was flung open; and mrs. franklin, bruised, lame, her garments torn, blood flowing from a cut on her head, staggered into the room. "o lord! o lord jesus!" she cried, "the day of wrath has come!" and fell, shuddering and crying, on the floor. chapter xviii "_will the future come? it seems that we may almost ask this question, when we see such terrible shadow._" victor hugo here it will be necessary to consider some facts which, while they are rather in the domain of the grave recorder of historical events, than in that of the narrator of personal experiences, are yet essential to the comprehension of the scenes in which surrey and francesca took such tragic parts. following the proclamation for a draft in the city of new york, there had been heard on all sides from the newspaper press which sympathized with and aided the rebellion, premonitions of the coming storm; denunciations of the war, the government, the soldiers, of the harmless and inoffensive negroes; angry incitings of the poor man to hatred against the rich, since the rich man could save himself from the necessity of serving in the ranks by the payment of three hundred dollars of commutation money; incendiary appeals to the worst passions of the most ignorant portion of the community; and open calls to insurrection and arms to resist the peaceable enforcement of a law enacted in furtherance of the defence of the nation's life. doubtless this outbreak had been intended at the time of the darkest and most disastrous days of the republic; when the often-defeated and sorely dispirited army of the potomac was marching northward to cover washington and baltimore, and the victorious legions of traitors under lee were swelling across the border, into a loyal state; when grant stood in seemingly hopeless waiting before vicksburg, and banks before port hudson; and the whole people of the north, depressed and disheartened by the continued series of defeats to our arms, were beginning to look each at his neighbor, and whisper with white lips, "perhaps, after all, this struggle is to be in vain." had it been attempted at this precise time, it would, without question, have been, not a riot, but an insurrection,--would have been a portion of the army of rebellion, organized and effective for the prosecution of the war, and not a mob, hideous and devilish in its work of destruction, yet still a mob; and as such to be beaten down and dispersed in a comparatively short space of time. on the morning of monday, the thirteenth of july, began this outbreak, unparalleled in atrocities by anything in american history, and equalled only by the horrors of the worst days of the french revolution. gangs of men and boys, composed of railroad _employã©es_, workers in machine-shops, and a vast crowd of those who lived by preying upon others, thieves, pimps, professional ruffians,--the scum of the city,--jail-birds, or those who were running with swift feet to enter the prison-doors, began to gather on the corners, and in streets and alleys where they lived; from thence issuing forth they visited the great establishments on the line of their advance, commanding their instant close and the companionship of the workmen,--many of them peaceful and orderly men,--on pain of the destruction of one and a murderous assault upon the other, did not their orders meet with instant compliance. a body of these, five or six hundred strong, gathered about one of the enrolling-offices in the upper part of the city, where the draft was quietly proceeding, and opened the assault upon it by a shower of clubs, bricks, and paving-stones torn from the streets, following it up by a furious rush into the office. lists, records, books, the drafting-wheel, every article of furniture or work in the room was rent in pieces, and strewn about the floor or flung into the street; while the law officers, the newspaper reporters,--who are expected to be everywhere,--and the few peaceable spectators, were compelled to make a hasty retreat through an opportune rear exit, accelerated by the curses and blows of the assailants. a safe in the room, which contained some of the hated records, was fallen upon by the men, who strove to wrench open its impregnable lock with their naked hands, and, baffled, beat them on its iron doors and sides till they were stained with blood, in a mad frenzy of senseless hate and fury. and then, finding every portable article destroyed,--their thirst for ruin growing by the little drink it had had,--and believing, or rather hoping, that the officers had taken refuge in the upper rooms, set fire to the house, and stood watching the slow and steady lift of the flames, filling the air with demoniac shrieks and yells, while they waited for the prey to escape from some door or window, from the merciless fire to their merciless hands. one of these, who was on the other side of the street, courageously stepped forward, and, telling them that they had utterly demolished all they came to seek, informed them that helpless women and little children were in the house, and besought them to extinguish the flames and leave the ruined premises; to disperse, or at least to seek some other scene. by his dress recognizing in him a government official, so far from hearing or heeding his humane appeal, they set upon him with sticks and clubs, and beat him till his eyes were blind with blood, and he--bruised and mangled--succeeded in escaping to the handful of police who stood helpless before this howling crew, now increased to thousands. with difficulty and pain the inoffensive tenants escaped from the rapidly spreading fire, which, having devoured the house originally lighted, swept across the neighboring buildings till the whole block stood a mass of burning flames. the firemen came up tardily and reluctantly, many of them of the same class as the miscreants who surrounded them, and who cheered at their approach, but either made no attempt to perform their duty, or so feeble and farcical a one, as to bring disgrace upon a service they so generally honor and ennoble. at last, when there was here nothing more to accomplish, the mob, swollen to a frightful size, including myriads of wretched, drunken women, and the half-grown, vagabond boys of the pavements, rushed through the intervening streets, stopping cars and insulting peaceable citizens on their way, to an armory where were manufactured and stored carbines and guns for the government. in anticipation of the attack, this, earlier in the day, had been fortified by a police squad capable of coping with an ordinary crowd of ruffians, but as chaff before fire in the presence of these murderous thousands. here, as before, the attack was begun by a rain of missiles gathered from the streets; less fatal, doubtless, than more civilized arms, but frightful in the ghastly wounds and injuries they inflicted. of this no notice was taken by those who were stationed within; it was repeated. at last, finding they were treated with contemptuous silence, and that no sign of surrender was offered, the crowd swayed back,--then forward,--in a combined attempt to force the wide entrance-doors. heavy hammers and sledges, which had been brought from forges and workshops, caught up hastily as they gathered the mechanics into their ranks, were used with frightful violence to beat them in,--at last successfully. the foremost assailants began to climb the stairs, but were checked, and for the moment driven back by the fire of the officers, who at last had been commanded to resort to their revolvers. a half-score fell wounded; and one, who had been acting in some sort as their leader,--a big, brutal, irish ruffian,--dropped dead. the pause was but for an instant. as the smoke cleared away there was a general and ferocious onslaught upon the armory; curses, oaths, revilings, hideous and obscene blasphemy, with terrible yells and cries, filled the air in every accent of the english tongue save that spoken by a native american. such were there mingled with the sea of sound, but they were so few and weak as to be unnoticeable in the roar of voices. the paving stones flew like hail, until the street was torn into gaps and ruts, and every window-pane, and sash, and doorway, was smashed or broken. meanwhile, divers attempts were made to fire the building, but failed through haste or ineffectual materials, or the vigilant watchfulness of the besieged. in the midst of this gallant defence, word was brought to the defenders from head-quarters that nothing could be done for their support; and that, if they would save their lives, they must make a quick and orderly retreat. fortunately, there was a side passage with which the mob was unacquainted, and, one by one they succeeded in gaining this, and vanishing. a few, too faithful or too plucky to retreat before such a foe, persisted in remaining at their posts till the fire, which had at last been communicated to the building, crept unpleasantly near; then, by dropping from sill to sill of the broken windows, or sliding by their hands and feet down the rough pipes and stones, reached the pavement,--but not without injuries and blows, and broken bones, which disabled for a lifetime, if indeed they did not die in the hospitals to which a few of the more mercifully disposed carried them. the work thus begun, continued,--gathering in force and fury as the day wore on. police stations, enrolling-offices, rooms or buildings used in any way by government authority, or obnoxious as representing the dignity of law, were gutted, destroyed, then left to the mercy of the flames. newspaper offices, whose issues had been a fire in the rear of the nation's armies by extenuating and defending treason, and through violent and incendiary appeals stirring up "lewd fellows of the baser sort" to this very carnival of ruin and blood, were cheered as the crowd went by. those that had been faithful to loyalty and law were hooted, stoned, and even stormed by the army of miscreants who were only driven off by the gallant and determined charge of the police, and in one place by the equally gallant, and certainly unique defence, which came from turning the boiling water from the engines upon the howling wretches, who, unprepared for any such warm reception as this, beat a precipitate and general retreat. before night fell it was no longer one vast crowd collected in a single section, but great numbers of gatherings, scattered over the whole length and breadth of the city,--some of them engaged in actual work of demolition and ruin; others with clubs and weapons in their hands, prowling round apparently with no definite atrocity to perpetrate, but ready for any iniquity that might offer,--and, by way of pastime, chasing every stray police officer, or solitary soldier, or inoffensive negro, who crossed the line of their vision; these three objects--the badge of a defender of the law,--the uniform of the union army,--the skin of a helpless and outraged race--acted upon these madmen as water acts upon a rabid dog. late in the afternoon a crowd which could have numbered not less than ten thousand, the majority of whom were ragged, frowzy, drunken women, gathered about the orphan asylum for colored children,--a large and beautiful building, and one of the most admirable and noble charities of the city. when it became evident, from the menacing cries and groans of the multitude, that danger, if not destruction, was meditated to the harmless and inoffensive inmates, a flag of truce appeared, and an appeal was made in their behalf, by the principal, to every sentiment of humanity which these beings might possess,--a vain appeal! whatever human feeling had ever, if ever, filled these souls was utterly drowned and washed away in the tide of rapine and blood in which they had been steeping themselves. the few officers who stood guard over the doors, and manfully faced these demoniac legions, were beaten down and flung to one side, helpless and stunned whilst the vast crowd rushed in. all the articles upon which they could seize--beds, bedding, carpets, furniture,--the very garments of the fleeing inmates, some of these torn from their persons as they sped by--were carried into the streets, and hurried off by the women and children who stood ready to receive the goods which their husbands, sons, and fathers flung to their care. the little ones, many of them, assailed and beaten; all,--orphans and caretakers,--exposed to every indignity and every danger, driven on to the street,--the building was fired. this had been attempted whilst the helpless children--some of them scarce more than babies--were still in their rooms; but this devilish consummation was prevented by the heroism of one man. he, the chief of the fire department, strove by voice and arm to stay the endeavor; and when, overcome by superior numbers, the brands had been lit and piled, with naked hands, and in the face of threatened death, he tore asunder the glowing embers, and trod them under foot. again the effort was made, and again failed through the determined and heroic opposition of this solitary soul. then, on the front steps, in the midst of these drunken and infuriate thousands, he stood up and besought them, if they cared nothing for themselves nor for these hapless orphans, that they would not bring lasting disgrace upon the city by destroying one of its noblest charities, which had for its object nothing but good. he was answered on all sides by yells and execrations, and frenzied shrieks of "down with the nagurs!" coupled with every oath and every curse that malignant hate of the blacks could devise, and drunken, irish tongues could speak. it had been decreed that this building was to be razed to the ground. the house was fired in a thousand places, and in less than two hours the walls crashed in,--a mass of smoking, blackened ruins; whilst the children wandered through the streets, a prey to beings who were wild beasts in everything save the superior ingenuity of man to agonize and torture his victims. frightful as the day had been, the night was yet more hideous; since to the horrors which were seen was added the greater horror of deeds which might be committed in the darkness; or, if they were seen, it was by the lurid glare of burning buildings,--the red flames of which--flung upon the stained and brutal faces, the torn and tattered garments, of men and women who danced and howled around the scene of ruin they had caused--made the whole aspect of affairs seem more like a gathering of fiends rejoicing in pandemonium than aught with which creatures of flesh and blood had to do. standing on some elevated point, looking over the great city, which presented, as usual, at night, a solemn and impressive show, the spectator was thrilled with a fearful admiration by the sights and sounds which gave to it a mysterious and awful interest. a thousand fires streamed up against the sky, making darkness visible; and from all sides came a combination of noises such as might be heard from an asylum in which were gathered the madmen of the world. the next morning's sun rose on a city which was ruled by a reign of terror. had the police possessed the heads of hydra and the arms of briareus, and had these heads all seen, these arms all fought, they would have been powerless against the multitude of opposers. outbreaks were made, crowds gathered, houses burned, streets barricaded, fights enacted, in a score of places at once. where the officers appeared they were irretrievably beaten and overcome; their stand, were it ever so short, but inflaming the passions of the mob to fresh deeds of violence. stores were closed; the business portion of the city deserted; the large works and factories emptied of men, who had been sent home by their employers, or were swept into the ranks of the marauding bands. the city cars, omnibuses, hacks, were unable to run, and remained under shelter. every telegraph wire was cut, the posts torn up, the operators driven from their offices. the mayor, seeing that civil power was helpless to stem this tide, desired to call the military to his aid, and place the city under martial law, but was opposed by the governor,--a governor, who, but a few days before, had pronounced the war a failure; and not only predicted, but encouraged this mob rule, which was now crushing everything beneath its heavy and ensanguined feet. this man, through almost two days of these awful scenes, remained at a quiet seaside retreat but a few miles from the city. coming to it on the afternoon of the second day,--instead of ordering cannon planted in the streets, giving these creatures opportunity to retire to their homes, and, in the event of refusal, blowing them there by powder and ball,--he first went to the point where was collected the chiefest mob, and proceeded to address them. before him stood incendiaries, thieves, and murderers, who even then were sacking dwelling-houses, and butchering powerless and inoffensive beings. these wretches he apostrophized as "my friends," repeating the title again and again in the course of his harangue, assuring them that he was there as a proof of his friendship,--which he had demonstrated by "sending his adjutant-general to washington, to have the draft stopped"; begging them to "wait for his return"; "to separate now as good citizens"; with the promise that they "might assemble again whenever they wished to so do"; meanwhile, he would "take care of their rights." this model speech was incessantly interrupted by tremendous cheering and frantic demonstrations of delight,--one great fellow almost crushing the governor in his enthusiastic embrace. this ended, he entered a carriage, and was driven through the blackened, smoking scenes of monday's devastations; through fresh vistas of outrage, of the day's execution; bland, gracious, smiling. wherever he appeared, cheer upon cheer rent the air from these crowds of drunken blasphemers; and in one place the carriage in which he sat was actually lifted from the ground, and carried some rods, by hands yet red with deeds of arson and murder; while from all sides voices cried out, "will ye stop the draft, gov'nur?" "bully boy!" "ye're the man for us!" "hooray for gov'nur saymoor!" thus, through the midst of this admiring and applauding crowd, this high officer of the law, sworn to maintain public peace, moved to his hotel, where he was met by a despatch from washington, informing him that five regiments were under arms and on their way to put an end to this bloody assistance to the southern war. his allies in newspaper offices attempted to throw the blame upon the loyal press and portion of the community. this was but a repetition of the cry, raised by traitors in arms, that the government, struggling for life in their deadly hold, was responsible for the war: "if thou wouldst but consent to be murdered peaceably, there could be no strife." these editors outraged common sense, truth, and decency, by speaking of the riots as an "uprising of the people to defend their liberties,"--"an opposition on the part of the workingmen to an unjust and oppressive law, enacted in favor of the men of wealth and standing." as though the _people_ of the great metropolis were incendiaries, robbers, and assassins; as though the poor were to demonstrate their indignation against the rich by hunting and stoning defenceless women and children; torturing and murdering men whose only offence was the color god gave them, or men wearing the self-same uniform as that which they declared was to be thrust upon them at the behest of the rich and the great. it was absurd and futile to characterize this new reign of terror as anything but an effort on the part of northern rebels to help southern ones, at the most critical moment of the war,--with the state militia and available troops absent in a neighboring commonwealth,--and the loyal people unprepared. these editors and their coadjutors, men of brains and ability, were of that most poisonous growth,--traitors to the government and the flag of their country,--renegade americans. let it, however, be written plainly and graven deeply, that the tribes of savages--the hordes of ruffians--found ready to do their loathsome bidding, were not of native growth, nor american born. while it is true that there were some glib-tongued fellows who spoke the language without foreign accent, all of them of the lowest order of democratic ward-politicians, of creatures skulking from the outstretched arm of avenging law; while the most degraded of the german population were represented; while it is also true that there were irish, and catholic irish too,--industrious, sober, intelligent people,--who indignantly refused participation in these outrages, and mourned over the barbarities which were disgracing their national name; it is pre-eminently true,--proven by thousands of witnesses, and testified to by numberless tongues,--that the masses, the rank and file, the almost entire body of rioters, were the worst classes of irish emigrants, infuriated by artful appeals, and maddened by the atrocious whiskey of thousands of grog-shops. by far the most infamous part of these cruelties was that which wreaked every species of torture and lingering death upon the colored people of the city,--men, women, and children, old and young, strong and feeble alike. hundreds of these fell victims to the prejudice fostered by public opinion, incorporated in our statute-books, sanctioned by our laws, which here and thus found legitimate outgrowth and action. the horrors which blanched the face of christendom were but the bloody harvest of fields sown by society, by cultured men and women, by speech, and book, and press, by professions and politics, nay, by the pulpit itself, and the men who there make god's truth a lie,--garbling or denying the inspired declaration that "he has made of one blood all people to dwell upon the face of the earth"; and that he, the all-just and merciful one, "is no respecter of persons." this riot, begun ostensibly to oppose the enforcement of a single law, developed itself into a burning and pillaging assault upon the homes and property of peaceful citizens. to realize this, it was only necessary to walk the streets, if that were possible, through those days of riot and conflagration, observe the materials gathered into the vast, moving multitudes, and scrutinize the faces of those of whom they were composed,--deformed, idiotic, drunken, imbecile, poverty-stricken; seamed with every line which wretchedness could draw or vicious habits and associations delve. to walk these streets and look upon these faces was like a fearful witnessing in perspective of the last day, when the secrets of life, more loathsome than those of death, shall be laid bare in all their hideous deformity and ghastly shame. the knowledge of these people and their deeds was sufficient to create a paralysis of fear, even where they were not seen. indeed, there was terror everywhere. high and low, rich and poor, cultured and ignorant, all shivered in its awful grasp. upon stately avenues and noisome alleys it fell with the like blackness of darkness. women cried aloud to god with the same agonized entreaty from knees bent on velvet carpets or bare and dingy floors. men wandered up and down, prisoners in their own homes, and cursed or prayed with equal fury or intensity whether the homes were simple or splendid. here one surveyed all his costly store of rare and exquisite surroundings, and shook his head as he gazed, ominous and foreboding. there, another of darker hue peered out from garret casement, or cellar light, or broken window-pane, and, shuddering, watched some woman stoned and beaten till she died; some child shot down, while thousands of heavy, brutal feet trod over it till the hard stones were red with its blood, and the little prostrate form, yet warm, lost every likeness of humanity, and lay there, a sickening mass of mangled flesh and bones; some man assaulted, clubbed, overborne, left wounded or dying or dead, as he fell, or tied to some convenient tree or lamp-post to be hacked and hewn, or flayed and roasted, yet living, where he hung,--and watching this, and cowering as he watched, held his breath, and waited his own turn, not knowing when it might come. chapter xix "_in breathless quiet, after all their ills._" arnold a body of these wretches, fresh from some act of rapine and pillage, had seen mrs. franklin, hastening home, and, opening the hue and cry, had started in full chase after her. struck by sticks and stones that darkened the air, twice down, fleeing as those only do who flee for life, she gained her own house, thinking there to find security. vain hope! the door was battered in, the windows demolished, the puny barriers between the room in which they were gathered and the creatures in pursuit, speedily destroyed,--and these three turned to face death. by chance, surrey had his sword at his side, and, tearing this from its scabbard, sprang to the defence,--a gallant intent, but what could one weapon and one arm do against such odds as these? he was speedily beaten down and flung aside by the miscreants who swarmed into the room. it was marvellous they did not kill him outright. doubtless they would have done so but for the face propped against the pillows, which caught their hungry eyes. soldier and woman were alike forgotten at sight of this dying boy. here was a foeman worthy their steel. they gathered about him, and with savage hands struck at him and the bed upon which he lay. a pause for a moment to hold consultation, crowded with oaths and jeers and curses; obscenity and blasphemy too hideous to read or record,--then the cruel hands tore him from his bed, dragged him over the prostrate body of his mother, past the senseless form of his brave young defender, out to the street. here they propped him against a tree, to mock and torment him; to prick him, wound him, torture him; to task endurance to its utmost limit, but not to extinguish life. these savages had no such mercy as this in their souls; and when, once or twice he fell away into insensibility, a cut or blow administered with devilish skill or strength, restored him to anguish and to life. surrey, bewildered and dizzy, had recovered consciousness, and sat gazing vacantly around him, till the cries and yells without, the agonized face within, thrilled every nerve into feeling. starting up, he rushed to the window, but recoiled at the awful sight. here, he saw, there was no human power within reach or call that could interfere. the whole block, from street to street, was crowded with men and boys, armed with the armory of the street, and rejoicing like veritable fiends of hell over the pangs of their victim. even in the moment he stood there he beheld that which would haunt his memory, did it endure for a century. at last, tired of their sport, some of those who were just about abram had tied a rope about his body, and raised him to the nearest branch of an overhanging tree; then, heaping under him the sticks and clubs which were flung them from all sides, set fire to the dry, inflammable pile, and watched, for the moment silent, to see it burn. surrey fled to the other side of the room, and, cowering down, buried his head in his arm to shut out the awful sight and sounds. but his mother,--o marvellous, inscrutable mystery of mother-love!--his mother knelt by the open window, near which hung her boy, and prayed aloud, that he might hear, for the wrung body and passing soul. great god! that such things were possible, and thy heavens fell not! through the sound of falling blows, reviling oaths, and hideous blasphemy, through the crackling of burning fagots and lifting flames, there went out no cry for mercy, no shriek of pain, no wail of despair. but when the torture was almost ended, and nature had yielded to this work of fiends, the dying face was turned towards his mother,--the eyes, dim with the veil that falls between time and eternity, seeking her eyes with their latest glance,--the voice, not weak, but clear and thrilling even in death, cried for her ear, "be of good cheer, mother! they may kill the body, but they cannot touch the soul!" and even with the words the great soul walked with god. * * * * * after a while the mob melted out of the street to seek new scenes of ravage and death; not, however, till they had marked the house, as those within learned, for the purpose of returning, if it should so please them, at some future time. when they were all gone, and the way was clear, these two--the mother that bore him, the elegant patrician who instinctively shrank from all unpleasant and painful things--took down the poor charred body, and carrying it carefully and tenderly into the house of a trembling neighbor, who yet opened her doors and bade them in, composed it decently for its final rest. it was drawing towards evening, and surrey was eager to get away from this terrible region,--both to take the heart-stricken woman, thus thrown upon his care, to some place of rest and safety, and to reassure francesca, who, he knew, would be filled with maddening anxiety and fear at his long absence. at length they ventured forth: no one was in the square;--turned at fortieth street,--all clear;--went on with hasty steps to the avenue,--not a soul in sight. "safe,--thank god!" exclaimed surrey, as he hurried his companion onward. half the space to their destination had been crossed, when a band of rioters, rushing down the street from the sack and burning of the orphan asylum, came upon them. defence seemed utterly vain. every house was shut; its windows closed and barred; its inmates gathered in some rear room. escape and hope appeared alike impossible; but surrey, flinging his charge behind him, with drawn sword, face to the on-sweeping hordes, backed down the street. the combination--a negro woman, a soldier's uniform--intensified the mad fury of the mob, which was nevertheless held at bay by the heroic front and gleaming steel of their single adversary. only for a moment! then, not venturing near him, a shower of bricks and stones hurtled through the air, falling about and upon him. at this instant a voice called, "this way! this way! for god's sake! quick! quick!" and he saw a friendly black face and hand thrust from an area window. still covering with his body his defenceless charge, he moved rapidly towards this refuge. rapid as was the motion, it was not speedy enough; he reached the railing, caught her with his one powerful arm, imbued now with a giant's strength, flung her over to the waiting hands that seized and dragged her in, pausing for an instant, ere he leaped himself, to beat back a half-dozen of the foremost miscreants, who would else have captured their prey, just vanishing from sight. sublime, yet fatal delay! but an instant, yet in that instant a thousand forms surrounded him, disarmed him, overcame him, and beat him down. meanwhile what of francesca? the morning passed, and with its passing came terrible rumors of assault and death. the afternoon began, wore on,--the rumors deepened to details of awful facts and realities; and he--he, with his courage, his fatal dress--was absent, was on those death-crowded streets. she wandered from room to room, forgetting her reserve, and accosting every soul she met for later news,--for information which, received, did but torture her with more intolerable pangs, and send her to her knees; though, kneeling, she could not pray, only cry out in some dumb, inarticulate fashion, "god be merciful!" the afternoon was spent; the day gone; the summet twilight deepening into night; and still he did not come. she had caught up her hat and mantle with some insane intention of rushing into the wide, wild city, on a frenzied search, when two gentlemen passing by her door, talking of the all-absorbing theme, arrested her ear and attention. "the house ought to be guarded! these devils will be here presently,--they are on the avenue now." "good god! are you certain?" "certain." "you may well be," said a third voice, as another step joined theirs. "they are just above thirtieth street. i was coming down the avenue, and saw them myself. i don't know what my fate would have been in this dress,"--francesca knew from this that he who talked was of the police or soldiery,--"but they were engaged in fighting a young officer, who made a splendid defence before they cut him down; his courage was magnificent. it makes my blood curdle to think of it. a fair-haired, gallant-looking fellow, with only one arm. i could do nothing for him, of course, and should have been killed had i stayed; so i ran for life. but i don't think i'll ever quite forgive myself for not rushing to the rescue, and taking my chance with him." she did not stay to hear the closing words. out of the room, past them, like a spirit,--through the broad halls,--down the wide stairways,--on to the street,--up the long street, deserted here, but o, with what a crowd beyond! a company of soldiers, paltry in number, yet each with loaded rifle and bayonet set, charged past her at double-quick upon this crowd, which gave way slowly and sullenly at its approach, holding with desperate ferocity and determination to whatever ghastly work had been employing their hands,--dropped at last,--left on the stones,--the soldiers between it and the mob,--silent, motionless,--she saw it, and knew it where it lay. o woful sight and knowledge for loving eyes and bursting heart! ere she reached it some last stones were flung by the retreating crowd, a last shot fired in the air,--fired at random, but speeding with as unerring aim to her aching, anguished breast, death-freighted and life-destroying,--but not till she had reached her destined point and end; not till her feet failed close to that bruised and silent form; not till she had sunk beside it, gathered it in her fair young arms, and pillowed its beautiful head--from which streamed golden hair, dabbled and blood-bestained--upon her faithful heart. there it stirred; the eyes unclosed to meet hers, a gleam of divine love shining through their fading fire; the battered, stiffened arm lifted, as to fold her in the old familiar caress. "darling--die--to make--free"--came in gasps from the sweet, yet whitening lips. then she lay still. where his breath blew across her hair it waved, and her bosom moved above the slow and labored beating of his heart; but, save for this, she was as quiet as the peaceful dead within their graves,--and, like them, done with the noise and strife of time forever. for him,--the shadows deepened where he lay,--the stars came out one by one, looking down with clear and solemn eyes upon this wreck of fair and beautiful things, wrought by earthly hate and the awful passions of men,--then veiled their light in heavy and sombre clouds. the rain fell upon the noble face and floating, sunny hair,--washing them free of soil, and dark and fearful stains; moistening the fevered, burning lips, and cooling the bruised and aching frame. how passed the long night with that half-insensible soul? god knoweth. the secrets of that are hidden in the eternity to which it now belongs. questionless, ministering spirits drew near, freighted with balm and inspiration; for when the shadows fled, and the next morning's sun shone upon these silent forms, it revealed faces radiant as with some celestial fire, and beatified as reflecting the smile of god. the inmates of the house before which lay this solemn mystery, rising to face a new-made day, looking out from their windows to mark what traces were left of last night's devastations, beheld this awful yet sublime sight. "a prejudice which, i trust, will never end," had mr. surrey said, in bidding adieu to his son but a few short hours before. this prejudice, living and active, had now thus brought death and desolation to his own doors. "how unsearchable are the judgments of god, and his ways past finding out!" chapter xx "_drink,--for thy necessity is yet greater than mine._" sir philip sidney the hospital boat, going out of beaufort, was a sad, yet great sight. it was but necessary to look around it to see that the men here gathered had stood on the slippery battle-sod, and scorned to flinch. you heard no cries, scarcely a groan; whatever anguish wrung them as they were lifted into their berths, or were turned or raised for comfort, found little outward sign,--a long, gasping breath now and then; a suppressed exclamation; sometimes a laugh, to cover what would else be a cry of mortal agony; almost no swearing; these men had been too near the awful realities of death and eternity, some of them were still too near, to make a mock at either. having demonstrated themselves heroes in action, they would, one and all, be equally heroes in the hour of suffering, or on the bed of lingering death. jim, so wounded as to make every movement a pang, had been carefully carried in on a stretcher, and as carefully lifted into a middle berth. "good," said one of the men, as he eased him down on his pillow. "what's good?" queried jim. "the berth; middle berth. put you in as easy as into the lowest one: bad lifting such a leg as yours into the top one, and it's the comfortablest of the three when you're in." "o, that's it, is it? all right; glad i'm here then; getting in didn't hurt more than a flea-bite,"--saying which jim turned his face away to put his teeth down hard on a lip already bleeding. the wrench to his shattered leg was excruciating, "but then," as he announced to himself, "no snivelling, james; you're not going to make a spooney of yourself." presently he moved, and lay quietly watching the others they were bringing in. "why!" he called, "that's bertie curtis, ain't it?" as a slight, beautiful-faced boy was carried past him, and raised to his place. "yes, it is," answered one of the men, shortly, to cover some strong feeling. jim leaned out of his berth, regardless of his protesting leg, canteen in hand. "here, bertie!" he called, "my canteen's full of fresh water, just filled. i know it'll taste good to you." the boy's fine face flushed. "o, thank you, given, it would taste deliriously, but i can't take it,"--glancing down. jim followed the look, to see that both arms were gone, close to the graceful, boyish form; seeing which his face twitched painfully,--not with his own suffering,--and for a moment words failed him. just then came up one of the sanitary nurses with some cooling drink, and fresh, wet bandages for the fevered stumps. great drops were standing on bertie's forehead, and ominous gray shadows had already settled about the mouth, and under the long, shut lashes. looking at the face, so young, so refined, some mother's pride and darling, the nurse brushed back tenderly the fair hair, murmuring, "poor fellow!" the eyes unclosed quickly: "there are no poor fellows here, sir!" he said. "well, brave fellow, then!" "i did but do my duty,"--a smile breaking through the gathering mists. here some poor fellow,--poor indeed,--delirious with fever, called out, "mother! mother! i want to see my mother!" tears rushed to the clear, steady eyes, dimmed them, dropped down unchecked upon the face. the nurse, with a sob choking in his throat, softly raised his hand to brush them away. "mother," bertie whispered,--"mother!" and was gone where god wipes away the tears from all eyes. for the space of five minutes, as jim said afterwards, in telling about it, "that boat was like a meeting-house." used as they were to death in all forms, more than one brave fellow's eye was dim as the silent shape was carried away to make place for the stricken living,--one of whom was directly brought in, and the stretcher put down near jim. "what's up?" he called, for the man's face was turned from him, and his wounded body so covered as to give no clew to its condition. "what's wrong?" seeing the bearers did not offer to lift him, and that they were anxiously scanning the long rows of berths. "berth's wrong," one of them answered. "what's the matter with the berth?" "matter enough! not a middle one nor a lower one empty." "well," called a wounded boy from the third tier, "plenty of room up here; sky-parlor,--airy lodgings,--all fine,--i see a lot of empty houses that'll take him in." "like enough,--but he's about blown to pieces," said the bearer in a low voice, "and it'll be aw--ful putting him up there; however,"--commencing to take off the light cover. "helloa!" cried jim, "that's a dilapidated-looking leg,"--his head out, looking at it. "stop a bit!"--body half after the head,--"you just stop that, and come here and catch hold of a fellow; now put me up there. i reckon i'll bear hoisting better'n he will, anyway. ugh! ah! um! owh! here we are! bully!" if jim had been of the fainting or praying order he would certainly have fainted or prayed; as it was, he said "bully!" but lay for a while thereafter still as a mouse. "given, you're a brick!" one of the boys was apostrophizing him. jim took no notice. "and your man's in, safe and sound"; he turned at that, and leaned forward, as well as he could, to look at the occupant of his late bed. "jemime!" he cried, when he saw the face. "i say, boys! it's ercildoune--robert--flag--wagner--hurray--let's give three cheers for the color-sergeant,--long may he wave!" the men, propped up or lying down, gave the three cheers with a will, and then three more; and then, delighted with their performance, three more after that, jim winding up the whole with an "a-a-ah,--tiger!" that made them all laugh; then relapsing into silence and a hard battle with pain. a weary voyage,--a weary journey thereafter to the northern hospitals,--some dying by the way, and lowered through the shifting, restless waves, or buried with hasty yet kindly hands in alien soil,--accounted strangers and foemen in the land of their birth. god grant that no tread of rebellion in the years to come, nor thunder of contending armies, may disturb their peace! some stopped in the heat and dust of washington to be nursed and tended in the great barracks of hospitals,--uncomfortable-looking without, clean and spacious and admirable within; some to their homes, on long-desired and eagerly welcomed furloughs, there to be cured speedily, the body swayed by the mind; some to suffer and die; some to struggle against winds and tides of mortality and conquer,--yet scarred and maimed; some to go out, as giants refreshed with new wine, to take their places once more in the great conflict, and fight there faithfully to the end. among these last was jim; but not till after many a hard battle, and buffet, and back-set did life triumph and strength prevail. one thing which sadly retarded his recovery was his incessant anxiety about sallie, and his longing to see her once more. he had himself, after his first hurt, written her that he was slightly wounded; but when he reached washington, and the surgeon, looking at his shattered leg, talked about amputation and death, jim decided that sallie should not know a word of all this till something definite was pronounced. "she oughtn't to have an ugly, one-legged fellow," he said, "to drag round with her; and, if she knows how bad it is, she'll post straight down here, to nurse and look after me,--i know her! and she'll have me in the end, out of sheer pity; and i ain't going to take any such mean advantage of her: no, sir-ee, not if i know myself. if i get well, safe and sound, i'll go to her; and, if i'm going to die, i'll send for her; so i'll wait,"--which he did. he found, however, that it was a great deal easier making the decision, than keeping it when made. sallie, hearing nothing from him,--supposing him still in the south,--fearful as she had all along been that she stood on uncertain ground,--mrs. surrey away in new york,--and robert ercildoune, as the papers asserted in their published lists, mortally wounded,--having no indirect means of communication with him, and fearing to write again without some sign from him,--was sorrowing in silence at home. the silence reacted on him; not realizing its cause he grew fretful and impatient, and the fretfulness and impatience told on his leg, intensified his fever, and put the day of recovery--if recovery it was to be--farther into the future. "see here, my man,"--said the quick little surgeon one day, "you're worrying about something. this'll never do; if you don't stop it, you'll die, as sure as fate; and you might as well make up your mind to it at once,--so, now!" "well, sir," answered jim, "it's as good a time to die now, i reckon, as often happens; but i ain't dead yet, not by a long shot; and i ain't going to die neither; so, now, yourself!" the doctor laughed. "all right; if you'll get up that spirit, and keep it, i'll bet my pile on your recovery,--but you'll have to stop fretting. you've got something on your mind that's troubling you; and the sooner you get rid of it, if you can, the better. that's all i've got to say." and he marched off. "get rid of it," mused jim, "how in thunder'll i get rid of it if i don't hear from sallie? let me see--ah! i have it!" and looking more cheerful on the instant he lay still, watching for the doctor to come down the ward once more. "helloa!" he called, then. "helloa!" responded the doctor, coming over to him, "what's the go now? you're improved already." "got any objection to telling a lie?"--this might be called coming to the point. "that depends--" said the doctor. "well, all's fair in love and war, they say. this is for love. help a fellow?" "of course,--if i can,--and the fellow's a good one, like jim given. what is it you want?" "well, i want a letter written, and i can't do it myself, you know,"--looking down at his still bandaged arm,--"likewise i want a lie told in it, and these ladies here are all angels, and of course you can't ask an angel to tell a lie,--no offence to you; so if you can take the time, and'll do it, i'll stand your everlasting debtor, and shoulder the responsibility if you're afraid of the weight." "what sort of a lie?" "a capital one; listen. i want a young lady to know that i'm wounded in the arm,--you see? not bad; nor nothing over which she need worry, and nothing that hurts me much; and i ain't damaged in any other way; legs not mentioned in this concern,--you understand?" the doctor nodded. "but it's tied up my hand, so that i have to get you to say all this for me. i'll be well pretty soon; and, if i can get a furlough, i'll be up in philadelphia in a jiffy,--so she can just prepare for the infliction, &c. comprendy? and'll you do it?" "of course i will, if you don't want the truth told, and the fib'll do you any good; and, upon my word, the way you're looking i really think it will. so now for it." thus the letter was written, and read, and re-read, to make sure that there was nothing in it to alarm sallie; and, being satisfactory on that head, was finally sent away, to rejoice the poor girl who had waited, and watched, and hoped for it through such a weary time. when she answered it, her letter was so full of happiness and solicitude, and a love that, in spite of herself, spoke out in every line, that jim furtively kissed it, and read it into tatters in the first few hours of its possession; then tucking it away in his hospital shirt, over his heart, proceeded to get well as fast as fast could be. "well," said the doctor, a few weeks afterwards, as jim was going home on his coveted sick-leave, "mr. thomas carlyle calls fibs wind-bags. if that singular remedy would work to such a charm with all my men, i'd tell lies with impunity. good by, jim, and the best of good luck to you." "the same to you, doctor, and i hope you may always find a friend in need, to lie for you. good by, and god bless you!" wringing his hand hard,--"and now, hurrah for home!" "hurrah it is!" cried the little surgeon after him, as, happy and proud, he limped down the ward, and turned his face towards home. chapter xxi "_youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm._" gray jim scarcely felt the jolting of the ambulance over the city stones, and his impatience and eagerness to get across the intervening space made dust, and heat, and weariness of travel seem but as feather weights, not to be cared for, nor indeed considered at all; though, in fact, his arm complained, and his leg ached distressingly, and he was faint and weak without confessing it long before the tiresome journey reached its end. "no matter," he said to himself; "it'll be all well, or forgotten, at least, when i see sallie once more; and so, what odds?" the end was gained at last, and he would have gone to her fast as certain rosinantes, yclept hackhorses, could carry him, but, stopping for a moment to consider, he thought, "no, that will never do! go to her looking like such a guy? nary time. i'll get scrubbed, and put on a clean shirt, and make myself decent, before she sees me. she always used to look nice as a new pin, and she liked me to look so too; so i'd better put my best foot foremost when she hasn't laid eyes on me for such an age. i'm fright enough, anyway, goodness knows, with my thinness, and my old lame leg; so--" sticking his head out of the window, and using his lungs with astonishing vigor--"driver! streak like lightning, will you, to the 'merchants'? and you shall have extra fare." "hold your blab there," growled the driver; "i ain't such a pig yet as to take double fare from a wounded soldier. you'll pay me well at half-price,--when we get where you want to go,"--which they did soon. "no!" said jehu, thrusting back part of the money, "i ain't agoin' to take it, so you needn't poke it out at me. i'm all right; or, if i ain't, i'll make it up on the next broadcloth or officer i carry; never you fear! us fellows knows how to take care of ourselves, you'd better believe!" which statement jim would have known to be truth, without the necessity of repetition, had he been one of the aforesaid "broadcloths," or "officers," and thus better acquainted with the genus hack-driver in the ordinary exercise of its profession. as it was; he shook hands with the fellow, pocketed the surplus change, made his way into the hotel, was in his room, in his bath, under the barber's hands, cleaned, shaved, brushed, polished, shining,--as he himself would have declared, "in a jiffy" then, deciding himself to be presentable to the lady of his heart, took his crutch and sallied forth, as good-looking a young fellow, spite of the wooden appendage, as any the sun shone upon in all the big city, and as happy, as it was bright. he knew where to go, and, by help of street-cars and other legs than his own, he was there speedily. he knew the very room towards which to turn; and, reaching it, paused to look in through the half-open door,--delighted thus to watch and listen for a little space unseen. sallie was sitting, her handsome head bent over her sewing,--frankie gambolling about the floor. "o sis, _don't_ you wish jim would come home?" queried the youngster. "i do,--i wish he'd come right straight away." "right straight away? what do _you_ want to see jim for?" "o, 'cause he's nice; and 'cause he'll take me to the theayter; and 'cause he'll treat,--apples, and peanuts, and candy, you know, and--and--ice-cream," wiping the beads from his little red face,--the last desideratum evidently suggested by the fiery summer heat. "i say, sallie!"--a pause--"won't you get me some ice-cream this evening?" "yes, bobbity, if you'll be a good boy." frankie looked dubious over that proposition. jim never made any such stipulations: so, after another pause, in which he was probably considering the whole subject with due and becoming gravity,--evidently desiring to hear his own wish propped up by somebody else's seconding,--he broke out again, "now, sallie, don't you just wish jim would come home?" "o frankie, don't i?" cried the girl, dropping her work, and stretching out her empty arms as though she would clasp some shape in the air. frankie, poor child! innocently imagining the proffered embrace was for him, ran forward, for he was an affectionate little soul, to give sallie a good hug, but found himself literally left out in the cold; no arms to meet, and no sallie, indeed, to touch him. something big, burly, and blue loomed up on his sight,--something that was doing its best to crush sallie bodily, and to devour what was not crushed; something that could say nothing by reason of its lips being so much more pleasantly engaged, and whose face was invisible through its extraordinary proximity to somebody else's face and hair. frankie, finding he could gain neither sight nor sound of notice, began to howl. but as neither of the hard-hearted creatures seemed to care for the poor little chap's howling, he fell upon the coat-tails of the big blue obstruction, and pulled at them lustily,--not to say viciously,--till their owner turned, and beheld him panting and fiery. "helloa, youngster! what's to pay now?" "wow! if 'tain't jim. hooray!" screeched the youngster, first embracing the blue legs, and then proceeding to execute a dance upon his head. "te, te, di di, idde i-dum," he sang, coming feet down, finally. evidently the bad boy's language had been corrupted by his street _confrã¨res_; it was a missionary ground upon which sallie entered, more or less faithfully, every day to hoe and weed; but of this last specimen-plant she took no notice, save to laugh as jim, catching him up, first kissed him, then gave him a shake and a small spank, and, thrusting a piece of currency into his hand, whisked him outside the door with a "come, shaver, decamp, and treat yourself to-day," and had it shut and fastened in a twinkling. "o jim!" she cried then, her soul in her handsome eyes. "o sallie!"--and he had her fast and tight once more. an ineffable blank, punctuated liberally with sounding exclamation points, and strongly marked periods,--though how or why a blank should be punctuated at all, only blissful lovers could possibly define. "jim, dear jim!" whispering it, and snuggling her blushing face closer to the faded blue, "can you love me after all that has happened?" "come now! _can_ i love you, my beauty? slightly, i should think. o, te, te, di di, idde i-dum,"--singing frank's little song with his big, gay voice,--"i'm happy as a king." happy as a king, that was plain enough. and what shall be said of her, as he sat down, and, resting the wounded leg--stiff and sore yet,--held sallie on his other knee,--then fell to admiring her while she stroked his mustache and his crisp, curling hair, looking at both and at him altogether with an expression of contented adoration in her eyes. frank, tired of prowling round the door, candy in hand, here thrust his head in at the window, and, unfortunately for his plans, sneezed. "mutual-admiration society!" he cried at that, seeing that he was detected in any case, and running away,--his run spoiled as soon as it began. "we are a handsome couple," laughed jim, holding back her face between both hands,--"ain't we, now?" yes, they were,--no mistake about that, handsome as pictures. and merry as birds, through all of his short stay. they would see no danger in the future: jim had been scathed in time past so often, yet come out safe and sound, that they would have no fear for what was to befall him in time to come. if they had, neither showed it to the other. jim thought, "sallie would break her heart, if she knew just what is down there,--so it would be a pity to talk about it"; and sallie thought, "it's right for jim to go, and i won't say a word to keep him back, no matter how i feel." the furlough was soon--ah! how soon--out, the days of happiness over; and jim, holding her in a last close embrace, said his farewell: "come, sallie, you're not to cry now, and make me a coward. it'll only be for a little while; the rebs _can't_ stand it much longer, and then--" "ah, jim! but if you should--" "yes, but i sha'n't, you see; not a bit of it; don't you go to think it. 'i bear'--what is it? o--'a charmed life,' as mr. macbeth says, and you'll see me back right and tight, and up to time. one kiss more, dear. god bless you! good by!" and he was gone. she leaned out of the window,--she smiled after him, kissed her hand, waved her handkerchief, so long as he could see them,--till he had turned a corner way down the street,--and smile, and hand, and handkerchief were lost to his sight; then flung herself on the floor, and cried as though her very heart would break. "god send him home,--send him safe and soon home!" she implored; entreaty made for how many loved ones, by how many aching hearts, that speedily lost the need of saying amen to any such petition,--the prayer for the living lost in mourning for the dead. heaven grant that no soul that reads this ever may have the like cause to offer such prayer again! chapter xxii "_when we see the dishonor of a thing, then it is time to renounce it._" plutarch a letter which sallie wrote to jim a few weeks after his departure tells its own story, and hence shall be repeated here. * * * * * philadelphia, october 29, 1863. dear jim:-i take my pen in hand this morning to write you a letter, and to tell you the news, though i don't know much of the last except about frankie and myself. however, i suppose you will care more to hear that than any other, so i will begin. maybe you will be surprised to hear that frankie and i are at mr. ercildoune's. well, we are,--and i will tell you how it came about. not long after you went away, frank began to pine, and look droopy. there wasn't any use in giving him medicine, for it didn't do him a bit of good. he couldn't eat, and he didn't sleep, and i was at my wits' ends to know what to do for him. one day mrs. lee,--that mr. ercildoune's housekeeper,--an old english lady she is, and she's lived with him ever since he was married, and before he came here,--a real lady, too,--came in with some sewing, some fine shirts for mr. robert ercildoune. i asked after him, and you'll be glad to know that he's recovering. he didn't have to lose his leg, as they feared; and his arm is healing; and the wound in his breast getting well. mrs. lee says she's very sorry the stump isn't longer, so that he could wear a palmer arm,--but she's got no complaints to make; they're only too glad and thankful to have him living at all, after such a dreadful time. while i was talking with her, frankie called me from the next room, and began to cry. you wouldn't have known him,--he cried at everything, and was so fretful and cross i could scarcely get along at all. when i got him quiet, and came back, mrs. lee says, "what's the matter with frank?" so i told her i didn't know,--but would she see him? well, she saw him, and shook her head in a bad sort of way that scared me awfully, and i suppose she saw i was frightened, for she said, "all he wants is plenty of fresh air, and good, wholesome country food and exercise." i can tell you, spite of that, she went away, leaving me with heavy enough a heart. the next day mr. ercildoune came in. how he is changed! i haven't seen him before since mrs. surrey died, and that of itself was enough to kill him, without this dreadful time about mr. robert. "good morning, miss sallie," says he, "how are you? and i'm glad to see you looking so well." so i told him i was well, and then he asked for frankie. "mrs. lee tells me," he said, "that your little brother is quite ill, and that he needs country air and exercise. he can have them both at the oaks; so if you'll get him ready, the carriage will come for you at whatever time you appoint. mrs. lee can find you plenty of work as long as you care to stay." he looked as if he wanted to say something more, but didn't; and i was just as sure as sure could be that it was something about miss francesca, probably about her having me out there so much; for his face looked so sad, and his lips trembled so, i knew that must be in his mind. and when i thought of it, and of such an awful fate as it was for her, so young, and handsome, and happy, like the great baby i am, i just threw my apron over my head, and burst out crying. "don't!" he said,--"don't!" in o, such a voice! it was like a knife going through me; and he went quick out of the room, and downstairs, without even saying good by. well, we came out the next day,--and i have plenty to do, and frankie is getting real bright and strong. i can see mr. ercildoune likes to have us here, because of the connection with miss francesca. she was so interested in us, and so kind to us, and he knows i loved her so very dearly,--and if it's any comfort to him i'm sure i'm glad to be here, without taking frankie into the account,--for the poor gentleman looks so bowed and heart-broken that it makes one's heart ache just to see him. mr. robert isn't well enough to be about yet, but he sits up for a while every day, and is getting on--the doctor says--nicely. they both talk about you often; and mr. ercildoune, i can see, thinks everything of you for that good, kind deed of yours, when you and mr. robert were on the transport together. dear jim, he don't know you as well as i do, or he'd know that you couldn't help doing such things,--not if you tried. i hope you'll like the box that comes with this. mr. robert had it packed for you in his own room, to see that everything went in that you'd like. of course, as he's been a soldier himself, he knows better what they want than anybody else can. dear jim, do take care of yourself; don't go and get wounded; and don't get sick; and, whatever you do, don't let the rebels take you prisoner, unless you want to drive me frantic. i think about you pretty much all the time, and pray for you, as well as i know how, every night when i go to bed, and am always your own loving sallie. * * * * * "wow!" said jim, as he read, "she's in a good berth there." so she was,--and so she stayed. frankie got quite well once more, and sallie began to think of going, but mr. ercildoune evidently clung to her and to the sunshine which the bright little fellow cast through the house. sallie was quite right in her supposition. francesca had cared for this girl, had been kind to her and helped her,--and his heart went out to everything that reminded him of his dear, dead child. so it happened that autumn passed, and winter, and spring,--and still they stayed. in fact, she was domesticated in the house, and, for the first time in years, enjoyed the delightful sense of a home. here, then, she set up her rest, and remained; here, when the "cruel war was over," the armies disbanded, the last regiments discharged, and jimmy "came marching home," brown, handsome, and a captain, here he found her,--and from here he married and carried her away. it was a happy little wedding, though nobody was there beside the essentials, save the family and a dear friend of robert's, who was with him at the time, as he had been before and would be often again,--none other than william surrey's favorite cousin and friend, tom russell. the letter which surrey had written never reached his hand till he lay almost dying from the effects of wounds and exposure, after he had been brought in safety to our lines by his faithful black friends, at morris island. surrey had not mistaken his temper; gay, reckless fellow, as he was, he was a thorough gentleman, in whom could harbor no small spite, nor petty prejudice,--and without a mean fibre in his being. at a glance he took in the whole situation, and insisting upon being propped up in bed, with his own hand--though slowly, and as a work of magnitude--succeeded in writing a cordial letter of congratulation and affection, that would have been to surrey like the grasp of a brother's hand in a strange and foreign country, had it ever reached his touch and eyes. but even while tom lay writing his letter, occasionally muttering, "they'll have a devilish hard time of it!" or "poor young un!" or "she's one in a million!" or some such sentence which marked his feeling and care,--these two of whom he thought, to whose future he looked with such loving anxiety, were beyond the reach of human help or hindrance,--done alike with the sorrows and joys of time. from a distance, with the help of a glass, and absorbing interest, he had followed the movements of the flag and its bearer, and had cheered, till he fainted from weakness and exhaustion, as he saw them safe at last. it was with delight that he found himself on the same transport with ercildoune, and discovered in him the brother of the young girl for whom, in the past, he had had so pleasing and deep a regard, and whose present and future were so full of interest for him, in their new and nearer relations. these two young men, unlike as they were in most particulars, were drawn together by an irresistible attraction. they had that common bond, always felt and recognized by those who possess it, of the gentle blood,--tastes and instincts in common, and a fine, chivalrous sentiment which each felt and thoroughly appreciated in the other. the friendship thus begun grew with the passing years, and was intensified a hundred fold by a portion of the past to which they rarely referred, but which lay always at the bottom of their hearts. they had each for those two who had lain dead together in the streets of new york the strongest and tenderest love,--and though it was not a tie about which they could talk, it bound them together as with chains of steel. russell was with ercildoune at the time of the wedding, and entered into it heartily, as they all did. the result was, as has been written, the gayest and merriest of times. sallies dress, which robert had given her, was a sight to behold; and the pretty jewels, which were a part of his gift, and the long veil, made her look, as jim declared, "so handsome he didn't know her,"--though that must have been one of jim's stories, or else he was in the habit of making love to strange ladies with extraordinary ease and effrontery. the breakfast was another sight to behold. as mary the cook said to jane the housemaid, "if they'd been born kings and queens, mrs. lee couldn't have laid herself out more; it's grand, so it is,--just you go and see;" which jane proceeded to do, and forthwith thereafter corroborated mary's enthusiastic statement. there were plenty of presents, too: and when it was all over, and they were in the carriage, to be sent to the station, mr. ercildoune, holding sallie's hand in farewell, left there a bit of paper, "which is for you," he said. "god protect, and keep you happy, my child!" then they were gone, with many kind adieus and good wishes called and sent after them. when they were seated in the cars, sallie looked at her bit of paper, and read on its outer covering, "a wedding-gift to sallie howard from my dear daughter francesca," and found within the deed of a beautiful little home. god bless her! say we, with mr. ercildoune. god bless them both, and may they live long to enjoy it! that afternoon, as tom and robert were driving, russell, noting the unwonted look of life and activity, and the gay flags flung to the breeze, demanded what it all meant. "why," said he, "it is like a field day." "it is so," answered robert, "or what is the same; it is election day." "bless my soul! so it is; and a soldier to be elected. have you voted?" "no!" "no? here's a nice state of affairs! a fellow that'll get his arm blown off for a flag, but won't take the trouble to drop a scrap of paper for it. come, i'll drive you over." "you forget, russell!" "forget? nonsense! this isn't 1860, but 1865. i don't forget; i remember. it is after the war now,--come." "as you please," said robert. he knew the disappointment that awaited his friend, but he would not thwart him now. there was a great crowd about the polling-office, and they all looked on with curious interest as the two young men came up. no demonstration was made, though a half-dozen brutal fellows uttered some coarse remarks. "hear the damned rebs talk!" said a man in the army blue, who, with keen eyes, was observing the scene. "they're the same sort of stuff we licked in carolina." "ay," said another, "but with a difference; blue led there; but gray'll come off winner here, or i'm mistaken." robert stood leaning upon his cane; a support which he would need for life, one empty sleeve pinned across his breast, over the scar from a deep and yet unhealed wound. the clear october sun shone down upon his form and face, upon the broad folds of the flag that waved in triumph above him, upon a country where wars and rumors of wars had ceased. "courage, man! what ails you?" whispered russell, as he felt his comrade tremble; "it's a ballot in place of a bayonet, and all for the same cause; lay it down." robert put out his hand. "challenge the vote!" "challenge the vote!" "no niggers here!" sounded from all sides. the bit of paper which ercildoune had placed on the window-ledge fluttered to the ground on the outer side, and, looking at tom, robert said quietly, "1860 or 1865?--is the war ended?" "no!" answered tom, taking his arm, and walking away. "no, my friend! so you and i will continue in the service." "not ended;--it is true! how and when will it be closed?" "that is for the loyal people of america to decide," said russell, as they turned their faces towards home. how and when will it be closed? a question asked by the living and the dead,--to which america must respond. among the living is a vast army: black and white,--shattered and maimed, and blind: and these say, "here we stand, shattered and maimed, that the body politic might be perfect! blind forever, that the glorious sun of liberty might shine abroad throughout the land, for all people, through all coming time." and the dead speak too. from their crowded graves come voices of thrilling and persistent pathos, whispering, "finish the work that has fallen from our nerveless hands. let no weight of tyranny, nor taint of oppression, nor stain of wrong, cumber the soil nor darken the land we died to save." note since it is impossible for any one memory to carry the entire record of the war, it is well to state, that almost every scene in this book is copied from life, and that the incidents of battle and camp are part of the history of the great contest. the story of fort wagner is one that needs no such emphasis, it is too thoroughly known; that of the color-sergeant, whose proper name is w.h. carney, is taken from a letter written by general m.s. littlefield to colonel a.g. browne, secretary to governor andrew. from the _new york tribune_ and the _providence journal_ were taken the accounts of the finding of hunt, the coming of the slaves into a south carolina camp, and the voluntary carrying, by black men, ere they were enlisted, of a schooner into the fight at newbern. than these two papers, none were considered more reliable and trustworthy in their war record. almost every paper in the north published the narrative of the black man pushing off the boat, for which an official report is responsible. the boat was a flat-boat, with a company of soldiers on board; and the battery under the fire of which it fell was at rodman's point, north carolina. in drawing the outlines of this, as of the others, i have necessarily used a somewhat free pencil, but the main incident of each has been faithfully preserved. the disabled black soldier my own eyes saw thrust from a car in philadelphia. the portraits of ercildoune and his children may seem to some exaggerated; those who have, as i, the rare pleasure of knowing the originals, will say, "the half has not been told." every leading new york paper, democratic and republican, was gone over, ere the summary of the riots was made; and i think the record will be found historically accurate. the _anglo-african_ gives the story of poor abram franklin; and the assault on surrey has its likeness in the death of colonel o'brien. in a conversation between surrey and francesca, allusion is made to an act the existence of which i have frequently heard doubted. i therefore copy here a part of the "retaliatory act," passed by the rebel government at richmond, and approved by its head, may 1, 1863:-"sec. 4. every white person, being a commissioned officer, or acting as such, who, during the present war, shall command negroes or mulattoes in arms against the confederate states, or who shall arm, train, organize, or prepare negroes or mulattoes for military service against the confederate states, or who shall voluntarily aid negroes or mulattoes in any military enterprise, attack, or conflict in such service, shall be deemed as inciting servile insurrection; and shall, if captured, be put to death." i have written this book, and send it to the consciences and the hearts of the american people. may god, for whose "little ones" i have here spoken, vivify its words. peggy owen and liberty _by_ lucy foster madison author of "peggy owen" "peggy owen, patriot" "peggy owen at yorktown" etc. illustrated by h. j. peck the penn publishing company philadelphia mcmxiii copyright 1912 by the penn publishing company [illustration: "why, it's father!"] "the motto of our father-band circled the world in its embrace: 'twas liberty throughout the land, and good to all their brother race. long here--within the pilgrim's bell had lingered--though it often pealed- those treasured tones, that eke should tell where freedom's proudest scroll was sealed! here the dawn of reason broke on the trampled rights of man; and a moral era woke brightest since the world began." introduction in "peggy owen," the first book of this series, is related the story of a little quaker maid who lived across from the state house in philadelphia, and who, neutral at first on account of her religion, became at length an active patriot. the vicissitudes and annoyances to which she and her mother are subjected by one william owen, an officer in the english army and a kinsman of her father's, are also given. "peggy owen, patriot" tells of peggy's winter at middlebrook, in northern new jersey, where washington's army is camped, her capture by the british and enforced journey to the carolinas, and final return home. "peggy owen at yorktown" details how peggy goes to virginia to nurse a cousin, who is wounded and a prisoner. the town is captured by the british under benedict arnold, the traitor, and peggy is led to believe that he has induced the desertion of her friend, john drayton. drayton's rescue from execution as a spy and the siege of yorktown follow. in the present volume peggy's friends rally about her when her cousin clifford is in danger of capture. the exciting events of the story show the unsettled state of the country after the surrender of cornwallis. contents i. a small dinner becomes a party 11 ii. peggy is surprised 26 iii. on the horns of a dilemma 40 iv. the search 53 v. friends in need 69 vi. appearances against her 81 vii. david owen is informed of the facts 94 viii. before the council 108 ix. out of the frying-pan into the fire 120 x. a race for life 134 xi. the choice of fairfax 144 xii. "they must go home" 163 xiii. a woman's wit 176 xiv. marching orders 194 xv. the attack on the blockhouse 215 xvi. "of what was he guilty?" 227 xvii. a glimpse of home 244 xviii. herod out heroded 256 xix. the turn of the wheel 272 xx. a slight emphasis of "that" 285 xxi. chosen by lot 303 xxii. what can be done? 318 xxiii. a little humor despite a grim situation 334 xxiv. "thee may tell him at the last" 348 xxv. at headquarters 363 xxvi. the adventure of the glen 376 xxvii. the safeguard of his honor 392 xxviii. "how could she know?" 407 xxix. in the shadow of death 424 xxx. and then the end 437 illustrations page "why, it's father!" _frontispiece_ "close the door" 47 the two girls set forth 97 a shower of bullets fell about the sleigh 138 a cry of anguish went up 221 "where is thee going?" 268 "i kneel to you, sir" 373 peggy owen and liberty chapter i a small dinner becomes a party "at delaware's broad stream, the view begin where jutting wharfs, food-freighted boats take in; then, with the advancing sun direct your eye wide opes the street with firm brick buildings high; step, gently rising, over the pebbly way, and see the shops their tempting wares display." --_"description of philadelphia," breitnal, 1729._ it was the first of march, 1782, and over the city of philadelphia a severe storm was raging. a stiff wind, that lashed the black waters of the delaware into sullen fury and sent the snow whirling and eddying before it, blew savagely from the northeast. the snow, which had begun falling the day before, had continued all night with such rigorous, relentless persistence that by the noon hour the whole city was sheeted with a soft white blanket that spread abroad a solemn stillness. the rolling wheels of the few vehicles in the streets were noiseless, and the sharp ring and clatter of horses' hoofs became a dull muffled tramp. high up overhead the snow settled on the church spires, clothing them in a garb of pure cold white, and drifted among the niches of the state house tower, until the face of the great clock was hidden, and could scarce be told for what it was. just across from the state house, in the midst of extensive grounds, stood a large double brick house which was taking its share of the storm. there were piles of snow on the steps and broad piazzas, huge drifts against the fences, and great banks on the terraces of the gardens. the wind lashed the lithe limbs of the leafless trees of the orchard, shrieked through the sooty caverns of the wide chimneys, whistled merrily as it drove the snow against the windows, and rattled the casements with howls of glee as it went whirling by. storm-bound the mansion seemed, but its cold and wintry appearance was wholly on the outside, for within its walls there was no lack of cheerfulness and warmth. great fires blazed on every hearth and puffed clouds of smoke through the broad chimneys, in defiance of the wind which strove there for the mastery. between the heavy gusts of wind came gleeful bursts of laughter from the sitting-room as though the inmates were too happy to heed the driving storm without, and from the kitchen arose savory odors that spoke of tempting preparations for a bounteous meal, which further enhanced the air of geniality that pervaded the dwelling. in this latter apartment were two persons: one, a serene faced woman of middle age who was busily engaged at the kneading board; the other, a slender maiden well covered by a huge apron and with sleeves rolled back, stood before a deal table reducing loaf sugar to usable shape. they were mistress david owen and her daughter peggy. "how it blows!" exclaimed the girl, looking up from her task as a sudden gust of wind flung the outside door wide, and sent the snow scurrying across the sanded floor of the kitchen. "what shall be done anent that door, mother?" "tell sukey to bring a large stick of wood and put against it," returned the lady. "then look to the oven, peggy. 'tis hard to get a clear fire with so much wind." "i do believe that everything is going to be done to a turn in spite of it," remarked peggy, a little frown of anxiety which had puckered her brow disappearing as she glanced into the great oven. "then as soon as thou hast set the table the dinner will be ready to take up. i make no doubt but that thy friends are hungry. and what a time they seem to be having," mrs. owen added as a merry peal of laughter came from the sitting-room. "are they not?" peggy smiled in sympathy. "i am so glad they came yesterday. i fear me that they could not have reached here to-day in this dreadful storm. 'tis too bad to have such weather now when 'tis robert's first home leave in three years." "methinks that 'twould better come when one is on a furlough than in camp," remarked her mother gravely. "it must be terrible for the soldiers who lack so much to keep them comfortable." "true," assented the girl soberly. "would that the war were at an end, and the peace we long for had come in very truth." "and so do we all, my daughter. 'tis weary waiting, but we must of necessity possess ourselves with patience. but there! let not the thought of it sadden thee to-day. 'tis long since thou hast had thy friends together. enjoy the present, for we know not what the morrow may bring. and now----" "set the table," added peggy with a laugh, as she rolled down her sleeves. "and don't thee dally too long talking with thy friends, peggy. thee didn't add that, mother." "as thee knows thy weakness it might be well to bear it in mind," commented her mother with a smile. the kitchen was the principal apartment of a long low building attached to the main dwelling by a covered entry way. through this peggy went to the hall and on to the dining-room, where she began laying the table. this room adjoined the sitting-room, and, as the bursts of merriment became more and more frequent, the maiden softly opened the connecting door and peeped in. a tall youth of soldierly bearing, in the uniform of the light infantry, his epaulettes denoting the rank of major, leaned carelessly against one end of the mantelpiece. on a settle drawn up before the fire sat two girls. one held a book from which she was reading aloud, and both the other girl and the youth were so intent upon her utterances that they did not notice peggy's entrance. they turned toward her eagerly as she spoke: "aren't you getting hungry, or are you too interested to stop for dinner?" "'tis quite time thee was coming, peggy," cried the girl who had been reading, tossing back her curly locks that, innocent of powder, hung in picturesque confusion about her face. "i really don't know what we are to do with betty here. since she hath taken to young lady ways there's no living with her." "what has thee been doing, betty williams?" queried peggy with mock gravity, turning toward the other girl. her hair was done high over a cushion, profusely powdered, and she waved a large fan languidly. "sally is just talking, peggy," she said. "she and robert seem to find much amusement in some of my remarks. 'tis just nothing at all. sally evans is the one that needs to be dealt with." "sally hath been reading to us from your diary, which you kept for the social select circle while you were in virginia," explained robert dale. "we were much entertained anent the account of your bashful friend, fairfax johnson. betty amused us by telling just what she would have done with him had she been in your place." "i often wished for her," declared peggy, smiling. "poor fairfax would mantle did a girl but speak to him. and yet he was so brave!" "he was indeed," assented the youth with warm admiration. "sally hath just read where he went to warn the legislature of virginia of tarleton's coming despite the fact that he was ill. but, peggy, we could not help but laugh over what he said to you. read his words, sally." "'i said,'" read sally picking up the book again, "'friend fairfax, thee always seems so afraid of us females, yet thee can do this, or aught else that is for thy country. why is it?' and he replied: "'to defend the country from the invader, to do anything that can be done to thwart the enemy's designs, is man's duty. but to face a battery of bright eyes requires courage, mistress peggy. and that i have not.'" "wasn't that fine?" cried betty with animation. "i adore bravery and shyness combined. methinks 'twould be delightsome to be the woman who could teach him how to face such a battery. thee didn't live up to thy opportunity, peggy. it was thy duty to cure such a fine fellow of bashfulness. it was thy duty, i say. would i could take him in hand." "would that thee might, betty," answered peggy. "but i fear thee would have thy hands full." "i wonder if thee has heard the latest concerning betty's doings," broke in sally. "mr. deering told me of it. betty was dancing a measure with colonel middleton at the last assembly when mr. deering came up to her and said: "'i see that you are dancing with a man of war, miss betty.' "'yes, sir,' says betty, 'but i think a tender would be preferable.'" "oh, betty! betty!" gasped peggy when the merriment that greeted this had subsided. "how did thee dare?" "la!" spoke betty, arranging the folds of her paduasoy gown complacently, "when a man is so remiss as to forget the refreshments one must dare." "i verily believe that she could manage your friend, fairfax," commented robert dale laughing. "would that i might be there to see it." "i kept an account of everything he said for betty's especial delectation," said peggy. "she named him the 'silent knight,' and it was very appropriate." "now why for my delectation instead of thine, or sally's?" queried betty. "why, sally and i are such workaday damsels that we are not accustomed to handling such problems," explained peggy demurely. "thou art the only belle in the social select circle, and having been instructed in french, i hear very thoroughly, thou hast waxed proficient in matters regarding the sterner sex." "nonsense! nonsense!" ejaculated betty. she sat up quickly, and sniffed the air daintily. "peggy owen," she cried, "do i in very truth smell pepper-pot?" "thee does. i thought that would please thee. and sally, too, but robert----" she glanced at the lad inquiringly. "robert is enough of a quaker to enjoy pepper-pot," answered he emphatically. "this weather is the very time for it too." "we'll forgive thy desertion of us so long as thee was making pepper-pot," declared sally. "well, robert hath not had leave for three years, so mother and i thought we must do what we could to give him a good dinner." "does she mean by that that thee has not eaten in all that time, robert?" demanded betty slyly. "in truth 'twould seem so. i do believe that she hath done naught but move betwixt spit and oven this whole morning." "i think i shall do justice to all such preparations," said the youth smiling. "i fancy that the most of us in the army would find little difficulty in keeping peggy busy all the time." "hark!" exclaimed sally. "i thought i heard some one call." as the youth and the maidens assumed a listening attitude there came a faint "hallo!" above the tumult of the wind. sally ran to one of the windows that faced chestnut street, and flattened her nose against the glass in the endeavor to see out. "'tis a man on horseback," she cried. "he is stopping in front of the house. now he is dismounting. who can it be?" "some traveler, i make no doubt," remarked peggy, coming to her side. "the storm hath forced him to stop for shelter. ah! there is tom ready to take his horse. he should have cleaned the steps, but he waited, i dare say, hoping that it would stop snow---why! it's father----" she broke off abruptly, making a dash for the door. "tell mother, sally." "david, this is a surprise," exclaimed mrs. owen, coming quickly in answer to sally's call, and reaching the sitting-room just as a tall man, booted and spurred, entered it from the hall. "thee must be almost frozen after being exposed to the fury of such a storm." "'tis good to be out of it, wife," answered mr. owen, greeting her with affection. he stretched his hands luxuriantly toward the fire as peggy relieved him of his hat and riding coat, and glanced about appreciatively. "how cozy and comfortable it is here! and what a merry party! it puts new heart into a man just to see so much brightness." "we are to have pepper-pot, mr. owen," betty informed him, drawing forward a large easy chair for his use while sally ran to lay an extra plate on the table. "doesn't it smell good?" "it does indeed, betty. the odor is delectable enough to whet the appetite to as keen an edge as the wind hath. robert, 'tis some time since i have seen thee." "i am on my first leave in three years, mr. owen. are you on a furlough too, sir?" "nay, lad; i took one just after yorktown, when i brought peggy home from virginia. general washington, who, as thee doubtless knows, is still here in philadelphia perfecting plans with congress for next summer's campaign, hath sent for me to confer with him regarding the best means of putting down this illicit trade which hath sprung up of late. i do not know how long the conference will last, but it comes very pleasantly just now, as it enables me to have the comforts of home during this severe weather." "when did you leave the highlands, sir?" "four days since. the army had begun to hope that winter was over, as the ice was beginning to come down the hudson. this storm hath dashed our hopes of an early spring." "and must thee return there, david?" asked mistress owen. "no; i am to go to lancaster. this trade seems to be flourishing among the british prisoners stationed there. congress had granted permission to england to keep them in supplies, and it seems that advantage is taken of this fact to include a great many contraband goods. these the prisoners, or their wives, are selling to the citizens of lancaster and surrounding country. to such an extent hath the trade grown that it threatens to ruin the merchants of the place, who cannot compete with the prices asked. i am to look into the matter, and to stop the importation of such goods, if possible." "'tis openly talked that england will defer coming to terms of peace because she hopes to conquer us by this same trade," observed robert dale gravely. "and is like to succeed if it cannot be put down," commented david owen shaking his head. "all along the coast the british cruisers patrol to capture our merchantmen, and to obstruct our commerce. the delaware is watched, our coasts are watched that we may not get goods elsewhere, or have any market for our produce. unable to get what they want, our own people buy where they can without realizing the harm. 'tis estimated from forty to fifty thousand pounds have been drawn by this means into new york in the past few months. if this continues the enemy will soon be possessed of all the hard money that hath come into the country through the french, and without money we can do naught. our resources and industries have been ruined by the long war, and this latest scheme of england bids fair to undo what hath been accomplished by force of arms." "and after yorktown every one thought that of course peace was just a matter of a few months. that it would be declared at once," sighed sally. "oh, dear! it makes me sad to think the war is not over yet!" "and i have been the marplot to spoil this merry company," said mr. owen contritely. "let's declare a truce to the matter for the time being, and discuss that pepper-pot. is't ready, lass?" "yes, father," answered peggy rising. "and there is a good dinner beside. we will enjoy it the more for having thee with us." "thee must be hungry, david," observed mistress owen rising also. "the dinner is ready to put on the table, so thee is just in time. i----" she stopped abruptly as high above the noise of the wind the brass knocker sounded. "more company," exclaimed betty gleefully as peggy started for the hall. "peggy, thy small dinner bids fair to become a party." chapter ii peggy is surprised "the state that strives for liberty, though foiled and forced to abandon what she bravely sought, deserves at least applause for her attempt, and pity for her loss. but that's a cause not often unsuccessful." --"_the task," cowper._ peggy was nearly blinded by the sudden rush of snow and wind that followed the opening of the great front door, and so for the moment did not recognize the two, a man and a woman, who stood there on the steps. "will ye enter, friends?" she asked courteously. "'tis a fearful storm!" "that it is, peggy. we are mighty glad to reach shelter. come, fairfax! i told you that we should be welcome." "nurse johnson," shrilled the girl in delight. "why, come right in. welcome? of course thee is welcome. and thou also, friend fairfax. why, we were speaking of thee but now. mother, 'tis friend nurse, from virginia." "come in, friend johnson," spoke mrs. owen warmly, coming in haste from the sitting-room. "thee must be cold. 'tis dreadful weather. let me help thee with thy wraps." "i was getting pretty cold," acknowledged nurse johnson. "we were on our way to the jerseys, where my sister hath taken a farm. we thought to get to burlington to-night, but the storm made traveling so difficult that i told fairfax that i made no doubt you would put us up until 'twas over." "'twill give us great pleasure, friend nurse--i should say, friend johnson," answered mistress owen graciously. "we have heard peggy talk of thee so much that we have fallen into her way of speaking of thee." "continue so to call me, mrs. owen. i like it," declared nurse johnson heartily. "peggy, see thou to the dishing up of the dinner, while i attend our friends," spoke her mother. "we were just on the point of taking it up when ye came," she explained. "hot pepper-pot will warm ye better than anything." "isn't that our silent knight?" queried betty, in a shrill whisper as peggy was passing through the room. "yes, betty. shall i place him by thee at table?" "see how she is priming for conquest," remarked sally as betty, nodding acquiescence, began unconsciously to smooth her hair. "she must tell us every word he says; must she not, robert?" "of a verity," smiled the young man, his amusement plainly visible. "i think thee has met with every one, friend nurse," observed mrs. owen entering at this moment with the new arrivals. "david ye know, of course. sally and betty ye met last year. robert? no; ye do not know him. robert dale, of the army, nurse johnson. and this is fairfax, her son, robert. ye should be good friends, as ye have both fought for the country." "thou hast forgot to give robert his rank, lowry," spoke mr. owen as the young men shook hands. "friend johnson, have this chair. thou wilt find it easy and quite comfortable." "thy pardon, robert," exclaimed mrs. owen. "i do not always remember that thou art major dale." "i do not always remember it myself, madam," returned the youth modestly. "and i wish to be robert to you always." "how these children grow!" exclaimed nurse johnson sinking into the easy chair with a sigh of content. "it hardly seems possible that fairfax is more than a boy; yet here he is a captain in the army." "a captain?" ejaculated peggy in surprise. "yes; it does seem strange, doesn't it? you see he served with the militia in virginia during the last few years, and i presume would have stayed with it; but his uncle, my sister's husband, persuaded him to enlist with the regular army. he said that if he would enroll himself among the new jersey troops he would get him a commission as captain, which he did. that is one of the reasons we are going to new jersey." "thou wilt find it very comfortable here on the settle, captain johnson," spoke betty sweetly, drawing her skirts aside with such an unmistakable gesture that fairfax, flushing hotly, was obliged to seat himself beside her. peggy's glance met sally's with quick understanding. "i will help thee, peggy," said sally, rising. "nay; we do not need thee, mrs. owen. didst ever see betty's equal?" she questioned as they reached the kitchen. peggy laughed. "sally, she will never make him talk in the world," she declared. "thou and i will have a good laugh at her when 'tis over. 'twill give a fine chance to tease." "'tis just like a party," cried betty as, a little later, they were gathered about the table. "'tis charming to meet old friends! and everybody is here save thy cousins, clifford and harriet, peggy. oh, yes! and captain drayton." "captain drayton is to go to lancaster too, i understand," remarked mr. owen. "did thee know, lass?" "no, father. i thought he was still with general greene. he returned to him after yorktown." "yes, i know. this is but a recent arrangement. i shall be glad to have him at lancaster. he is good help in a matter of the nature we shall find there." "and the cousins?" inquired nurse johnson. "did they go to new york from yorktown? i have wondered anent it." "harriet went with cousin william to new york; but clifford was sent somewhere into the interior with the men. thee remembers that all the majors and captains accompanied the men, to look after their welfare and to maintain discipline," explained peggy. "i rather liked clifford," remarked the nurse. "he certainly earned our gratitude, peggy, by protecting us when the british came to williamsburgh. did peggy tell you about it, mrs. owen?" "yes; and so much else concerning the lad that i find myself quite anxious to see him," answered mrs. owen. "peggy declares that he should have been her brother instead of harriet's. he looks so much like david." "i think i agree with her. the resemblance is remarkable. but why did he go under the name of captain williams? i never did understand it." "'twas because he went into the army without his father's permission," peggy told her. "he feared that if he came to america under his own name cousin william might use his influence to have him returned to england. 'tis generally known, however, that he is colonel william owen's son, though he is called captain williams." "well, i hope the lad is well treated wherever he may be," said the nurse musingly. "i should not like harm to befall him; he was so considerate of us. what is the outlook for another summer, mr. owen?" "the general is preparing for another campaign, friend johnson. the preparations are proceeding slowly, however, owing to the exhaustion of the country. then, too, every state seems afraid of bearing more than its share of the war. there is much disinclination to vigorous exertion. his excellency is pleading and entreating that the people may not let the late success of our arms render them insensible to the danger we still face. there is talk of a new commander for the british, i hear. meantime, our coasts are harassed by the enemy, and our commerce is all but stopped. could the general have followed out his wish, and laid siege to charlestown after the success at yorktown, we need not have prepared for another campaign." and so the talk went on. it was never in the character and traditions of england to treat with an enemy in the hour of disaster. in its history treaties had, from time immemorial, followed upon victory, never upon defeat. it was therefore necessary as well as politic to grasp the full fruits of the brilliant success at yorktown, and washington, with the vigor which was one of the most striking traits of his well balanced nature, wished to carry its consequences to their utmost limit. but the french fleet under de grasse refused to co-operate longer, and the general was forced to send his army back to the hudson while he began preparations for another campaign. meantime, the illicit trade assumed proportions that threatened to undo everything that had been gained by force of arms. all these things were discussed, and nurse johnson gave them the latest news of the army in the south: general greene had completely invested charlestown, she said. general wayne had been sent to georgia and now lay before savannah. the capitulation of the two places seemed but a question of time. the french still lay about williamsburgh, having chosen that place for their winter quarters. it was reported that they would go north with the opening of spring. in turn, mr. owen told of the numerous raids that had been made, principally by refugees along the coast, the capture of the merchantmen, and the war at sea. under cover of the conversation of their elders, peggy was amused to see that betty was talking animatedly to fairfax johnson. presently, the dinner was finished, and she found herself alone in the dining-room with her girl friends. "peggy, thee maligned captain johnson," declared betty closing the door of the sitting-room. "get me a towel, sally. we will both wipe the dishes." she polished a plate vigorously as she continued: "i found him most entertaining. he and his mother are going to northern new jersey, where his aunt and uncle have a large farm. plantation, he calls it. they grew very tired of being with the military so much at williamsburgh, though no one could desire better troops than the allies. they intend to make their home in new jersey if they like it. his aunt hath but one son, who is with the military on tom's river." peggy gazed at her with an expression of the most intense astonishment. "he told thee all that, betty?" she exclaimed. "why, thee is wonderful! in all the six or seven months that i knew him i never heard him say so much." "he needs just a little encouragement," said betty complacently. "he is really quite interesting. i enjoyed the conversation greatly. sally evans, whatever is the matter?" "oh! oh!" screamed sally. "she enjoyed the conversation greatly. i should think she would. why, she did all the talking. robert and i commented upon it. oh, betty! betty!" "i did not do all the talking," retorted betty indignantly. "how could i have learned all the things i have said if i did the talking?" "the conversation went like this, peggy," giggled sally: "'is the farm a large one that thy aunt hath taken, friend fairfax?' 'yes,' answers he. then betty with a smile: 'i believe southerners call a farm a plantation, do they not?' 'yes,' he said. 'is being with the military so much the reason thou and thy mother left williamsburgh?' 'yes,' he said again. 'it really must be tiresome,' goes on betty, 'though it hath been said that the french are exceedingly well behaved troops. does thee not think so, friend fairfax?' 'yes,' he said once more. and that is the way the whole conversation went. i don't believe the poor fellow said anything else but that one word, yes." "he did," declared betty with heat. "i remember quite distinctly that once he said, 'it doth indeed;' and--and--oh! lots of other things. ye are both just as mean as can be. and he did listen most attentively. i really enjoyed the talk, as i said." "i'll warrant thee did," laughed peggy while sally was convulsed with mirth. "i think thee did well, betty. thou art to be congratulated." "there, sally evans," cried betty. "i knew that peggy would think about it in the right way." "listen to her," sniffed sally. "didst ever hear the like? betty," she ejaculated suddenly, "thee should not have helped with the dishes in such a gown. thee has got a spot on it. this is no place for a belle. suppose that thee goes back into the sitting-room now, and find out some more of master fairfax's plans." "so thee can have a chance to talk me over with peggy?" questioned betty scornfully. "i don't see any spot." "here it is," answered sally, lifting a fold of the pink paduasoy on which a small spot showed darkly. "it may be just water, which will not stain. i should not like anything to happen to that gown. thee looks so charming in it." "thank thee, sally," said betty examining the spot critically, quite mollified by sally's compliment. "i think 'twill be all right when 'tis dry. it might be as well, though, to go back to the sitting-room. i dare say they are wondering what hath become of us. thee will come too, will thee not?" "yes, go; both of you," said peggy, picking up the dish-pan, and starting for the kitchen. "i will come too in a few moments. no, sally, thee cannot help in the kitchen. sukey and i will finish the pots and pans. it won't take long. and thee needs to be there to keep betty in order," she ended merrily. "well, if thee won't be long," agreed sally reluctantly. both girls passed into the sitting-room, while peggy proceeded to the kitchen. as has been said, the kitchen was attached to the main dwelling by a covered entry way. on one side of this was a door leading out to the west terrace, which, the girl noticed, was partly open. "no wonder 'tis hard to keep the kitchen warm with that door open," she cried. "that must be some of tom's carelessness. i must speak to him." she put down the dish-pan on the wash bench, and went to the door to close it. as it resisted her efforts to shut she stepped outside to see what the trouble was. a startled ejaculation left her lips as the form of a man issued from behind it. "what does thee wish, friend?" demanded peggy sternly. "why does thee not come to the door like an honest man instead of sneaking behind it? i shall call my father." "don't, peggy," came in low tones from the man. "i was watching for you. will you shelter an escaping prisoner, my cousin?" "clifford!" she cried in amazement. "oh, clifford!" chapter iii on the horns of a dilemma "nature imprints upon whate'er we see, that has a heart and life in it, 'be free.'" --_cowper._ "yes, 'tis clifford," he said in a low tone. "i have escaped from lancaster, where i was a prisoner, and am trying to reach new york. i should not have troubled you, peggy, but the storm is so severe that i can go no further. but, my cousin, it may be of risk to shelter me." "oh," she cried clasping her hands in dismay. "what shall i do? what shall i do? why, clifford, both father and robert dale are here. they are of the army, and may deem it their duty to give thee up." "i see," he said with some bitterness. "i should not have troubled you, but i thought---it did seem for the sake of our kinship that you would give me shelter at least for the night." "stop!" she cried, laying a detaining hand on his arm as he turned to go. "thee is so hasty, clifford. of course i will help thee, but i must think how to do it. as i said, father and major dale are here; and fairfax johnson too. of virginia, thee remembers? remain here for a moment, my cousin. i will send sukey out of the kitchen, and then thee shall come in. 'tis cold out here." "after all," he said, his lips meeting in the straight line of determination that she remembered so well, "i do wrong to ask aught of you. there may be--nay, there is, risk in harboring me, peggy. i must not get you into trouble. is there not a barn where i could abide for the night?" "thee would freeze in the barn to-night," she cried. it had stopped snowing, but the wind had increased in violence, and it was growing colder. it would be bitter by night, the girl reflected, noticing the fact in a perfunctory manner. "i could not bear to think of thee there, my cousin. thee is cold now. thy lips are blue, and thou art shaking. wait for a moment. thee must." she pushed him back behind the door, then catching up the dish-pan entered the kitchen hurriedly. sukey, the black servant, was its only inmate. "sukey," said peggy trying to speak naturally, "has thee seen to the beds yet? they should be well warmed for so cold a night as this will be. and the fires? is there wood in plenty? i will set the kitchen in order if thee will look well to the up-stairs." "hit am done looked aftah," said sukey drawing closer to the fire. "eberyt'ing's all right, miss peggy. now yer kin jest go right erlong ter yer fren's, and let ole sukey red up." "thee must take more wood up-stairs," spoke the girl desperately. "there must be an abundance, sukey. does thee hear?" "yes'm; i heahs, miss peggy," answered the black rising, and giving her young mistress a keen glance. "i heahs, an' i'se gwine. dem wood boxes am full, ebery one of dem, but i'se gwine. ef yer want ter talk secrets yer might hab tole ole sukey widouten makin' a 'scuse ter git rid ob hur." "oh, sukey, forgive me," cried peggy laughing in spite of her anxiety to get rid of the black. "thee is the dearest thing that ever was. i do want the kitchen a little while. go up to my room, and thee will find a string of yellow beads on the chest of drawers. thee may have them, sukey, if thee will stay up there for a little while." "yes'm," answered sukey, preparing to take her departure. "i don't 'prove nohow de way you all takes on wid miss sally," she grumbled as she left the room. peggy sped to the entry as soon as the black had left it. "come, cousin clifford," she called, and clifford owen stepped forth. "sukey hath gone up-stairs, and thee can come in while i think what to do. come!" she led the way to the kitchen as she spoke, and her cousin followed her with visible reluctance. he brightened perceptibly at sight of the great fire of hickory logs that blazed in the fireplace. "sit here, my cousin," said peggy placing a chair in the corner between the dresser and the wall where the light was shaded. "keep thy beaver on thy head as the friends do, then if any one should come in it will seem as though thou wert but a passer-by asking for something to warm thee." "'fore george, but that smells good," ejaculated clifford as the girl placed a bowl of smoking hot pepper-pot before him. "what is it, peggy?" "'tis pepper-pot, clifford. 'tis made nowhere else in the states but here in philadelphia. it hath dumplings in it, which pleases most boys. and now let me think while thee is getting warm." clifford regarded her anxiously for a moment, then the seductive aroma of the pepper-pot overcame whatever of uneasiness that he may have felt, and he fell to with a relish. meantime peggy's brows were puckered in thought. what should she do with him? she asked herself in perplexity. the temper of the people was such that it would not easily brook any indulgence to the enemy. the penalty for harboring, or aiding and abetting an escaping prisoner was fine, imprisonment, and sometimes even public whipping. should her father, pure patriot though he was, be suspected of giving aid to one of the british prisoners it would go hard with him. not even his previous good record would save him from the punishment. and so the girl found herself confronted with a serious problem. she could not let her cousin go forth in such weather, and yet her father must not be implicated in his escape. the house was full. where could the lad stay? at this moment her eye fell upon a trap-door in the ceiling. there had been until of late a ladder leading up to it, but two of the rounds had been broken and it had been removed to the carpenter's shop. the door opened into an airy apartment extending the whole length of the kitchen, which was used for drying herbs which were cultivated in ample quantities in the garden. indeed the owen house was the only place in the city at the time where herbs could be had, and it was a pleasure to peggy and her mother to be able to answer the demand for them. could clifford but climb up there, she reflected, he would be safe for a time. "can thee climb, my cousin?" she cried eagerly. "because if thee can thee can stay up in the kitchen chamber." "is it warm?" asked the youth, casting a longing glance at the fire. "of a verity. it could not be otherwise, being above the kitchen. thee must not linger, clifford. some one is apt to come in at any moment. see the door up there? well, thee will have to get on the table and i will hand thee a chair. standing on that thee must try to push the door open, and then draw thyself up into the room above. with the door closed thou wilt be safe from prying eyes, yet thou wilt be able to hear all that goes on below." "that is fine, peggy," commented the youth, his eyes lighting up. "you are a cousin worth having, and have thought to some purpose." he vaulted lightly upon the table as he spoke, and taking the chair that peggy handed him placed it firmly upon the table, mounting thereupon. with a creek that set the girl's heart to beating the trap-door was swung open, and the youth drew himself slowly into the chamber above. "i say," he said, peering down at peggy, laughingly, "this is jolly. it's as warm as toast and there is a fur robe up here. if i don't answer you at any time you will know, my cousin, that i have gone to sleep." [illustration: "close the door."] "close the door, clifford," exclaimed peggy. "i shall be uneasy until thou art hidden." "don't be that, little cousin," he said almost gaily. "i feel like another man already. i shall do royally, and i doubt if any one would think of looking up here for an escaped englishman." he closed the door as he finished speaking, and heaving a sigh of relief peggy lifted the chair from the table and set it against the wall. she had scarcely resumed her task of washing the pots and pans when the door opened and sally entered. she glanced about expectantly. "i thought i heard thee talking to some one," she remarked. "isn't thee ever going to get through with those pots and pans, peggy? let me help thee. we want thee to come in with us." "now you all jest go right erlong," spoke sukey, who had followed sally into the room. "yer ma, she come up and she say, 'tell miss peggy dat she am wanted in de sittin'-room right now.' jest go right erlong, chile. sukey'll finish up heah." "all right, sukey." peggy relinquished the task to the black, and started for the door, saying in a tone that clifford might hear: "i will be out presently to see how thee gets along." "ef i doan git erlong any fas'er dan you all dese dishes gwine ter be heah twel chrismus," grumbled the darkey. "an' some-body's muss'd my floah." peggy gave a startled glance at the sand, where telltale traces of her cousin's presence were plainly in evidence. from the entry door to the kitchen were tracks of snow, and on the sand in the kitchen there were wet spots where the snow had melted. clearly they must be obliterated. "i'll fix the floor, sukey," she said, beginning to brush up the wet sand. "sally, bring some dry sand from the box, please, and we will have this fixed in a jiffy. thee must not expect thy floor to keep just so, sukey, when there is so much company." presently, the floor resanded and the entry way swept, the two girls started for the sitting-room. peggy was thoughtful and sally too, for the nonce, was silent. "clifford will be all right where he is for a short time," mused peggy. "if he has to stay there for any length of time, though, 'twill be most uncomfortable. i wonder if it would not be best to consult with mother? perchance she could think of some way out of the difficulty." she brightened at the thought, and just then sally opened the door of the sitting-room. mr. owen was in his great easy chair with his wife, and mrs. johnson sitting near, interested listeners to some narrative. the young people had withdrawn to the far side of the apartment and formed a little group by themselves, of which betty was the center. she was giving an animated account of a recent assembly, and the youths were so absorbed in the recital that they did not hear the two girls approach. a smile came to peggy's lips. "why, betty is in truth a belle, sally," she whispered. "how pretty she hath grown! that gown doth indeed become her as thee said. it may be that we tease her too much, for she is of a certainty entertaining. i have never seen fairfax so interested." betty caught sight of them before sally could reply. "have ye come at last?" she cried. "i thought thee was never coming, peggy. it is not treating us right to leave us alone so long. and what does thee think? sally talks of going home. has she told thee?" "oh, sally!" uttered peggy reproachfully. "thee can't mean it? why, mother and i expect all of you to stay the night. beside, 'tis too cold for thee to go out." "the very thing i told her," exclaimed betty. "and she said," and a note of indignation quavered into betty's voice, "that if it were warm enough to need a fan it was warm enough to go out." "but, betty, why do you use a fan in such weather?" questioned robert dale laughing. "here it is so cold that we can scarce keep warm, and mistress owen hath called sukey twice to attend the fire. yet there you sit and wave that fan. i have wished to ask you about it all day." "why, robert, does thee not know that a fan is to a woman what a gun is to a soldier--a weapon of offense and of defense?" explained betty airily. "when one is conversing should a pause occur in the conversation one may offset any embarrassment by fanning slowly. so!" she plied the fan to and fro as she explained. "and do you need it often, betty?" he asked slyly. "now that is mean, robert. i would not have thought it of thee," pouted betty. "i shall tell no more secrets anent the use of the fan, sir. thee would not insinuate anything so ungallant, would thee, captain johnson?" "no," answered the youth blushing deeply at being so appealed to, and speaking with difficulty. "i would not, mistress betty. you--you mean--there would be no pause, would there?" he stopped short as a burst of merriment in which even betty joined broke from the others. "what did i say?" he asked in alarm. "what is it?" at this moment there came the sound of many feet in the hallway, and sukey's voice was heard protesting loudly: "dar ain't nobody heah but de fambly, mistah officah. de fambly and der company. 'tain't no mannah ob use disturbin' dem. der ain't no britisher 'roun' heah nohow." "why, what does this mean?" ejaculated mr. owen, rising and going to the door. "what is the matter, sukey?" he asked as he threw it open. chapter iv the search "like bloodhounds now they search me out,- hark, to the whistle and the shout! if farther through the wilds i go, i only fall upon the foe; i'll couch me here till evening gray, then darkling try my dangerous way." --_sir walter scott._ sukey was standing before the entrance valiantly trying to keep the half dozen men who stood in the hall from entering. she turned toward her master with relief. "dese men dey sayin' dat dere's a bristisher 'roun' heah," she explained. "dey would come in. i dun my bes' ter keep dem from 'sturbin' yer." "that is all right, sukey," he said kindly. "perhaps these friends have good reason for coming." "that we have, mr. owen," cried one stepping forward. "i am william will, sheriff of the city and county of philadelphia. with me is mr. ledie, commissioner of prisoners. we are on the track of some prisoners who have escaped from lancaster. one hath been traced to this house. we have reason to believe that he is in hiding somewhere about the premises. i am sorry to disturb you, sir, but 'tis my duty to make a thorough search of the dwelling." "thou art quite welcome to make the search, friend will," returned mr. owen courteously. "i think thee will find thyself mistaken about any one being in hiding here unless he hath concealed himself in the barn. i have neither seen nor heard anything of any one." "then with your permission we will begin right away," said the sheriff. "do two of you take the barns and outbuildings; two others the gardens and orchard, while mr. ledie and i will make a thorough investigation of the house. we will begin with this room, mr. ledie," he continued stepping inside the sitting-room. "your pardon, ladies. knowing that every well affected inhabitant of the county will cheerfully assist in the apprehension of an escaped prisoner my presence, i trust, will be excused. these seem to be good american citizens, mr. owen," with a keen glance about that embraced every member of the company. "your wife and daughter i know by sight, and these two young ladies also. this gentleman's uniform speaks for itself, and this young man is without doubt an american." "yes; he hath served with the militia in virginia against the enemy, and hath recently obtained a captain's commission in the regular troops of new jersey," explained david owen. "he is captain johnson, who with his mother will stop with us until after the storm hath passed." "i see," remarked the sheriff, passing into the dining-room. "everything seems to be all right in these two rooms, mr. ledie. now," addressing the company collectively, "there is one thing more: does each one of you affirm that you have not seen any one who might be an escaped prisoner?" peggy's heart beat so wildly at this that she feared it could be heard. she had risen at the sheriff's entrance, and stood with pale face waiting the discovery that she was afraid was imminent. she said nothing as the sheriff asked his question. the others had spoken quickly disclaiming any knowledge of such person, and she hoped the fact that she had made no reply would escape notice. to her relief sally spoke up: "will thee let us see him if thee finds him, friend will? especially if he be good looking." "oh, yes, friend will," broke in betty. "do let us have a look at him if thee catches him." "now, now," protested the officer, "i'm not going to grant any indulgences to further an englishman's enjoyment. i know your sex, miss sally. if the fellow is good looking i'll have all of you girls on my back to let him off. and the temper of the people won't permit such things at present. well, there is nothing to be gained here. we will take the up-stairs now." "i think i shall accompany you," spoke mr. owen. "i like not to think of any prowlers about. i wonder where he escaped from, and if there is but one?" "suppose we go too," said robert dale, addressing fairfax. "we might be of assistance to the sheriff." the three left the room, and the women and the girls drew close together while overhead, in every room, and without in the barn and other buildings the search was prosecuted. nurse johnson shivered as the sounds of the hunt came to them. "a man hunt is always such a dreadful thing," she remarked. "and whether it be for a slave or an enemy, i find my sympathy going with the hunted. i hope they won't find this poor fellow. yet i have no love for the english." "thee is like the rest of us," replied mistress owen. "a good hater of the enemy in the aggregate, but a commiserator of one who happens to be in a plight. peggy, how restless thee is!" "i am, mother," answered peggy rising, and going to the window. "this hath upset me." "it is in truth a most unpleasant ending to an otherwise pleasant day," commented her mother. peggy made no further remark, but wandered restlessly about, finally going into the dining-room. she was filled with apprehension lest at any moment clifford's hiding-place should be discovered. he must not stay, she reflected. it was no longer safe to conceal him anywhere on the premises. but where could he go? at this point in her musings she felt an arm slip about her waist, and turned to find sally evans beside her. "and who is it, peggy?" whispered sally. "i know that 'tis some one thee knows, else thee would not have helped him." "oh, sally! how did thee know that 'twas i who helped any one?" asked peggy alarmed. "did i show it so plainly? does thee think the sheriff could tell that i knew aught?" "nay," sally whispered back. "i knew because i know thee so well. thee remembers i thought i heard thee talking with some one in the kitchen. who is it?" "clifford," whispered peggy. "harriet's brother?" asked sally, after a little gasp of surprise. "yes; he hath escaped from lancaster, and is trying to get to new york. i could not do otherwise than help him, sally. he would not have come here had not the storm rendered traveling difficult. but father must not know. 'twould go hard with him were it known that he assisted clifford, if he should assist him. he might not do it. thee knows how he feels about such things. he might deem it right to give clifford up even though he be our cousin. i want father to do right, sally, but i don't want clifford given up, either." "why, of course thee doesn't," answered sally briskly. "and of course, peggy, 'tis quite right for thy father to feel as he does. i dare say robert and fairfax feel the same toward any who is an enemy to the country. 'tis right for them, but we females are made of softer stuff. don't worry, but let thy cousin go home with me. mother and i will be glad to conceal him until the weather permits him to continue his journey." "oh, sally! does thee mean that?" cried peggy breathlessly. "i do, peggy. thee would be surprised to know how many of the british we have helped during the war. as a whole i dislike them intensely," and sally drew her lips together vindictively. "when there is a battle i rejoice when we defeat them; but when any of them are in trouble, or danger, i never can think of them only as mothers' sons, and so, and so----" peggy leaned forward and kissed her. "i think thee is the dearest girl in the world, sally evans," she said. "does thee remember that there is a penalty for harboring escaping prisoners?" "well, yes; but friendship would not be worth much if it were not willing to incur some risk," answered her friend sagely. "where is he?" "in the chamber above the kitchen, sally. let's go out there. i am consumed with anxiety lest he be discovered." the sheriff, followed by his associate mr. ledie, david owen, robert and fairfax, having made the rounds of the house came into the entry way just as sally and peggy entered it. the men who had been detailed to make the search of the outbuildings and grounds joined them a few moments later. "he stood just here," observed the sheriff indicating the place behind the door. "you can see his tracks. what puzzles me is the fact that there are no further traces. he did not go away, as there are no tracks leading away from this place. neither are there any inside, and the sand on the kitchen floor hath not been disturbed save by the darkey." "hast thou searched the wash-house and the servants' quarters?" queried mr. owen anxiously. "they are all in this building." "we have looked through it thoroughly," declared the sheriff emphatically. "and the barn, and all other buildings. 'tis most mysterious. he hath disappeared as unaccountably as though whisked out of sight on a witch's broom. well, boys, scatter about the grounds again, and see if you can't find some trace. some one in the house hath aided in the escape," he said, turning again to mr. owen as the men obeyed his order. "i do not see who could have done so," returned david owen with a troubled look. "there is not one of the household who is not a consistent whig, and there hath been no opportunity for anything of the sort. when we have not been together in the sitting-room we have been at the table. the girls washed the dishes in the dining-room, but joined us immediately afterward. from the laughter that accompanied the act i would be willing to wager that no british prisoner had any share in it." peggy did not see the quick glance that passed between robert dale and fairfax johnson. she had been absent from the room fully a half hour longer than the other girls, but evidently her father had not noticed the fact. fairfax johnson spoke abruptly: "suppose we take a look about the grounds, major dale." "your pardon, gentlemen," interposed sheriff will. "i cannot allow you to go unless one of my men accompanies you. you see all of you are more or less under suspicion until the matter is cleared up, and i prefer that you remain in sight." "just as you say, sir," replied the youth quickly. "i thought only to be of service." "i see not where the fellow could have gone," mused david owen, whose distress was evident. "would that he might be found, if only to release us from suspicion." "well, have you found anything?" demanded the sheriff as his men reã«ntered the dwelling. "come into the kitchen, boys. it grows cold." "and dark, mr. will," announced one of the men. "too dark to see much. we shall have to give up for the night." "i fear so," answered the sheriff grumblingly. his manner showed that he was far from satisfied with the result of the search. the house had been gone through thoroughly, and every place that could afford a possible hiding-place ransacked. david owen and the two youths were of the army. the family was noted for its patriotism, and had offered no objection to the search, yet he showed that he was reluctant to give up. he stood meditatively before the fire, his hands clasped behind him, his glance roving about the room. suddenly he started forward, and an excited "ah!" escaped him. peggy turned pale, for his eye was resting upon the trap-door. her father's glance followed the sheriff's. "if any went through that door, friend will," he said casually, "'twas one who is much younger than either of us. in truth, none but a slender youth could draw himself through that door." "true," answered the officer gazing at the door thoughtfully. "true, mr. owen, yet am i minded to explore it. i like not to leave any place unsearched. it may be that our man is young, and that that is the very place where he lies concealed. is there a ladder?" "there was one, but 'tis at the carpenter's shop to be mended," answered mr. owen. he looked vaguely about the kitchen. "i see not how thee is to get up," he said. "i think i could get up there." fairfax johnson sprang lightly upon the table as he spoke. "will some one hand me a chair?" "that's the idea," cried the sheriff approvingly. "still, young man, before you undertake this you must understand that there is risk attending it. you will be completely at the mercy of any one who happens to be up there. you understand that, don't you?" "well, some one must go," replied fairfax. "one of your men would take the risk in case i don't. won't he?" "yes; but---well, go on." a chair was passed up to him, and the youth mounting it pushed the trap-door back slowly. peggy's hand involuntarily went to her heart, and she trembled so that she could scarcely stand. the watchers grew very still as fairfax johnson stood for a moment before swinging himself up through the opening. sally gave a little gasp as he disappeared into the darkness. "what if--if he should shoot?" she murmured unconsciously speaking aloud. "'tis what i'm afraid of," answered sheriff will. "what is it?" he cried, springing upon the table and mounting the chair in a vain effort to see what was taking place in the attic. "have you found him?" for an unmistakable chuckle came from overhead. it sounded to peggy as though it were her cousin's voice. she told herself that she was mistaken, however, when fairfax johnson appeared at the opening. "it's a rug," he called, a broad smile illuminating his countenance. "when i stumbled over it i thought it was a bear. i suppose miss peggy hath put it up here anent her housekeeping time. shall i throw it down?" "no," answered sheriff will, in disgusted tones. "if that's all there is up there you might as well come down. we are not hunting articles to set miss peggy up." "if any of the rest of you wish to come up i think i could help draw him up." the youth leaned over the side of the opening suggestively. "no, no," interposed mr. ledie, commissioner of prisoners. "the fellow is evidently not up there, and there is no use wasting time. he must be somewhere else about the premises, or else we have overlooked his tracks." "i don't see how we could," declared the sheriff. "anyhow, 'tis getting too dark to do any more to-night. you seem to have found some cobwebs, if you did not find a prisoner, my friend," he said as fairfax johnson swung himself down to the table. "i suppose that we must wish you good-night, mr. owen. we may drop in to-morrow." "nay, gentlemen, go not so," spoke mr. owen. "come, refresh yourselves, i pray you. you will take supper with us after so hard a search. it will not be long before 'tis ready, and 'tis o'er cold to go forth without something warming. lass, canst thou not help sukey to get it quickly?" "yes, father," answered peggy. she was quite herself by this time, but filled with amazement at fairfax. what a queer compound he was, she thought, glancing over to where the youth stood. he was blushing as sally helped him to remove the cobwebs from his clothing, and seemed unable to answer the chaff with which she and robert were plying him. yet but a short time since he had made that little joke concerning the fur rug and her housekeeping. had he really seen clifford? "let all of us young people help," cried betty gayly coming into the kitchen as mr. owen with the sheriff and his men left it. "thy help must be confined to the dining-room, betty," answered peggy. "thee must not be out here in that gown." "then i will set the table," said betty. "my, my! what a party we're having." "and we will help too, peggy," spoke robert dale. "have you nothing that two great fellows like the captain and myself can do?" "plenty, plenty," laughed peggy. "thee may slice the roast beef, robert, while friend fairfax may take the ham. sally and i will attend to the bread and cake. sukey, will thee need more wood?" "no'm," grumbled sukey. "i shouldn't t'ink yer pa'd want ter feed dem folkes aftah de way dey done pried 'roun' inter ebberyt'ing." "well, it is annoying, of course, sukey, but after all they were but doing their duty," answered peggy slowly. "yes'm," said the black giving her young mistress a sharp look, then turning she busied herself about the fire. each one was attending strictly to the task before him, and resolving to embrace the opportunity to talk a few moments with fairfax johnson, peggy took the loaf of bread she was cutting over to the table where the youth was slicing ham. chapter v friends in need "thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown! thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, that teaches me, when seeming most alone, friends are around us, though no word be spoken." --_longfellow._ "he must not stay there, mistress peggy," said fairfax in a low tone as the maiden joined him. "the sheriff is not satisfied, and i doubt not will make the search again. he will not wish me to go above again, but will choose one of his own men. it is not safe for your cousin." "thee saw him, then?" breathed peggy. "oh, friend fairfax, how good thee is not to betray him." "it is your cousin," he said simply. "it was my duty, but friendship hath a duty too. but of that more anon. the thing to do now is to get him down from there while they are at supper." "sally says he may go home with her," peggy told him eagerly. "will thee help us to manage it, friend fairfax?" "i'll do what i can," he promised earnestly. "is she not talking of going after supper?" "yes." "let him get down, then, while they are at table, and come boldly to the front door for her. 'twould be quite natural for some one to call for her, would it not?" "why, 'tis the very thing," cried peggy. "of course her mother would send for her on such a night. only i like not to send her away before she hath finished her supper. 'tis monstrously inhospitable." "'twill be easier to get him away then than at any other time," he declared. "she will mind it not if she really wishes to aid you." "she will do anything for me," said peggy tremulously. her heart was very full of love toward these friends for the aid they were rendering. "friend fairfax, thee has certainly hit upon the very thing." "and his boots," continued the youth. "he hath on the english top-boots of narrow make. 'twas by them that he was so easily traced. of late we of the states have manufactured our own boots, and all citizens wear them save the macaronis. they are not so well finished," he glanced at his own boots as he spoke with something of regret, "but 'tis that very thing that makes the difference. i have another pair in my portmanteau, mistress peggy. i will get them, and you must contrive to have your cousin wear them. he can take his own with him. in this manner the snow will give no trace of his going, for the boots are such as all citizens wear." "thank thee," said peggy gratefully. "thee has taken a great load from my mind, friend fairfax. i make no doubt but that all will fall out as thee has planned. what is it, betty?" "i was just wondering what there was about slicing cold ham that called for such absorbing interest," cried betty who vacillated between the kitchen and the dining-room. "robert spoke to thee once, and i asked captain johnson a question. neither of you deigned to answer us." "thee may take my place and find the secret," said peggy mischievously, so relieved over the plan as outlined by fairfax that she could enjoy the diffidence that once more overwhelmed him at betty's approach. "i will help sally with that cake." "'tis just the thing," declared sally as peggy unfolded the arrangement. "and how simple! i like thy friend, peggy, and yet i cannot help but laugh at his blushes and shyness." "i feel the same, sally," confessed peggy with remorse. "he is a dear lad, for all his diffidence, and yet there are times when i am beset with a desire to tease him. why is it, i wonder, that we females delight to torment such even though they are in very truth heroes?" "i know not," answered sally. "i only know that 'tis true, and 'tis pity we are so constituted. and see, peggy! the poor fellow is so beset by betty that he can scarce cut the ham. shall we go to his rescue?" "indeed 'tis time," laughed peggy. "everything is ready for the supper too. robert, thee has cut that beef well. i knew not that the domestic arts were so well taught in camp." "we learn many things, peggy," returned he. "camp hath taught me to carve all foods. and not only the art of carving hath been taught me, but the far greater one of obtaining the food to carve. our friend yonder hath evidently not had so much experience, or else betty's presence hath converted his fingers into thumbs." "'tis betty, i fear," answered peggy with a laugh. "do help him, robert, while the rest of us carry in the things." fairfax resigned the ham to robert dale with relief, but did not stay to profit by his expertness. instead he took a large platter which peggy was carrying from her, and passed through the entry into the dining-room. "i will run up for the boots," he told the girl on coming back to the hallway. "i shall put them in the entry way." peggy nodded, and went in to see that all was in readiness for the meal. the sheriff and his men viewed the bountifully spread table with looks of complacence, and presently every one was gathered around the table. as was natural in the daughter of the house peggy assisted in the waiting, and was back and forth from the kitchen with tea, hot chocolate, rusks, or whatever might be needed. at length, the opportunity she wished for came, and she found herself alone in the kitchen with sukey safe for the time being in the dining-room. she lost not a moment. "clifford," she called softly. "yes, my cousin." the trap-door was swung back, and clifford owen's face appeared at the opening. "i say," he said, "that was a close shave, wasn't it? if our friend fairfax had not been the prince of good fellows where would i be now?" "where thee will be unless thee acts quickly," replied his cousin. "he fears that the sheriff will make another search. thee must swing thyself down, clifford." she placed a chair upon the table as she finished speaking, and held it to steady it. in an instant he stood beside her. "thou art to go home with my friend, sally evans," explained the girl. "'tis dangerous to stay here, my cousin." "yes, i know," he answered. "i heard them talking. i tell you i held my breath when fairfax stumbled over me." "yes, yes," she said hurriedly. "thee must not talk now, clifford, but act. fairfax brought down a pair of his boots for thee. thou art to put them on, and carry thine own. thine are of english make, and leave telltale marks. then thee must betake thyself to the front door, and sound the knocker boldly. thou art to say that thou hast come for mistress sally evans. sally will join thee, and take thee to her mother's where thee can remain safely until 'tis fitting weather for thee to pursue thy journey to new york. does thee understand?" "peggy," he said sorrowfully, "i am putting too much risk upon you and this friend of yours. i might as well let the sheriff take me and be done with it. i will do it rather than cause you so much worry." "oh, will thee hurry," pleaded the girl bringing the boots from the entry way. "there is so little time, my cousin. to-morrow i will come to thee at sally's, and then we can have a long talk. now thee must act. sukey may come in at any time. or tom. oh!" in a despairing tone as the latch of the door leading into the main building clicked its warning. "'tis too late. why, 'tis sally!" "thee forgot the quince conserve, peggy," said sally trying vainly to act as though peggy was alone. "thy mother sent me for it. she told sukey to come, but i jumped up and said that i would get it." "sally, this is clifford," spoke peggy. "and oh, he won't hurry. he talks of trouble and worry when he should be doing. clifford, this is my dearest friend, sally evans." "truly thee would better be in haste," said sally, making her best bow. "thee must see that every moment adds to thy cousin's distress, and also to thy danger. i marvel that the sheriff's men have left us so long alone. mother and i will in truth welcome thee." "but i have no claim upon you," he expostulated. "for you to take such a risk for an englishman----" "as an englishman thee hasn't a particle of claim, of course," interrupted sally. "as an englishman thee deserves anything that might happen, but as a human being in distress thee has every claim upon us. now hadn't thee better be moving? where is the conserve, peggy?" "how do i know that i can trust you?" he said abruptly. "clifford!" exclaimed peggy indignantly, but sally laughed, and swept him a deep courtesy. "peggy must have told thee what an ogress i am," she said. "know then, friend clifford, that i have a deep and dark dungeon where i cast all englishmen of thy profession. if thee is afraid thee would better take thy chances with the night and storm." "afraid?" he echoed, a deep flush mantling his brow. "i, clifford owen, afraid?" "then thee had better put on those boots, and be about thy departure," said sally calmly. "peggy, if we don't take in those conserves the supper will be over. hurry, friend. keep thy cloak well about thee to hide that uniform, and on no account venture into the hall. thee will not have to wait for me. come, peggy." but before peggy followed her she ran to clifford and clasped his hand. "'tis the only way, my cousin," she whispered. "and oh, do be quick." "i will, peggy," he replied. "fear nothing. i will carry out my part." with palpitating heart peggy went with sally into the dining-room, and resumed her task of waiting on the table. sally reseated herself and joined merrily in the conversation. it seemed a long time ere the great knocker on the front door sounded. in reality it was but a few moments after the girls left the kitchen. sukey entered the hall to answer it before peggy could reach the door. the darkey reã«ntered the room almost immediately. "a pusson has come fer miss sally," she announced. "he say he am come ter take her home." "he?" sheriff will looked up with a laugh. "come, come! that sounds interesting. let's have him in, miss sally, and see what he looks like." "yes, my dear," spoke mrs. owen. "thee has not finished thy supper. sit down, and thy escort shall come in, and have supper too." peggy's heart almost stopped beating at this, and the color forsook sally's cheeks. neither of them had foreseen anything of this kind, and they were rendered speechless by the untoward incident. sally was saved the necessity of a reply by robert dale. "i think i object, mistress owen," he said speaking with deliberation. "any one who is going to take sally away from us doesn't deserve any supper. i was promising myself the pleasure of seeing her home." "oh, ho!" roared the sheriff. "sits the wind in that quarter!" "never mind, mrs. owen," spoke sally, her quick wit taking advantage of the diversion. "i will bring him to see thee when robert isn't about. and i really must go. mother expected me this afternoon, but so much hath happened that i overstayed my time. i dare say she is waiting supper for me. good-night, and good-bye to all," she added. she made a fetching little mouth at robert as she went through the door but her eyes held a look of gratitude. peggy accompanied her into the hall. clifford was waiting outside on the steps, and none of the three spoke until, wrapped and bundled for the trip, sally joined him. "i'll never forget this, sally," murmured peggy, giving her friend a little squeeze. "and i'll be down to-morrow." "be sure to," answered sally. "come, friend," turning to clifford. "we must not linger." full of relief and gladness peggy reã«ntered the dining-room. chapter vi appearances against her "who trusts himself to woman, or to waves, should never hazard what he fears to lose." --_oldmixon._. during the evening peggy congratulated herself more than once that clifford was well away from the house; for the sheriff, in company with her father, again went over the dwelling. every nook that might afford a hiding-place was examined thoroughly, and, as fairfax had foreseen, another man was sent up to search the kitchen chamber. at length, all his joviality gone, sheriff will sat down by the sitting-room fire in puzzled perplexity. "i can't understand it," he said more to himself than to mr. owen. "we have found no track going away. his boots make an impression that could not be mistaken. unless he hath taken wings unto himself he should be somewhere in the house." "nay, friend; it cannot be," replied mr. owen, shaking his head positively. "we have searched every place that 'twould be possible for a man to be concealed. we have even gone into places where no one, not a member of the family, would think of hiding." "that's just it," exclaimed the officer. "some member of the family helped him. were it not so we could not have missed the fellow." "in that, friend, thou art mistaken. i believe that i could give an account of the actions and whereabouts of each member, yea, i will include our guests also, since my arrival home." "what time was that, sir?" "about one of the clock, i should judge." "well, the matter is beyond me," responded the sheriff rising. "there is naught to do but to go home and think it over." and to peggy's great relief he left, taking his men with him. the occurrence seemed to have thrown a damper over the spirits of the party, even betty being unusually silent, so the household soon separated for the night. it was not until the afternoon of the next day that peggy found an opportunity of going to sally's. by that time, accompanied by robert dale, betty had left for home; mr. owen had taken fairfax with him into the city, the two ladies were deep in conversation on the mysteries of preserve making, and peggy was at liberty. with a word of explanation to her mother the girl slipped on her wraps, and started for sally's house. though still cold the day was clear and bright. the footways had not been cleared of snow, but paths had been beaten by the impact of many feet, and peggy found walking not at all difficult. as she turned into fourth street she was astonished to encounter sheriff will. he returned her courteous greeting with an abrupt bow, and passed on. "i wonder if he is going to the house again," she mused, stopping to look after him. "he must be," she concluded as she saw that he turned into chestnut street. "he is not satisfied about not finding clifford. oh, dear! what would have happened if sally had not taken my cousin home with her? well, i must hasten." a brisk walk soon brought her to sally's house on little dock street. the dwelling was of stone. it was two stories in height, with a high-pitched roof, and with a garret room lighted in front by three dormer windows, and in the rear by a dormer on each side. sally herself came to the door in answer to the knocker. "i have been watching for thee all day, peggy," she cried, drawing her into the room. the front door did not open into an entry, but directly into a large room occupied as a sitting-room. "i thought thee would never come. thy cousin hath worried lest some ill had befallen thee. come in, and tell me all that happened after we left. was it not fine in robert to speak as he did? does thee think that he knew what we were about? and oh, peggy! i do like thy cousin so much. thee remembers how we used to laugh at harriet because she was always extolling her brother at the expense of any youth she met? well, i blame her no longer. mother, too, is charmed with him. well, why doesn't thee talk, and tell me all that hath occurred?" peggy laughed outright. "i was just waiting for a chance, sally," she replied. "let me see. about robert first: how could he have known anything anent clifford, yet what he said was so opportune? it hath puzzled me. i know not what we should have done had he not so spoken. i could think of naught to say, and i saw that thee was affected in the same manner. where is my cousin? let us go to him at once, for i must not stay long. i will tell ye both what hath occurred." "come," quoth sally, leading the way to the staircase, which was at the back of the house, and approached from a side entrance. "we have put him in the front chamber, which contains the 'auger hole.' thee remembers it, peggy? for further safety we have drawn the bedstead in front of the door. unless 'twas known no one would think of looking in that closet for a hiding-place. there is also an old loom in a corner up attic which might serve right well for concealment, but mother thought the chamber with the 'auger hole' best; although we showed clifford both places." "thee has done thy best, sally," remarked peggy approvingly. the "auger hole," as it was playfully called, had been built, for what reason was not known, as a place of concealment. it was a small room, entirely dark, which could be approached only through a linen closet. in order to get at it, the linen had to be taken from the shelves, the shelves drawn out, and a small door opened at the back of the closet, quite low down, so that the room could be entered only by stooping. its existence was known to but few people. so peggy smiled with satisfaction, as she added: "i dare say that he will not need to use either. thee would never be suspected of having a british prisoner in hiding." "true," answered sally, "but 'tis as well to be prepared for an emergency. here we are, peggy." "and how does thee do to-day, my cousin?" cried peggy as her friend opened the door. clifford owen rose from the easy chair drawn up before the fire, and turned toward her beamingly. peggy reflected that she had never seen him appear to better advantage. his fine eyes were glowing, his form was erect, and his manner held a graciousness that was charming. "well, my little cousin! well indeed," he responded. "methought that fur rug yesterday was sumptuous after my experience with the wind and snow, but your friends have lodged me like a king. yon tester bed feels as though 'twere meant for royalty. i doubt if king george rests upon one so easy." "it wouldn't rest easy if i had the making of it," spoke sally pertly. "the sheriff made another search after thee left, my cousin," interposed peggy hastily. "and, just as fairfax thought, he sent another man to explore the kitchen chamber. what if thee had been there?" "'twould have been all up with me," remarked clifford easily. "how seemed he, peggy? suspicious?" "he was greatly dissatisfied," returned peggy, a troubled look clouding her eyes. "he said that some member of the family must have helped in the escape, though father insisted that it could not be. and oh! i met him as i was coming here." "who? the sheriff?" questioned clifford startled. "yes; he was going to our house, i think. at least i saw him turn into chestnut street." "did he turn to watch you, peggy?" inquired her cousin with some anxiety. "why no; why should he?" asked she simply. "because----" he began, when a loud peal of the knocker brought the remark to an abrupt stop. sally arose with precipitancy. "mother is busy in the kitchen," she said. "'twill be best for me to see who it is. i don't believe that 'tis any one who will wish to come up here, but if it should be thy cousin must run for the closet, peggy. i will leave the door ajar, and should i be saying anything when i come to the stairway thee will know that 'tis some one who insists upon coming up." the two cousins sat in silence as sally went down-stairs, fearful of what the visit might portend. peggy was openly anxious, and clifford, too, seemed uneasy. the murmur of voices could be heard, and while the words could not be distinguished it seemed to peggy that the tones were those of command. a slight commotion followed as though several persons had entered the dwelling, and presently the stairway door opened and closed quickly. "peggy!" came in a shrill whisper from the foot of the stairs. peggy was out of the chamber and at the head of the stairs in an instant. sally stood below, and though the stairway was so dimly lighted that peggy could scarcely distinguish the outlines of her form, she knew that her friend was greatly excited. she was telling her something in so low a tone that peggy could hardly hear what it was, but she gathered enough to send her flying back to her cousin. "'tis the sheriff," she cried. "get into the closet, quick." clifford owen stayed not for a second bidding. he darted into the closet back of the great tester bed, and the door of the concealed room clicked softly. in anticipation of such an emergency the shelves had been removed, and peggy now replaced them. hurriedly she tossed some piles of linen on them, and then resumed her seat before the fire. she had barely done so when the door opened, and sally, followed by sheriff will and two of his men, appeared on the threshold. to peggy's amazement the girl was laughing. "what does thee think, peggy?" she cried gaily. "the sheriff insists that he must look here for that escaped prisoner. he hath almost scared mother out of her wits, and now he is trying to fright us. i have told him to search all he wishes." "i hope that you are as innocent as you appear, miss sally," spoke sheriff will gruffly. "i've a suspicion that you two fooled me nicely last night, but 'twon't happen again. i said down-stairs that i was aware that the closet in this room concealed a hiding-place." "la, la!" laughed sally saucily. "so thee did. and how will thee find it, friend?" "sam, give a hand with this bed, will you?" ordered the sheriff. to peggy's consternation the men moved the heavy bedstead out into the room, and sheriff will opened the door of the closet. deliberately he threw the linen on the floor, and began to draw out the shelves. a mist swam before her eyes. she felt her senses going, and then sat up suddenly as sally ran to the door, now fully exposed to view. "doesn't thee want me to open it for thee, friend will?" she asked merrily. "behold what thee will behold!" with this she flung wide the door. "sally!" gasped peggy in agonized tones. "oh, sally, how could thee?" for the open door revealed clifford owen sitting on the floor of the concealed room. all the color faded from sally's face at sight of him. she stood a picture of consternation, looking from one cousin to the other seemingly unable to speak. "thank you, miss sally," spoke sheriff will sarcastically. "'twas well played, but i think you overreached yourself for the nonce. something went awry. come out, young fellow! 'tis a pretty chase you've given me. come out, or i'll shoot." "i yield, sir," answered clifford owen crawling out. "i yield--to treachery. i congratulate you, mistress sally. the dungeon of which you spoke was not so much of a myth as i had supposed." but at that sally regained her tongue. "peggy," she cried flinging herself down beside her friend, "didn't thee hear me? i said the loom. i said the loom, peggy. oh, i never meant--i didn't think he was there. tell him, peggy! make him believe me. thee knows that i wouldn't do such a thing. tell him, peggy." "'thus do all traitors,'" quoted clifford with an upward curl of his lip. "'if their purgation did consist in words, they are as innocent as grace itself.' i was a fool to trust a woman. officer, take me where you must. any place is preferable to breathing the same air with treachery." "clifford, clifford!" cried peggy going to him. "i am so sorry that it hath come out so. oh, clifford, what can i do for thee now? and sally! i know that it happened as she hath said. she would not----" "you can do naught, my cousin," answered he, his eyes softening as they rested upon her. "you, at least, are guiltless of overt act toward me." "and sally also," she began eagerly, but the boy's lips set in a straight line. "we will not discuss it," he answered loftily. "i hope that no trouble will come to you, peggy." "trouble," echoed sheriff will "they shall both be indicted for this. 'twas a neat trick, but ye won't find the supreme executive council so easily deluded. was your father concerned in this, miss peggy?" "no," replied she quickly. "he knows no more of it than thee does, friend will. i alone am to blame for all that hath occurred. sally only helped for friendship sake." "you shall hear of it," spoke the sheriff grimly. "come on, young man. we have wasted too much time on you already." "don't hurry him away, friend will," pleaded sally sobbing. "let me tell him how it was. do let me talk to him a moment." "lead on," commanded clifford, turning his back upon her decidedly. "why dally longer?" without another glance at the weeping sally he was led away between two of the men. chapter vii david owen is informed of the facts "why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth, unapt to toil, and trouble in the world, but that our soft conditions, and our hearts, should well agree with our external parts?" --"_taming of the shrew._" "i didn't mean it, peggy," sobbed sally over and over. "thee knows that i didn't mean it to turn out so. thee knows that i wouldn't do such a thing, doesn't thee? i said the loom. truly i said the loom. i ran to the stairway just as quickly as i could after the sheriff said he knew of the closet, and i called to thee to tell him to go to the loom. and thee didn't hear me? oh, peggy! peggy i thee knows that i wouldn't betray thy cousin knowingly. thee knows it, peggy?" "there, sally," soothed peggy. "i know that thee would do naught that was not honorable. i see it all. all that was intended. thee thought that clifford would go up attic behind the loom, and that by assuming a bold front thee could deceive the sheriff into believing that he was not on the place. sheriff will would naturally go to the closet, as he knew of it. i am to blame too, sally. it was just a miserable misapprehension on both our parts." "but clifford will always believe that i betrayed him," said sally chokingly, lifting her tear-stained face. "and oh, i did like him so much! what will they do with him, peggy?" "i don't know," answered peggy thoughtfully. "take him back to lancaster, probably. father said this morning that the sheriff told him a number of the prisoners had escaped. clifford, it seems, had stopped at the sheriff's own house to inquire the way to the state house. i told him, i remember, that we lived just across from it. his cloak had fallen apart and disclosed his uniform, and some one suspected that 'twas one of the british prisoners. the sheriff was not at home at the time, but when he came he was told of the occurrence, and at once went in pursuit of him. but now," peggy concluded soberly, "we must take heed to ourselves. i hope that he believed me when i told him that father had naught to do with the matter. if only the punishment would fall on me, and not on thee, or father, i would not mind what happened." "thee must go to him at once and unravel the whole affair," counseled mrs. evans who had joined them as soon as the sheriff left. "'tis best that he should know of it at once. sally, thee must go with peggy, and tell of thy share in it." "yes, mother," assented sally meekly. "peggy, will thee ever love me again?" "i haven't stopped yet, sally," replied peggy kissing her. "thee must not feel so bad. after all the sheriff might have found him up attic. thee knows how carefully he searches." "i would not have been to blame for that, peggy. now clifford will always believe that i did it on purpose." "perchance there may come a time when thee can explain all to him," comforted her friend. "let us go to father now, sally. he must know all that hath occurred." [illustration: the two girls set forth.] without further ado the two girls set forth for peggy's home. the distant hills that ridged the west bank of the schuylkill stretched a luminous belt in the glistening sunshine. the city was clothed in a garb of pure white, a dazzling garment that was symbolical of the peace with which the founder desired his beloved city to be filled. but there was little peace in the hearts of the two maidens who wended their way sadly and silently toward the owen home in chestnut street. david owen, his wife, nurse johnson, robert and fairfax were assembled in the living-room of the dwelling. they rose with exclamations of dismay at sight of peggy's pale face, and sally's red eyes. "what hath happened, lass?" cried her father. "thou art in trouble. is it of a serious nature?" "yes, father," answered the girl tremulously. "it may be grave trouble for thee, though it should be for me alone, as i am solely to blame." she paused for a moment to steady her voice, then continued: "father, the escaped prisoner whom the sheriff sought was clifford. he came here yesterday just after dinner asking for shelter. i could not turn him away in such a storm. indeed, he would not have sought us out at all had it not been for the weather. and--and i hid him in the kitchen chamber." "clifford!" ejaculated her father. "thy cousin clifford? but where is he now? the kitchen chamber was searched, but we found no one there. where is he?" "the sheriff hath him," peggy told him chokingly. "sally took him home with her last night, and i went there to see him this afternoon. i met the sheriff in fourth street as i left here, and he must have followed me; for i had scarce begun to talk to clifford when he came and took my cousin. he talks of an indictment." both girls were crying by this time, and with an exclamation of concern mrs. owen hastened to them, and drew them into an embrace. "there! there!" she said soothingly. "david will manage it somehow. don't sob so, sally. after all thee is not so much to blame. perchance the council will excuse what thee did, as 'twas to help peggy." "i don't care for the old council," flashed sally through her tears. "'tis that peggy's cousin thinks that i betrayed him. i thought he was up attic, and he wasn't. i told peggy to tell him to go there, but she did not hear me. thee knows my fault, mrs. owen," she wailed in an agony of self-reproach. "thee knows just how froward and saucy i can be, and i was just that way with the sheriff, and--and pert. he spoke of the closet, showing that he knew of it, and i was so sure that clifford was up attic that i asked the sheriff if i should open the door for him. i did, and there was clifford," she ended with a fresh burst of tears. "i know just how you feel," interposed nurse johnson sympathetically. "and so the prisoner was clifford? well, i am sorry that he was taken. tell us all about it, peggy." "yes, lass," spoke david owen. "calm thyself as soon as may be, and let me know the matter in detail. i must know all concerning it." mr. owen spoke gravely. well he knew what the feeling was toward those who assisted prisoners of war in escaping. aiding or abetting the enemy in any way was not tolerated, either in the city or the country at large. the systematic cruelties practiced toward the american prisoners both in the dreadful prison ships and the jails, the barbarities perpetrated toward their countrymen in the south, the harassing of the coasts, the raids of the refugees, the capture of their merchantmen by british privateers; all these things and many others served to keep the hearts of americans inflamed with rancor toward the english. they were not disposed to overlook any indulgence displayed toward such an enemy. presently peggy had so far recovered her usual composure that she was able to relate succinctly all that had occurred. her father listened attentively. "why did thee not come to me for aid, lass?" he asked when she had finished the recital. "why, father, 'twould go hard with thee were it to become known that thee had given aid to a prisoner," answered peggy. "i wished to keep thee clear of it. then, too, thee might have deemed it duty to give up my cousin, and i could not bear that; yet i should want thee to do what was right." "i think i understand, lass," he said, "'twas most ingenious to think of having him come to the door as sally's escort. i knew not that thou hadst so much of daring in thee to originate such a plan." peggy flushed scarlet at this. she had suppressed all mention of fairfax's connection with the matter, wishing not to implicate him. so she stared at her father in an embarrassed silence, uneasy at the praise she did not merit. "but why was he not discovered?" went on david owen musingly. "the room was searched twice. by the way," turning suddenly toward fairfax johnson, "captain, was it not thee who went up there first?" "it was, sir," answered the young man promptly. "i stumbled over clifford, who was lying wrapped up in a fur rug. he chuckled as i did so, and i knew at once who it was. i had known him in williamsburgh, you remember." "why didst thou not cry out? thou wert taken unawares, as it were. i marvel at thy command," and mr. owen regarded him keenly. "well," hesitated the youth, "i went up there because i suspected that miss peggy had some one hidden there, and i wanted to help her." "thou knew of it? but how?" "because she was out of the room longer than any one after dinner, and had time to make arrangements of that nature if she so desired, sir. then too she did not reply when the sheriff asked us all to say whether we had seen anything of a british prisoner." "all this went on, and i saw naught of it!" exclaimed mr. owen. "why! where were my eyes? i would have affirmed that i could account for every action of every member of the household." "we younger people were together a great deal yesterday, sir. we had more opportunities for observing if anything was amiss with one of our number than you would have." "was it thou who wast responsible for the plan of getting away?" questioned mr. owen. "methought 'twas too daring to have originated with peggy." "well, yes," acknowledged fairfax flushing. "the daring lay only in the execution of it. the girls and clifford furnished that." "but to risk thy liberty for such a thing, lad! was it worth while to jeopardize thy new commission to aid peggy with her cousin?" fairfax stirred restlessly. "but i was under great obligations to clifford too, sir," he made answer presently. "he kept my mother from molestation in williamsburgh when the enemy was in possession of the place. i was in duty bound to help him." "and next i shall hear that robert hath been concerned in the affair too," uttered david owen, turning to robert dale with a glimmer of a smile. "i begin to believe that there hath been a regular conspiracy among you young people. speak up, lad. what did thee do?" "very little," answered the youth frankly. "not so much as i should have liked to do, mr. owen. i did not know that 'twas peggy's cousin whom she was hiding. i did know that there was some one. i suspected who sally's escort might be, and when i saw that she was dismayed at the prospect of having to bring him to the table, i spoke as i did to help her." "without knowing who it might be, robert?" exclaimed mr. owen in amazement. "peggy would conceal no one without thinking it right, sir," returned robert simply. "i think we all know that is the reason we stood by her." "well, upon my word!" david owen rubbed his hands thoughtfully. "and how is betty concerned?" "betty is entirely exempt from the matter, i believe," remarked major dale smiling. "the rest of us are guilty." "did i do wrong, father?" asked peggy timidly. "is thee angry with me?" "nay, lass. with thy soft heart thee could not do otherwise. yesterday was no day to turn any one from shelter, even though he were not thy cousin. i would not have thee insensible to mercy, no matter who asked it. i grieve only that such an act should involve thy young friends in consequences which may prove of serious character to all concerned." "we are willing to abide by the consequences," spoke the two youths simultaneously. mr. owen shook his head. "nay," he said. "i will not permit it. peggy alone must be held responsible for what hath occurred. 'tis just and right. i will see if aught can be done with the council. i want also to find where clifford hath been put, to see if i shall be allowed to do anything for him. at times food and comforts are given to prisoners, and perchance we may be permitted to do this for him." "and oh, mr. owen! if thee does see him, tell him how it happened," pleaded sally. "i could bear a term of imprisonment better than that he should esteem me a treacherous friend." "i will do what i can, sally," he promised her. david owen was absent for nearly two hours, and an anxious time of waiting it proved. the girls were comforted and petted by the two ladies, while the youths made them relate over and over all the incidents leading to the capture of clifford. at length mr. owen returned. "clifford is in the new jail pending his return to lancaster," he told them. "i saw and talked with him. i told him all that thee wished, sally, and that thee had naught to do with his capture. he exonerates peggy from all thought of treachery, but i grieve to say that the lad exhibits a perverse disbelief in thee, sally. he would hear of no excuse for thee, though i tried to make him understand how it all came about." "i knew it," said sally with tears. "i knew he would not believe in me." "never mind, sally," said peggy. "i will try to see him, and i will make him listen to reason." "thee will not be permitted, lass. it was granted me as a great favor, but, because of the aid which thou didst render him, 'twould be most unwise for thee to seek to see him. i arranged with mr. ledie that as much comfort should be given him as is compatible with his state as prisoner. 'tis all that can be done." "and the council, david?" queried his wife, anxiously. "could thee do anything about that?" "the council have consented that peggy and sally shall appear before them on the morning of second-day at ten of the clock, to show cause why they should not be indicted. 'tis an unheard of thing to permit it, as 'tis usual to petition, but i asked for their appearance, knowing that their youth would be in their favor. 'tis a grave matter, as they acknowledged, but i think the most of them feel kindly toward ye. i talked with several." but mrs. owen saw that he spoke with assumed lightness. "i think," she said, "that we ought to have sally's mother with us. to-morrow is first-day, which will give time to discuss the subject in all its bearings. she should be with us. robert, wilt thou go for her?" "with pleasure, mrs. owen," he responded rising. "and we must not forget that uncle jacob deering is one of the council." "true," exclaimed lowry owen, her face lighting up. "true; i had forgotten." chapter viii before the council "then call them to our presence. face to face, and frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear the accuser and accused freely speak." --_richard ii._ monday, second-day in quaker parlance, dawned. the intense cold had abated though the air remained crisp and keen. a venturesome robin perched upon the bare bough of a cherry tree that grew near one of the sitting-room windows, and gave vent to his short and frequent song. sally called peggy's attention to him. "dost hear what he says?" she cried. "cheer up! cheer up! cheer up! 'tis a harbinger of spring, and flowers, and warmer weather. who knows but that he brings good luck to us too, peggy?" peggy smiled sadly. "i hope so," she made answer. "but oh! i do wish this interview with the council were over." "and so do i," agreed sally soberly. "'twill soon be now, peggy, for here comes thy mother to call us to get ready." "yes," spoke mrs. owen overhearing the words. "david says that as soon as ye have donned your wraps 'twill be time to go." peggy and sally were quaker maidens, well drilled in art of self-repression, so they made no scene as they bade their mothers farewell, and took leave of nurse johnson, her son and robert dale. in spite of their training, however, their eyes were wet, and neither was able to speak for a few moments after they left the house. then sally broke the silence. "peggy," she said, "after this i shall always have the greatest sympathy for the poor wretches who are executed. i feel just as though i was about to be hanged." "so do i, sally. how great a change is wrought by war! a few short years ago neither of us thought to be called before the highest tribunal of the state. how happy we were before this awful war with its weary years of fighting came! then we had no thought of sorrow, and friend was not against friend, misconstruing every act and deed of kindness." "i think i would not pursue that line of talk, lassies," commented david owen who walked in front of them. "see how brightly the sun shines! how blue the sky is! beyond that azure is one in the hollow of whose hand ye are. have courage." "yes, mr. owen," gasped sally, stopping abruptly as they reached the walk leading to the state house entrance. "yes; but what hath happened to the state house? 'tis so big. i knew not that 'twas so large." peggy stopped too and looked up at the state house, which stood some twenty-five or thirty feet back from the street. it was large, she reflected, its size impressing for the first time in her life with a sense of awe. she had always lived across from the building. had loved it, and had been proud of the fact that it was deemed the most imposing edifice in the new world; now its aspect was one of forbidding unfamiliarity. david owen gave them no time to indulge in fears, but hurried them at once along the walk and up the flight of five steps which led to the entry. the door opening into the east chamber stood ajar. he glanced toward it quickly. "the congress is in session," he remarked. "there are matters of import before it to-day, i hear. his excellency meets with it." lingering not, though he cast a wishful look toward the room, he led them to the second story of the building, pausing presently before the door of a chamber on the west side. "i can go no further with ye," he said sadly. "ye will have to depend upon yourselves now, but there is naught to fear. be of good courage, and answer all that is asked of ye with exact truth. and now farewell!" he turned from them abruptly, and went hastily down the stairs as though he feared that he might give way to emotion. for a brief second the maidens stood, and then the door was opened, and the doorkeeper bade them enter. summoning all her courage, peggy grasped sally's hand, and went in. at this time the government of pennsylvania differed slightly from that of the other states. the old committee of safety had merged into what was called the supreme executive council. there was an assembly, which, in session with the council, elected a governor who was called the president of the state, the vice-president being elected in the same manner. the president was captain-general, and commander-in-chief of all of pennsylvania's forces, and upon the council devolved the administrations of all war matters. its chief executive committees constituted a board of war and a navy board. the former had charge of the land service; the latter of the water, both under the direction of the council. a very careful and exact account of affairs in the state was kept by means of ward committees in the cities and districts, and any infraction of measures adopted for the public safety was known almost immediately to the council. it was before this high tribunal that the girls had to appear. peggy's heart sank as they entered the chamber, and she encountered the grave glances of the men assembled there. there were not more than a dozen in session, for the council was a small body. some of the members she knew well, others only slightly. they were courteous, kindly men with the best interests of their country at heart, but stern and implacable toward the least infringement of patriotism. and so the girl's heart beat tumultuously as she advanced timidly toward the platform upon which the president, mr. moore, was seated. he rose as the trembling maidens paused before him, and stood for a moment looking at them in silence. it seemed to peggy that his glance searched every recess of her heart. she grew pale before his intense gaze, and her eyes fell. sally, on the contrary, seemed to have recovered her customary composure. she suddenly stood erect, and looked about her. presently she saw mr. jacob deering, and smiled a greeting. the old gentleman was visibly uneasy under her glance, and opening his snuff-box he took a huge pinch of snuff. "margaret owen." peggy started as the unaccustomed appellation fell from the lips of the president. "it hath been brought to the attention of this council that you have given aid to a prisoner of war. that you have harbored one of the enemy, and have tried to abet his escape. what have you to answer to this charge?" "'tis true," faltered the girl in a low tone. "when did it occur?" "last sixth-day." "which was friday, the first day of this month. was your father at home at the time?" "yes," answered peggy quickly, "but he knew naught of it." "and did you not know that it was a misdemeanor to succor one of the enemy?" "yes, friend; i knew it." "you knew that 'twas a misdemeanor, and yet unbeknown to your father you still committed it?" he asked, as though amazed at such duplicity. "did you not know that such an act might bring suspicion upon him? did you not know that even though he had given good service to the cause, even that would not avail him if he were suspected of abetting a prisoner's escape? whom can we trust since general arnold failed us?" peggy was too full of emotion to be able to do more than nod acquiescence. "then if you knew these things, why did you do this?" he demanded, his brow darkening. "he was my cousin, clifford owen," she told him brokenly. "i could not refuse him shelter in such a storm." "clifford owen? a son of that colonel owen who as a prisoner on parole stayed at your house?" "yes," answered peggy. "a brother to that mistress harriet owen who played the spy with our army at middlebrook, and who while at your house tried to communicate with the enemy at new york and was banished for so doing?" "yes," answered the girl again. "and to favor one of these cousins you would do that which might cause doubt to be cast upon your father's patriotism, and bring this friend here under displeasure of this tribunal? this friend who hath served us so nobly as nurse." "thee must not do anything to sally," cried peggy, roused by this speech. "i alone am to blame for everything. none knew that i hid my cousin, and sally helped only because she saw how greatly i was distressed lest clifford should be taken. she did not know him, and only helped me out of friendship. ye must do naught to her. there is no one to blame but me." "and do you justify yourself for involving a loyal friend in difficulty by the mere fact that the prisoner was your cousin?" he asked, and the cold incisiveness of his tone made the girl shiver. "you have said that he was your cousin, margaret owen, as though that were excuse for disloyalty. ye have both attended master benezet's school; while there did ye not read of one junius brutus, who sentenced his own sons to death when he found them implicated in a conspiracy against the country?" "yes, we read of it," interposed sally so shrilly that the grave men who composed the semicircle were startled into keen attention. "we read of it, friend moore; but does thee think their mother would have done it? i've often wondered where mistress junius brutus was. had he been my husband," with an impressive shake of her curly head, "i'd have led him a life of it after such an act. 'twas unnatural and cruel, i think. of course peggy hid her cousin. is she not a female? think ye that females are made of such stern fiber that a relative, even though he were an enemy, would ask aid and be refused? i don't believe that there is one of ye but what would do the same thing under like circumstances. thee has spoken of what i have done for the cause. why doesn't thee mention peggy's services? didn't she ride in the cold and the storm to inform general putnam of the spy, molesworth's plot? hasn't she worked to keep the hands, and the feet, and the backs of the army warm? i don't believe that another girl in the union hath knit so many mittens and socks, or made so many shirts as peggy owen hath. i can't begin to tell all she hath done for the cause; and yet just because she hath regard for her kin, which being a woman she cannot help, ye want to convict her of a misdemeanor. 'tis monstrous! how can she help softness of heart? hath she not been taught every first-day to do good to them that despitefully use her? when i first went into nursing i hated the english intensely, and when the wounded were brought in i'd attend to our own soldiers first, no matter how badly the others were hurt. and then one day, dr. cochrane said to me: 'they're all mothers' sons, miss sally. somewhere, some woman is waiting and praying for each one of them. our own boys might be in like predicament with the enemy. treat them as you would like our own treated.' since then," sally continued half crying, "i've tended them all alike--american or english, french or hessian." "bless my soul!" ejaculated jacob deering, as the maiden's voice broke. like a flash she turned upon him. "thee has a niece, kitty, hasn't thee, friend deering?" she cried. "why, so i have, miss sally. so i have." "and she married an englishman, didn't she?" "yes," he answered with a bewildered air. "yes, she did." "now, friend deering," she cried, shaking her finger at him earnestly, "just suppose that kitty's englishman had come to thy house for shelter last sixth-day, when it was so cold and stormy that thee would feel bad if the house cat was left outside? suppose he had come asking for shelter? would thee be any the less a friend to thy country if thee should listen to the dictates of humanity and give him shelter?" "bless my soul!" ejaculated mr. deering, again helping himself liberally to snuff. "bless my soul!" "wouldn't thee give him shelter?" persisted she. "wouldn't thee, friend deering?" "zounds! of course i would," he cried. "englishman, or not. no matter what he was, i would turn no man from my door on such a day." "of course thee wouldn't," she cried in a blaze of indignation. "yet thee and thy fellows here want to indict peggy and me for the very thing ye would do yourselves. shame on ye!" "indict ye!" cried the old gentleman, getting to his feet with the agility of a youth. "indict ye!" he roared, shaking his fist at the council belligerently. "if any man dares to indict so much as a hair of your pretty heads he shall answer to jacob deering." chapter ix out of the frying-pan into the fire "long war without and frequent broil within had made a path for blood and giant sin, that waited but a signal to begin new havoc, such as civil discord blends, which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends." --_"count lara," byron._ the two mothers were at the door to greet them as david owen brought the girls back. both girls were much excited, half laughing, half crying, over the turn events had taken. "'tis good news, i can see," said mrs. owen leading them into the sitting-room. "as to how it came about i can gather nothing clearly." "oh, 'twas sally, sally," cried peggy. "'tis said that mr. henry of virginia is eloquent, but ye should have heard sally. he could not excel her." "'twas a complete rout," declared mr. owen, his usual composure somewhat ruffled. "here i was down-stairs beset with anxiety lest untoward sentences be passed upon the girls when down from the council chamber they came, escorted by mr. jacob deering and president moore himself. sally addressed the honorable body with so much unction, i hear, that thy uncle, robert, at once declared for them. in fact, his championship took the form of a direct challenge, which caused so much merriment that the council was unable to proceed with the business before it, and an adjournment was taken until this afternoon." "but what happened? what did you say? do tell us, sally," urged robert dale. "i acknowledge that i am consumed with curiosity. i am sure the others are affected in like manner. we were just sitting here while you were gone trying to cheer each other by hoping that the sentence would be fines rather than imprisonment. and here you come back with neither, it seems, and colors flying. do tell us what happened." "well," laughed sally, who was plainly elated over the matter, "i was greatly frightened until we entered the council chamber; but do ye know," she broke off excitedly, "just as soon as i saw those men i knew that there was not one of them who would have refused clifford shelter that stormy day? so i told them so. that's all." a shout of laughter greeted this explanation. when it subsided peggy spoke. "thee didn't tell them about brutus, sally," she chided. "'twas that that first excited thy ire." with that she related in detail all that had taken place. "hurrah for sally! and hurrah for uncle jacob too," cried robert. "'twas wonderful, as peggy says. how did you happen to think of it, sally?" "'twas high time that i did something to redeem myself," answered sally. "after all," she continued a trifle wearily, for in spite of the petting and being made much of even her buoyant nature was beginning to feel the strain of events, "after all, i should not have been obliged to do it. peggy and i are in our own city. it hath been a long war, and from the first we have shown our patriotism by doing what we could. whenever anything of this sort occurs it should not be necessary to do aught but explain how the matter came about without fear of punishment." "war breeds suspicion, my child," explained mr. owen gravely. "the purest patriots are open to it; for sometimes treason lurks where 'tis least suspected. were it not that a close watch is kept we should have been betrayed to our undoing long since by traitors and spies. for greater security, therefore, whigs submit to an espionage that at times is most irksome and unpleasant." "i see," said sally. "i see. i---oh, i'm so tired!" and with that--here was sally on the floor in a dead faint. with an exclamation of alarm peggy bent over her. "all this hath been too much for her," she cried. "and 'tis my fault. oh! i should not have let her help with clifford." "nay, peggy; she hath not been strong for some time," returned mrs. evans, as mrs. owen and nurse johnson brought burnt feathers and vinegar. "she overtaxed her strength at the hospital which is the reason that she hath remained at home this spring. she must have a change when a little stronger." so, on her return to consciousness, sally found herself put to bed and declared an invalid. peggy insisted on being installed as chief nurse. "but i shall go down-stairs to-day, peggy," spoke sally on the morning of wednesday. "i heard nurse johnson say last night that thy father was to start for lancaster this afternoon." "he is, sally. and what does thee think? robert is to go with him." "robert?" exclaimed sally amazed. "why, peggy, his furlough hath but just begun." "i know. father reminded him of it, but he thought the prospect alluring, because father spoke of the danger of robbers. it seems that the woods of the great road to lancaster is infested with them, and that government stores are their especial prey. the journey will be fraught with no little peril." "how quickly he tired of us," mused sally. "here 'twas only fifth-day of last week that he came, and now he is to take to the field again. fie, fie! is that the gallantry of the military?" "perchance," answered peggy laughing at her friend, "perchance, sally, he hath been without leave for so long that he doth not know what to do with himself when off duty." "i dare say, peggy. oh, dear! would i were going somewhere. i would not care how much danger there was if i could get away for a time." sally sighed deeply. "i have been here all my life, peggy, save for the summers we've spent at the farm. i wish i could have a change." nurse johnson entered the room as the girl concluded her remarks. "it is anent that very thing that i have come to speak to you both," she said seating herself on the side of the bed. "why could not you and peggy go to jersey with me for a while? you need a change, miss sally, and my sister is near enough to the coast for you to have the benefit of the sea air. she hath a large house, and likes young company. we will give you a fine time, and 'twould do you no end of good. will ye go?" "oh, i should like it," cried sally eagerly. "if peggy will go i am sure that mother would be pleased to have me accept, friend nurse. will thee, peggy?" "i'll have to see mother about it, sally," answered peggy slowly. she did not like the thought of leaving home again even for a few days, but sally did need a change. she had extricated her from a grave difficulty, and so, stifling a sigh, she added: "i will go if mother will consent to it." "i'm going to get up," spoke sally decidedly. "when did thee wish to start, friend nurse?" "i should like to go to-morrow," answered nurse johnson. "fairfax hath made arrangements for a large sled to use in place of the double wagon in which we came. that will make traveling easy, and we should start while the snow is on the ground. should there come a warm spell the roads would be terrible." "let's go right down-stairs to see about it," cried sally. "if we go to-morrow there will be need for haste. see, friend nurse, the mere thought of going with thee hath given me strength. how much better i do feel already." "i'll see that you have some color in these pale cheeks before i'm through with you," declared nurse johnson pinching them lightly. "with peggy and me to look after you a few days will make a great difference in you. yes; let's see about it right away." after all the matter was not mentioned immediately. david owen had received some further orders which hastened his departure, and in the confusion of preparation the subject was not broached. it was at the tea table that nurse johnson unfolded the plan. "and the raids, friend johnson?" spoke mistress owen. "doth thy sister live where she would be subjected to them?" "when brother tom wrote he said that there had been no trouble since yorktown," answered nurse johnson. "did i think for one moment that there was danger i should not wish to take them into it. but freehold is some distance from the coast, though the sea breezes have an appreciable effect upon the climate, and 'twill be of benefit to both girls to get away for a little while. miss sally certainly needs the change. i would take good care of them." "i do not doubt it, friend," answered peggy's mother. she saw that sally was eager for the trip, and knew that the girl's mother would consent to it only on condition that peggy would go also. both mrs. owen and her daughter felt that it would be ungracious to refuse, and consent was given. so it came about that the next morning, so well wrapped up that they declared themselves unable to breathe, peggy and sally were helped into the big double sleigh that fairfax had secured, and the journey toward new jersey was begun. there is something exhilarating about the beginning of any journey. add to it youth, brilliant sunshine, the keen air of a frosty morning, and the high spirits of the maidens will be understood. sally was almost wild with delight. "oh, friend fairfax," she cried leaning forward to speak to him as the party sped away, the snow creaking under the runners, "isn't this just the nicest ride thee ever took? isn't thee having just the best time?" "yes," answered the youth so briefly that her face clouded. fairfax was once more enveloped in his garb of bashfulness, and attended strictly to the driving, letting the task of entertaining their guests fall upon his mother. "i do believe that he is feeling bad because betty hath not come," pouted sally in a mischievous aside. "doesn't thee, peggy?" to peggy's amusement the youth turned quickly: "i am, mistress sally. i--i'd like all three here." and thus, with laughter and light conversation, the day passed. the beautiful country places which had bordered the road near philadelphia gave way to pleasant villages, and these in turn were succeeded by thick woods whose pure clean beauty elicited exclamations of delight. in many places the road was unbroken, and the sleigh passed under white laden branches which drooped heavily, and which at the slightest jar would discharge their burden over the party in miniature snow-storms. they had made such a late start that it was decided to lie at bristol for the night, and reached that place as the afternoon sun began to cast long chill shadows through the darkening woods and to shroud the way in fast deepening obscurity. across the delaware the road took them through dense forests, and over trackless vacancies of snow-clad spaces into which the highway disappeared. there were a few scattering villages, and near these they encountered travelers, but on the highroad they met no one. in spite of themselves this fact wore upon them. the cold was not severe, but there was a stillness that held a penetrating chillness of its own. the country was undulating, swelling into an elevation called the atlantic highlands near the coast, and into the range of mountains in the north known as the kittatinny hills. all were well covered with forests of pine. by noon of the third day they emerged from the woods, and found a long stretch of white-clad country before them. a few farms could be seen in the far distance, but otherwise there was no sign of life on the wide expanse. it seemed to peggy and sally that the highway lay over vast snow fields, and the glare of the sunlight on the snow began to blur and blind them. "i should welcome the sight of bird or beast," observed nurse johnson. "the stillness hath been oppressive to-day. 'tis the hard part of winter travel. in summer there is always the hum of insect, or the song of bird to while away the monotony of a journey, but in the winter there is naught to break the quiet. 'tis as though all nature slept under the blanket of snow. still, the riding hath not been hard. a sleigh is so much easier than a wagon. you girls are tired, though, i can see. what are you looking at, sally?" "there seems to be something moving over there," answered sally indicating some small elevations about three miles to the north of the road. "thee will get thy wish, friend nurse, for something is surely moving about. we have seen naught for so long that any living thing is curious. what are those specks, friend fairfax? they are too large for ducks." the youth turned and gazed steadily at the sand-hills to which she pointed. they were covered with snow which made them appear like ice hummocks in the sunshine, and which rendered the small black objects moving among them very distinct. "they look to me like men," remarked peggy who sat on the front seat beside fairfax. "they are men," he responded. "men and horses." "i wonder what they are doing there," cried sally. the youth did not reply, and peggy caught the look that passed between him and his mother. she bent toward him quickly. "what is it?" she asked. "what does thee fear?" "i fear they are desperadoes," he replied. "i must make yon farmhouse." with an exclamation the girl turned to look again at the sand-hills. to her amazement the spots that had been so indeterminate a few moments since now had become a body of horsemen, which was moving rapidly toward them. fairfax was pale. he leaned forward and spoke to the horses just as sally cried: "they see us, fairfax. they are coming on the run." "can you drive, peggy?" he asked. "yes," she told him breathlessly. "then take my place," he said. "see the farmhouse to the right on that crossroad? we must make that, peggy. i must get out the guns. if they catch us there will be a fight." "i have the ammunition, son," said nurse johnson. "get over here, and let me do the loading." peggy took the lines, and the youth stooped down and drew the muskets from under the front seat of the sleigh. "drive, peggy," he called excitedly as he rose with the weapons. "drive as you never drove before. they are gaining on us." chapter x a race for life "what boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, the feast of vultures, and the waste of life? * * * * * in either cause, one rage alone possess'd the empire of the alternate victor's breast; and they that smote for freedom or for sway, deem'd few were slain while more remain to slay." --_byron._ peggy cast a fleeting glance backward, and the rich bloom of her cheeks faded to paleness as she saw what amazing progress the horsemen had made. their own horses had been on the road since early morning, and should the beasts of their pursuers be fresher she feared for the result. with this reflection she cast aside her scruples and, taking the whip out of its socket, let it fall in a stinging cut. the horses leaped under the lash, then steadied to a rapid trot. far behind sounded a faint halloa, but she did not turn her head. the horses demanded all her attention. how far away that farmhouse seemed! could they reach it before these lawless wretches overtook them? they must. again she let the lash fall, and the horses were off in a mad gallop. in some manner sally and fairfax contrived to exchange places, and with stern set features the youth sat watching the rapid advance of the enemy, his musket ready for instant use. there were two guns. his mother held the other, and the ammunition lay on the seat between them. not one of the little party voiced the thought that was in their minds, for each one realized the awful consequences that would follow capture by these desperadoes. during the latter part of the revolution there had sprung into existence a class of men which might be termed banditti. they were marauding bands which were restrained from robbery and outrage by no military authority. they infested the woods and preyed upon lone travelers, or small parties journeying upon the highways, and desolated solitary farmhouses at will. no outrage was too great for them to commit. each state had its quota of these lawless wretches which superadded to the horrors of war. the state of new jersey was particularly beset, owing to its geographical situation between the two large cities of new york and philadelphia. the pines of monmouth county, in whose boundaries peggy and her friends now were, afforded a safe hiding-place for numbers of such robbers. they had caves burrowed in the sand-hills near the margin of swamps in the most secluded situations, which were covered with brush so as to be undiscoverable. the inhabitants were kept in a state of constant terror by their visitations, for the object of such visits was to plunder, burn and murder. the farmers were obliged to carry their muskets with them even into the fields. after yorktown their depredations ceased for a time, but as the british government delayed peace their atrocities were renewed. it was a mongrel crew of this character that was giving chase to the sleigh and its occupants. they were easily recognized by their accouterments. on! and on! and on! to peggy the whole landscape was featureless save for the farmhouse in the far distance. the sand-hills with their pines, and the salt marshes to the eastward blended together in an indistinguishable white blur. the wind whistled in their teeth, a rushing, roaring gale, filled with a salt flavor. her calash had blown off, and her hair was flying, but the girl was conscious of but one thing which was that the thud of horses' feet was drawing steadily nearer. "faster, peggy," cried fairfax imploringly. "faster!" as he spoke there came the report of muskets. a scream burst from sally's lips as a bullet fell just short of the sleigh. an answering roar came from fairfax's gun, and the unequal fight was on. peggy dared not look around. "the whip," she gasped hoarsely to sally, for the lash had dropped from her hand and lay in the bed of the sleigh. "the whip." in an instant sally had found it, and leaning over the dashboard she let it fall again and again on the horses. infuriated at such treatment the animals plunged forward madly, and it was all peggy could do to guide them. the crossroad leading to the farmhouse was but half a mile distant now. there were clumps of pines bordering it which would afford some protection from the bullets of the enemy. could they reach it? the road swung to the south abruptly, and the horses took it on a sheer run. the noble animals were at their highest speed and doing their utmost, but to peggy they seemed to move at snail's pace. the yelling, shouting band of ruffians was undoubtedly coming closer. it was amazing with what speed they had borne down upon the sleigh, but they were better horsed. suddenly the outcries took a louder note. a shower of bullets fell about the sleigh, and in agonized tones fairfax called to the others to get under the seats. peggy did not know whether sally and nurse johnson obeyed the command or not, but she did not stir. she could not. she was possessed with the determination to reach the crossroad, with its protecting pines. if they could but reach that road! sally was sobbing, and peggy's own breath came gaspingly. she leaned forward, and in utter desperation tried to call to the horses, but her cries were lost in a series of blood-curdling yells from the pursuers. [illustration: a shower of bullets fell about the sleigh.] fairfax was making a gallant defense, but the odds were greatly against him. it was a miracle that he was not hit by some of the bullets that were falling about them. his own aim had been more fortunate, and three ruffians had toppled from their saddles. still, it could be but a question of time ere the greater number would be victorious, and that the robbers were aware of this was apparent in their shouts of triumph. presently the leader of the band, who was astride a big bay, spurred his horse forward. "halt!" he cried. "halt, young man!" the youth's reply was a shot, and the bay went down. a howl of rage arose from the marauders, and they tore down the road like so many demons. just as the sleigh reached the crossroad two of them dashed past to the heads of the horses, and with shouts of exultation reached out to grasp the bits. and then, from out of the thickets of pines, little jets of smoke puffed forth and the two rascals tumbled to the ground. before the occupants of the sleigh could realize what had happened a body of twenty or thirty troopers rode from among the trees, and made a dash for the enemy. fairfax uttered a whoop of joy. "the jersey dragoons!" he cried. at sight of them the bandits turned to flee, but the dragoons were after them on the run, shouting, yelling, and with pistol-balls flying. all became in an instant a scene of the most lively confusion. volley after volley the troopers poured into the fleeing ruffians, and here and there men and horses dropped. the air reeked with the smell of gunpowder, and many riderless horses, snorting with fear and pain, galloped with flying reins up and down the road. the ground was strewn with dead and dying, and the snow was trampled and bloody. the onset of the dragoons was pitiless, incessant, furious; no quarter being given. the state wanted these wretches extirpated, and whenever an encounter took place the conflict was sure to be a sanguinary one. soon the shattered ranks of the ruffian band scattered for the sand-hills, and the captain, knowing that the bandits would have the advantage once the hills were reached, sounded the recall. reluctantly, his men gave up the chase. as the dragoons charged the bandits fairfax had taken the lines from peggy, and driven beyond range of the bullets, then stopped to watch the assault. their escape had been so narrow that none of them could realize that their safety was assured. peggy and sally were white and shaken, and nurse johnson retained her composure with difficulty. now as the troopers came up to them they welcomed them with deep gratitude. "'twas a close call," was the captain's comment to fairfax. "you were doing nobly, sir, but the odds were hopeless." "had you not come, captain, i dare not think of the result," said fairfax with emotion. "there was but one more round of ammunition left when you appeared with your men, though i knew not of it. mother here was doing the loading, and she did not tell me." "i am glad that we happened along," said the officer. "the highways are not safe these days. our state troops are doing what we can toward making them so, but good men are scarce and robbers many. 'twas the merest accident that we chose that spot for our midday meal. we were right in the midst of it when you were seen with those miscreants in pursuit." "but," spoke the youth with some bewilderment, "my uncle wrote that their depredations had ceased since yorktown." "and so they did for a time, but the respite was short. what with these robbers, and the raids of the refugees jerseymen scarce know which way to turn. the state is in truth sorely tried. where does your uncle live, and for what place are you bound?" "thomas ashley is my uncle. he lives at freehold, which should not be many miles distant," answered fairfax. "we came to make our home there. that is, my mother and i did. these two young ladies are visitors." "their welcome, while a warm one, is not much to their liking, i'll warrant," said the officer with a light laugh, and a quick glance at the pale faces of the maidens. "well, you will have no more trouble from this on. this stretch of the turnpike is the most dangerous in the county, and once past it one is safe from molestation. good-bye! a safe journey to you. i think we shall finish that dinner now." he would not listen to their thanks, but saluting, wheeled, and rode back to the conflict ground where some troopers were attending to the wounded. fairfax spoke to the horses, and silently the journey which had had such a tragic interruption was resumed. chapter xi the choice of fairfax "ours are no hirelings trained to the fight, with cymbal and clarion, all glittering and bright; no prancing of chargers, no martial display; no war-trump is heard from our silent array. o'er the proud heads of our freemen our star-banner waves; men, firm as their mountains, and still as their graves." --_t. graves._ although each member of the little party had borne himself well in the face of peril, now each one found himself in the utter exhaustion that follows unusual stress of mind or body. it was no longer possible to lighten the tediousness of travel by conversation, and for this reason the remainder of the journey seemed long and exceedingly wearisome. had conditions been other than they were both peggy and sally would have noticed the broad morasses which bisected the wide plains they were now traversing. they would have exclaimed at the acres of reeds which covered the vast extent of these marshes, and at the wild fowl which rose in clouds from them; for already the ducks were flying. they would have discussed how these swamps became dangerous quagmires at a later season, and how the sandy soil, now so firm and solid under its blanket of snow, would become soft and yielding so that horses could scarce travel through it. all these things failed to rouse them from the weariness that held them. the over-hanging branches of the leafless trees arched over the highway, and obscured the light of the westering sun. further on, the road left the forest and ran by open fields and hedgerows of cultivated lands. it was not until they had passed through a low lying plain, and crossed the broad marsh which separated it from the wooded heights of freehold that it occurred to any of them that they were passing over the battle-ground of monmouth. then, as the high peaked roof of the court-house came into view, nurse johnson roused herself. "is it not somewhere hereabouts that the battle of monmouth was fought?" she asked. "methinks i remember 'twas at the seat of monmouth county that his excellency's forces overtook the english." "yes." fairfax looked about him. "the hottest part of the battle occurred at yon parsonage; although i've heard that there was hard fighting over the entire plain." "oh, don't talk of battles," broke in sally glancing about fearfully. "every bush and tree seems but made to hide an enemy." "give me pardon, my dear," spoke nurse johnson contritely. "'tis small wonder that you wish not to hear of battles after the experience of the day. i make no doubt but that all of us will be glad when we are within the sheltering walls of a house. are we almost there, son?" "yes, mother. 'tis just beyond the village a short distance, though i know not in which direction the farm lies. i will have to inquire at the tavern." the amber light of dusk was tipping the trees when the youth turned from the highway into the wooded road leading to his uncle's dwelling. the farmhouse was gray and weather-beaten, set in a circle of cleared land, and ringed by the forest. there was something about the well-sweep, the orchard, the gardens, that spoke of neglect and desolation, and peggy felt a chill go through her as she noted no stir of life about the place. from the open doors of the barn came no movement of restless horse, or low of cattle. not a twitter nor cheep from the hen-house broke the quiet that brooded over everything. though it was still early twilight the wooden shutters were tightly closed, and had it not been for the light which streamed through their crescentic openings the house would have been deemed deserted. the girl started nervously as a night-owl hooted suddenly from a near-by thicket. "i wonder if they are at home?" she mused aloud. "why, of course they are, peggy," answered sally. "does thee not see the light?" "yes; but----" began peggy, and paused expectantly as fairfax, who had alighted, knocked loudly upon the door. it was a full moment before a reply came; then a man's voice demanded sharply: "what's wanted?" "'tis your nephew, uncle tom," answered the lad cheerily. "nephew, heigh? i haven't any in this part of the country. you can't put in a take-off like that on tom ashley. clear out! my firelock's ready." "well, this is a fine welcome, i must say," cried nurse johnson indignantly. "write for us to come all the way from virginia to visit you, and then find a firelock ready for us. i don't think much of such doings, tom ashley!" "why a pox on me!" came in excited accents from behind the closed door. "didst hear that, mary? that's hannah johnson's voice as sure as preaching. it must be hannah and her boy." there followed the rattle of a chain, the drawing of bolts, then the door was flung wide, and the light from a blazing fire in the fireplace threw into strong relief the forms of a man and a woman standing on the threshold. "have in, have in," cried the man genially. "mary, see to the opening of the stable while i bring the folks in. ye are as welcome as the spring would be, though ye did give us a great scare. 'twas a most unmannerly greeting, but 'twas not meant for ye. the times are such that no man dares to open his door to a visitor when dark is coming on without he knows who 'tis. this is a surprise. i had writ ye not to come." "you had, uncle?" queried fairfax as they shook hands. thomas ashley had left the door by this time, and now stood beside the sleigh. "when? we did not get it." "'tis not to be wondered at considering the state of the country. i sent it the last of january. still, so long as ye didn't get it i'm glad ye are here. so you brought your sweetheart along, heigh? which one is she?" a ripple of laughter rose to peggy's lips at the remark. her spirits had revived as soon as she understood that their reception was due to caution rather than to the lack of welcome, and she spoke roguishly as the farmer assisted her out of the sleigh: "we did not bring her, friend. thy nephew hath had to content himself with sally and me because betty could not come." "i'll warrant the boy hath not found the consolation irksome," laughed mr. ashley. a twinkle came into his eye as he noted the youth's blushes and the mischievous glances of the girls. "well, well," he said, "ye are welcome anyway. now, hannah, go right in with these girls while nevvy helps me with the horses." "you surely don't keep that barn door open when there are horses inside, do you, tom?" nurse johnson's disapproval of the lax fastening of the barn was plainly evident in her tones. "it won't make any difference, hannah, whether 'tis fastened or not. if there's horses there somebody gets them anyway. we leave the door open to save them the trouble of breaking the bolt." "then why do we put the horses there?" queried fairfax in blank consternation. "we don't, nevvy." the farmer chuckled. "if we did we wouldn't have them long. wait a minute. there! there's mary now." the dwelling was a story and a half house, with a lean-to attached to one end. just as farmer ashley finished speaking the whole front of the lean-to swung open in a great door, disclosing an aperture large enough to admit both horses and sleigh. mrs. ashley emerged from the dark interior as the door swung back, and came toward them. "well, that is a contrivance," ejaculated nurse johnson after she had greeted her sister. "who would think of finding a stable right in the house?" "'tis the only way we can keep a horse," explained the farmer's wife. "'tis right next the kitchen, so we know the minute anything is wrong, if we have a horse there; which we have not at present. we believe that no one outside the family knows of its use for such purpose, and 'tis something to have a hiding-place for animals. but come in! here we stand talking, and you must be both cold and hungry. come, hannah! and ye also, my dears. i am glad that the supper is belated to-night, for now 'twill be hot, which is well after a long journey." thus talking she led them into the house, carefully bolting the door after them. a door on one side the chimney gave entrance to the lean-to. another, on the other side of the room, opened into another apartment, but the kitchen itself seemed to be the main living-room. it was large and roomy, and a table drawn up before the hearth was spread for the evening meal. a great fire of pine boughs blazed in the deep-throated fireplace filling the room with fragrance and cheerfulness. the maidens ran to it with exclamations of pleasure. "oh!" cried sally with a deep breath. "how pleasant and homey it is. i feel as though this afternoon were a dreadful dream, and that naught could befall us here. dost see, peggy? there is a quilt on the frame. 'twill be a fine chance to teach captain johnson the stitches. 'twill give him relaxation from military duty." "he will have small time for relaxation, i fear me," spoke the farmer entering at this moment with fairfax from the lean-to. "there is to be great activity in the army this summer, i hear. 'tis to be hoped that something will be done to help us. the jerseys have suffered greatly in the war, and monmouth county more than the rest of the state put together." "we had a taste of what you are going through this afternoon," fairfax informed them quietly. "we were set upon by robbers, and had it not been for the opportune coming of some state dragoons you would not have had to give us welcome." "robbers!" exclaimed the farmer and his wife simultaneously. "why did you not tell us sooner? was any one hurt?" "no," answered the youth. "of course we were upset, which is small cause for wonderment." "tell us about it, nevvy," began thomas ashley eagerly, but his wife interposed: "now, father, if no one hath received a hurt let's eat before the supper gets cold. a good story will keep better than hot victuals. we shall have the night to talk in. 'tis a long journey from virginia, and belike they are hungry. but first, hannah, tell us who these young friends are." "mercy on me, mary," gasped nurse johnson, drawing the girls forward. "i clear forgot my manners. this is mistress margaret owen, who went back with me to williamsburgh when i was here last year. i have writ you anent her visit, as i make no doubt you remember. and this is her friend, mistress sarah evans. she hath been ailing of late, and methought the change would be of benefit. we call them peggy and sally." "you are both welcome," said the hostess warmly, "though i would the times were not so troublous. what with the pine robbers, the freebooters and the tories we are in daily dread of attack." "a plague take the rascals," cried mr. ashley excitedly. "no man's life, liberty, or property is safe these days. we are set upon in the fields, and upon the highways. our dwellings are sacked and burned, and we are thankful if life is left. i tell ye," he cried bringing down his fist upon the table with so much vim that the dishes rattled, "i tell ye new jersey hath stood the brunt of the war. she hath been, and is now, the battle-field of the new nation. things have come to such a pass that some way, somehow, relief must be had from these internal enemies." "but hath nothing been done to rid the state of them?" asked the youth. "done? everything hath been done, nevvy. we have not only furnished our quota of men to the main army, but also formed companies of militia, both cavalry and infantry, to fight these pests. the legislature is endeavoring to establish a strict patrol of the coast and the highways. in addition, we men who are too old for constant service have formed an association to retaliate upon our greatest enemies, the tories, and to go out as necessity demands. why, think of it! up there in new york city are many of our friends and neighbors formed into a corps called the associated loyalists, under the leadership of our former governor, william franklin. an unworthy son of a great father! at his command this corps harasses the state at will. knowing the country 'tis easy for it to slip in where the greatest harm can be done, and out it goes before we know 'tis here. staten island and sandy hook are handy refuges for such raiders. we might handle the robbers, could we be rid of these incursions. we hoped for peace after yorktown, but the depredations are now worse than ever. something must be done, for new jersey's very existence is threatened." "there seems to be a need of men," remarked the young man musingly. "when am i to report for duty, uncle tom?" mr. ashley turned toward him quickly. "there is need of men," he said. "your commission was to be with the regular army, if you wanted it so. colonel elias dayton, who now commands the jersey brigade at chatham, wants every man to report for duty this month. but----" "but what, uncle tom?" asked fairfax as the farmer paused abruptly. "but i wish ye'd stay in monmouth, nevvy. we need every man we can get to help us defend our homes. we have sent and sent to the main army until we are almost stripped of fighting men. general washington may have to go against the english this summer, and then again he may have to lie inactive. it all depends upon the instructions which england will give to the new general who is to supersede clinton. of course, with a campaign there would be more chance for glory with the regular line. such distinction as that must appeal to a lad of parts; but, boy, new jersey needs you. why, washington depends on us for flour, and how can we raise the grain when we are shot down as we plow the fields? a man can do service, and great service, right here in the militia. there won't be much glory, nevvy, but there will be plenty of action. in freehold there is a company now of twenty-five twelvemonth boys that needs a captain. the legislature will gladly give you the commission. now, nevvy, the choice is with you. what will you do?" the youth let his head fall upon his breast in thought. the supper had long since been finished, and the other members of the group sat interested listeners to the conversation between uncle and nephew. peggy looked at the young fellow wonderingly. a captain's commission in the regular army was to be desired. she remembered how john drayton had had to serve for years to obtain one. such an office gave a rank that no militia could offer. could any youth deliberately cast aside the distinction? a glance at fairfax gave no clue to his mental attitude. it seemed a long time that he sat there meditating, but presently he looked up and met the questioning gaze of thomas ashley with a smile. "the greatest need seems to be right here," he said. "i think i'd like to help clear out the tories, and to get a whack at those pine robbers. i have a reckoning to settle with them on my own account. this field will suit me all right." "good for you, nevvy," cried his uncle in a shout. "i thought you'd do it. you are a lad after my own heart. still, it is only fair that you should know that your task will be fraught with danger. the tories single out for vengeance any man who fights with unction against them. let him proceed with too much ardor and he becomes a marked man." "that is true in any part of the country, uncle, as well as in new jersey," was the lad's rejoinder. "i am ready for whatever goes with the work." but at this there came a cry from his mother: "tom ashley, what are you getting my boy into?" "nothing that my own boys have not endured, hannah. one fell in the great battle on yonder plain near the court-house, and lies now in freehold burying-ground. the other, charley, made the same choice as your boy, and is down at tom's river helping to defend old monmouth." "but oh----" she began when fairfax interrupted her: "it's all right, mother. it means no more danger than i'd have to encounter with the regular army, or than i have already faced in the militia at home." "it may be," she answered, but her eyes were troubled. "it may be." "it waxes late," exclaimed mrs. ashley glancing at sally whose eyelids were drooping in spite of herself. "these girls, at least, are ready for bed; and to bed they must go." and without heeding their protests the good woman hurried them up to a little room under the eaves, nor would she depart until they were tucked warmly in the great feather-bed. sally's drowsiness left her as soon as she found herself alone with peggy. "peggy," she whispered, snuggling close to her friend, "what does thee think of it all?" "'tis like the carolinas and virginia were," returned peggy soberly. "oh, sally! is it not awful that men should so hunt and hound each other? the poor people of the states have stood so much that 'tis marvelous that any are left for resistance. nurse johnson whispered to me that she should not feel easy until we were back in philadelphia." "would that we were," said sally earnestly. "peggy!" "yes, sally." "i was afraid this afternoon when the robbers attacked us. what if i were to be fearful all the time?" "we must not be, sally," spoke peggy quickly. "'twould wherrit these kind friends if we were to show fear. they will take excellent care of us, and take us home soon, i make no doubt." "isn't thee ever afraid, peggy?" "why, yes; of course," answered peggy. "every one is, i think. but mother told me once never to anticipate trouble, and so i try not to think about what might happen. we must be bright and cheerful whatever occurs. it should be easy for thee, sally. thee is always happy in the hospital." "that is because i have something to do," responded sally sagely. "if one is so busy that one has no time to think one can't be afraid." "i make no doubt then thee will soon have plenty to occupy thee when fairfax joins his company, sally." sally laughed as peggy had intended she should. "i like fairfax," she said with emphasis. "but didst notice, peggy? he spoke not once to either of us after we entered the house. truly, his diffidence doth envelop him like a mantle; yet, when those robbers were giving us chase, he had no difficulty in telling us just what to do. indeed, he was then as much at ease in speaking to us as thy father or robert would have been." "then he was doing 'man's duty,'" laughed peggy. "'tis marvelous how an emergency doth make him shed his shyness." "i like him," repeated sally. "in very truth, peggy owen, doth thee not consider him the very nicest lad that we know?" "and yet," observed peggy meditatively, addressing the darkness, "methinks there was a girl, not a hundred miles from this very bed, who told me that she agreed with my cousin harriet that clifford excelled all other youths." "i am going to sleep," announced sally, turning over hastily. "does thee not think it time? we had a wearisome journey." peggy giggled appreciatively. "that was a well directed shot," she remarked, "since it hath reduced the ranks to silence." chapter xii "they must go home" "it wounds, indeed, to bear affronts too great to be forgiven, and not have power to punish." --_"spanish friar," dryden._ "let them sleep, hannah. i make no doubt but that they are greatly fatigued." "yet methinks they would not care to be left behind if we go to the meeting-house, mary. both maidens have regard for the sabbath. first-day, they call it." peggy sat up quickly as the foregoing words penetrated her drowsed consciousness, and parting the curtains of the bed looked out. the door leading into the adjoining chamber was ajar, and through it the voices of the two women sounded distinctly. a flood of bright sunshine filled the little room with dazzling light, and she uttered an exclamation of dismay at the lateness of the hour. "sally," she called, bending over her still sleeping friend and shaking her gently, "'tis time to get up. i fear me that we have over-slept." sally stirred protestingly between the lavender-scented sheets, then opened her blue eyes sleepily. "did mother call?" she murmured. "oh, dear! i don't want to get up." "thy wits are wool-gathering, sally," laughed peggy slipping from the high bed without touching the small flight of steps generally used for descending. "thee is not at home, but in freehold. we must dress with speed, for the friends wish to go to the meeting-house." "heigh-ho!" yawned sally rubbing her eyes. "methought i was in philadelphia, and here we are in---is it east or west jersey, peggy?" "neither. 'tis new jersey, sally." "but which would it be had they not gone together to make new jersey?" persisted sally. "it seems to me, miss, that for so sleepy a damsel thee is consumed with a great thirst for geographical knowledge," was peggy's comment as she dipped her face in the washing bowl. "does thee really know, peggy owen?" "i don't, sally. is thee pleased?" "yes," declared sally. "i thought of course thee would be informed, as thee has traveled so much. peggy!" "well?" "did thee name the bedposts to find who would be thy fate? and at which one did thee look? betty and i always do it when we sleep in a strange bed." "yes, sally. and i looked at this one." peggy lightly touched the post nearest her. "why, that's the very one i saw first," cried sally excitedly. "for whom did thee name it, peggy? what if it should be the same as mine! i called it--fairfax." "fairfax," came from peggy at the same moment. a merry peal of laughter filled the chamber as they uttered the name in unison. "and how shall it be decided?" cried sally gaily. "i shall never be second, peggy." "what if betty were here?" queried peggy mirthfully. "we should both have to give up then, of course. i'll tell thee what: being of the sect of friends we cannot fight a duel, as the world's people do, so when we go down-stairs let's note which one of us he addresses first. that one shall be the one," she ended impressively. "very well. is thee ready, sally?" arm in arm they descended the stairs. a chorus of "good-mornings" greeted them as they entered the living-room. mrs. ashley, who was just putting breakfast on the table, glanced at them smilingly. "you are both as bright as the morning," she remarked approvingly. "'tis no need to ask how ye slept. truly your experience of yesterday doth not seem to have weighed upon you as i feared it would." "and how i did sleep!" exclaimed sally. "the bed was so downy that peggy had hard work to make me get up. what virtue does thee give thy feathers, mistress ashley, to make them bestow so sound a slumber?" "methinks any bed would have served the purpose when you were so fatigued, child," answered the hostess, pleased nevertheless by the girl's tribute to her feathers. "nevvy, will you find places for the girls at the table?" "certainly, aunt mary." fairfax placed the chairs around the table, then drawing out two of them, turned toward the maidens, his face flushing at the necessity of addressing them, his whole manner betokening the diffidence that beset him. with demure looks but twinkling eyes the girls awaited his next words eagerly. "have these chairs," he said. an irrepressible giggle came from sally. peggy bit her lips to keep back her laughter, and cast down her eyes quickly. the youth had included both in his speech, and, during the meal that followed, his few remarks were characterized by a like impartiality. when at length all were in the sleigh bound for the meeting-house at freehold both girls were bubbling over with mischief. "what spirits you two are in this morning," observed nurse johnson. "do tell us the fun." "'tis thy son," explained sally in a whisper. "we want to see which one of us he addresses singly, because we both named the same bedpost after him, and 'tis the only way to decide our fate. he won't speak to either of us alone," she ended plaintively. nurse johnson laughed heartily, well knowing that these girls liked her boy, and that such teasing as they indulged in was partly girlish fun, and partly a desire to cure him of his bashfulness. "what a thing it is to be young," she commented almost enviously. "mary, did we ever do such things?" "as naming bedposts, do you mean, hannah? truly. many and many a post have we both named." "and how did it turn out?" asked sally eagerly. before the lady could reply peggy spoke suddenly: "why do thy husband and fairfax carry their muskets?" she inquired with surprise. "'tis not safe to go to meeting without them, child," responded the matron gravely. "to such a state hath new jersey come that 'tis impossible to go from one's door without firelocks." "'tis as it was when the country was first settled," remarked nurse johnson. "only then, 'twas fear of the savages, and now----" "'tis of a foe no less savage, hannah," completed her sister. "the long years of warfare have rendered the enemy cruel and pitiless in the extreme." "'tis as bad here as on the frontiers," commented peggy. "before we came 'twas talked at philadelphia that an uprising of the indians was looked for along the borders. in truth, methinks there hath already been atrocities committed upon the settlers, but affairs seem no worse with them than they are here with you." when they finally drew up before the freehold meeting-house it was obvious to the least heedful that something unusual was astir. although the snow lay deep in front of the building and a keen nip was in the air, there were groups of men scattered over the green. despite the chill, some sat upon the steps of the church, others clustered about the wagons in the wagon-shed, and still others stood about, stamping their feet or swinging their arms to keep warm. but whether sitting or standing each man held a musket in the hollow of his arm ready for instant use, while about the church two men patrolled as sentinels. all the light and laughter died out of the faces of the maidens at these warlike signs, and unconsciously they drew closer together. "i wonder what hath happened," mused farmer ashley stopping before the horse-block. "what's to do, neighbor?" he called to a man in a near-by group. "sam nathan's farm was raided by the loyalists last night, tom," came the startling response. "his house and barns were burned, and sam himself killed. his wife and daughter escaped into the woods, and reached freehold this morning half dead from shock and exposure." "sam nathan!" ejaculated mrs. ashley becoming pale. "why, that was only five miles from us, father. 'twill be our turn next." "now don't go to looking for trouble, mary," chided her husband. "you women-folks go right into the meeting-house, and whatever you do, be cheerful. nevvy and i will come in presently." the church was partly filled with sad-eyed, patient-faced women, whose quiet demeanor was more heartrending than tears would have been. some gave them the welcome that those who are united in the bonds of affliction give each other; others only stared at them with stony, unseeing eyes. whose turn would be the next? was the thought that filled every breast. oppressed and saddened, peggy thoughtfully took the seat assigned her, and, as sally sank down beside her, she slipped her hand into her friend's protectingly. sally responded with a reassuring pressure, and so with clasped hands the two sat throughout the service. and a memorable service it was. while the minister preached, the men took turns in patrolling the building and watching the horses. beside every pew stood a musket, ready for instant use. even in the house of god these people were not secure from the attacks of their enemies. and without the sun shone brightly upon the hills and plains of monmouth. over the meadows lay the snow, and on the streams a thick coating of ice; but the pines were green in the woodlands, and the air--though sharp and nipping--still breathed of spring and hope. the land was fair to see in its winter garb. man alone was the discordant note in nature's harmony. as thomas ashley had said, all new jersey was roused to action. harassed and harried as no other state had been, with the exception of south carolina, at this time it seemed on the verge of extinction, and its condition was in truth deplorable. in the earlier years of the war it had been swept like a plague by the horde of hireling hessians and the british army. in addition, the main army of the patriots had wintered for several years among its mountains, and drawn upon it for supplies until the state was all but beggared. but if liberty live the army must eat; so the farmers plowed, and sowed, and reaped, even though many dropped in the fields from the crack of an ambushed rifle. as though suffering from the depredations of the pine robbers were not enough, there was added to the state's afflictions the incursions of the freebooters of the sea, and, far more bitter to bear--for civil war is ever without mercy and compassion--were the heinous outrages of the tories. it was no wonder, with foes without and foes within, that the temper of the people had risen to fever heat, and that they were making determined efforts to rid themselves of their enemies. the meeting was ended finally, and with saddened mien the family reã«ntered the sleigh. farmer ashley's face wore a grave expression, while fairfax's countenance betokened a set determination. he turned toward his mother abruptly. "mother," he said, "these girls must go home. new jersey is no place for them." "you never spoke a truer word, nevvy," chimed in his uncle. "they must go home; the sooner they start, the better 'twill be. so long as the snow lasts, the riding will be easy. now, if you are willing to risk another encounter with the robbers, we will start with them tuesday." "but would not friend nurse and thy wife be left unprotected while ye were away?" questioned peggy in troubled accents. "now, peggy, don't wherrit over that," spoke nurse johnson. "the first thing to attend to is getting you girls home. i should never have another minute's peace if anything befell you. i ought never to have brought you into such danger, but i knew not that things were as they are here. mary and i can take care of ourselves." "it won't do, hannah," said thomas ashley decidedly. "the girls must go of a truth, but you and mary must have protection, too. capable ye both are, but 'twould not do to leave ye alone. the journey to philadelphia would take all of six days, there and back. that would mean fast going at that. should there come a thaw there's no telling when we'd get home." "friend," broke in peggy eagerly, "if thee could get us to trenton there would be no need for thee to go on to philadelphia. both sally and i have friends there who would see that we reached home safely. beside, the stage runs thrice a week from that point to our city, and should other means fail, we could take that." "come! that's well thought of," he cried quickly. "'twould be but a day's travel to trenton, if the snow holds. mary and hannah could bide in freehold until our return; so we'll call the matter settled. nevvy, we will start tuesday." "then on tuesday ye will both be gone," said fairfax with such a sigh of relief that sally, despite the gravity of the situation, could not forbear a little laugh. "oh, peggy!" she cried, "why weren't we named betty? had we been captain johnson would not wish us gone as soon as we arrived." "'tis not as you think, mistress sally," he protested earnestly. "indeed, in truth "--he faltered, then continued manfully--"did i regard your friend as your words imply i would not consent to wait until tuesday to take her back." a puzzled look spread over sally's face. "doth he mean that he is indeed fond of betty?" she whispered to peggy under cover of thomas ashley's laughter which followed the youth's response. "i fear to say," was peggy's amused reply. and so, in spite of the fact that ravage and pillage had come very near to them in the night, they returned to the farm in much better spirits than would have been deemed possible when they left the meeting-house. chapter xiii a woman's wit "man is not born alone to act, or be the sole asserter of man's liberty; but so god shares the gifts of head and heart, and crowns blest woman with a hero's part." --_author unknown._ "surely thee is not unpacking, peggy?" questioned sally as she entered their little room for the night. peggy had preceded her by a few moments, and was now bending over her portmanteau. "it hardly seems worth while when we return so soon." "i am just getting my diary, sally," answered peggy, drawing forth the book after several attempts to locate it. "methought the time was propitious to make an entry. and of a verity that encounter with those robbers ought to make exciting reading for the social select circle." "'twas a wondrous adventure," cried sally with a shiver of pure enjoyment. "since none of us received injury 'tis delightsome to have so stirring a thing to record for the girls. and oh, peggy! is it not charming that i am with thee?" "it is indeed, sally. anything is always more enjoyable when thee shares it with me; although i agree with fairfax in wishing that we were at home." "if we start third-day we should be there soon, peggy. were it not for the danger i should like to stay a little longer." "and so should i," responded peggy. "there! that entry is finished, with a half page to spare. wouldn't thee like to add something, sally?" "i'll wait until morning," decided sally. "although," she added, "perchance 'twould be best to do it now, as to-morrow will be the day before we leave, and consequently we are quite apt to be busy." but monday morning brought a clouded and softened sky; a brisk south wind arose, and the rain came driving. by tuesday the wind had increased to a heavy gale, and the rain came with violence from the southwest. the snow-drifts that had been so white and fair became yellow, and smirched, and muddy, and lost their curves and lines. the roads were troughs of slush and water, impassable for any sort of vehicle. in spite of this condition of things fairfax johnson insisted that the maidens should be taken to trenton. "why, son, 'twould be monstrous to send them forth in such weather," remonstrated his mother. "they would get drenched." "better that than to stay here," he declared, but his uncle interposed: "'twould never do, nevvy. you couldn't get as far as freehold with the roads as they are. the rain won't last more than a few days; and if it keeps us in it works the same with the raiders by keeping them out. they won't venture into monmouth county until the weather changes. they know too well the danger of the quagmires. we must bide our time, nevvy." and with this the lad was forced to content himself. for three days the rain continued, and with its ceasing every vestige of snow had disappeared, leaving conditions worse than ever. the roads were very soft and heavy, and most perilous where they crossed the marshes. even the youth acknowledged that travel with a wagon was utterly out of the question. but he himself managed to ride into freehold daily that he might meet with his company, and begin preparations to take the field as soon as offensive operations by the raiders were resumed. so the days went by, but they were pleasant and busy ones for peggy and sally. true to their resolve to accept with cheerfulness whatever befell, their gay spirits softened and enlivened the gloom which might otherwise have settled upon the family. the mornings were devoted to housework and cookery; the afternoons to quilting the homespun bed-quilt which sally had noticed in the frames on the night of their arrival. in the evenings all gathered about the great fireplace and indulged in such recreations as the farmhouse afforded. the girls had each set a pair of stockings upon the needles which they declared were for fairfax, and, much to his embarrassment, he was called upon every evening to note the progress of the work. after the fashion of the time the name, fairfax, and the date, 1782, were knit in the threads. soon the raw winds of march gave place to softer ones which blew caressingly from the south, dispelling all fear of frost. the soft wet of the ground disappeared under the balmy sunshine, and the air was a fount of freshness. the glad earth reveled under the warmth of the sun, and hill and valley, wood and meadow, blossomed under the touch of spring. along the hudson, washington gathered his forces for a final campaign, for not yet would england consent to terms of peace, and urged with entreaty upon the states the need of men and supplies. but with resources drained, and rendered apathetic by the long years of fighting, the country believed that the crisis had passed, and so responded slowly to the appeals of their leader. each state had its own troubles that demanded attention, and the general welfare was lost sight of in the specific need. in new jersey particularly, rent as it was by the internecine warfare, nothing was talked or thought but the putting down of its own individual enemies. as soon as the weather permitted the attacks of the loyalists were renewed with increased virulence. it was as though these people realized that with the coming of peace nothing would remain for them but expatriation, and so were determined to leave behind them naught but desolation. and to stay this lawlessness the young captain with his company rode hither and thither over the county, pursuing the raiders with so much zeal and intrepidity that their rancor was aroused toward him. there came a day when fairfax did not return in the evening as was his custom. far away from the south-eastern part of the county had come the alarm that the refugees, under the leadership of frank edwards--a notorious desperado loyalist--had come down from sandy hook, and were approaching the neighborhood of cedar creek. upon receipt of the intelligence the young captain had immediately set forth to prevent their marauding progress into the interior. a sharp skirmish took place which resulted in victory for the monmouth defenders, and when at length they reã«ntered freehold, they bore with them the notorious edwards, a prisoner, together with a majority of his tory band. thomas ashley was jubilant when the youth arrived with the news. "keep after 'em, nevvy," he cried. "a few more such captures and old monmouth may rest secure." "report hath it that nothing short of hanging will be given edwards," fairfax told him. "few of the band will escape a sentence of some sort. do you not think, uncle tom, that a few days could be taken now to get these maidens home? it preys upon my mind that they are still here." "and upon mine also, son," said his mother gravely. "if these tories are as vindictive as i hear they are there will be no safety for any of us since you have taken one of their leaders." "she speaks truth, nevvy. these girls have no part in this war. pennsylvania hath woes of her own to endure. it is not just, or fitting that any of her citizens should be called upon to bear ours also. they shall go home." so once again peggy and sally gathered their belongings together for an early start to trenton. all the day before the maidens were in a pleasurable state of excitement. each realized that new jersey was no longer a place for them, so they were glad to go; still, there were regrets at parting from these people who had been so kind, and whom the vicissitudes of fortune might preclude them from ever seeing again. full of this feeling, peggy found herself the victim of a pleasing melancholy the night before they were to leave, and it was long past midnight ere she was able to sleep. how long she slept she did not know, but it seemed to her that she had just fallen into slumber when something caused her to open her eyes. for a few moments she lay in that strange debatable region between sleeping and waking when the mind cannot distinguish between the real and the imaginary. all at once she sat up, fully awake, every sense strained and alert. something was wrong. what was it? she listened intently, but such an intense stillness reigned throughout the house that sally's soft breathing smote her with a sense of disturbance. parting the curtains of the bed she glanced apprehensively about the little chamber. the wooden shutters were closed, but through their bow-shaped openings came such a brilliant light that every object in the little room was plainly visible. "how brightly the moon shines," was her thought, and completely reassured she was about to draw the curtains when again there came the mysterious sound that had awakened her. it was a crackling, snapping sound such as seasoned wood makes when the flame catches it in the open air. very much alarmed peggy slipped from the bed and ran to one of the windows. softly she raised the sash, then cautiously swung back one of the shutters. she gave a low cry at the sight that met her gaze, and leaned far out of the window. the barn was a mass of flames, and there were dark forms flitting about among the budding trees. the raiders! for a moment she stood stricken with terror. then the necessity for action roused her. fairfax! thomas ashley! they must not be caught asleep. what would be their portion should these men find them? full of excitement, her heart beating hard and fast, she sped into the adjoining room where nurse johnson slept. "awake!" she cried shaking her violently, her whisper rendered sharp and penetrating by fear. "the raiders are here. thy son, friend nurse! there is danger. oh, wake! wake!" "what is it, peggy?" nurse johnson was roused at last. "are you ill?" "the tories," gasped the maiden. "they are here. the barn is burning." in an instant nurse johnson was out of the bed, and had started for the door when the calm voice of her son spoke from the entrance: "i hear. you women get in the middle room, and don't go near a window. uncle tom is getting the muskets ready for the assault." peggy ran back to close the shutter of the window she had opened, but could not forego a glance downward as she did so. the men, satisfied that nothing would be left of the barn, were now advancing stealthily toward the house, each bearing a lighted pine-knot. the girl's heart beat pitifully as she divined their intention, which was obviously to set fire to the dwelling. she closed the shutter tightly, and then awakened sally. "can't we do something?" whispered sally, after the women and the two girls had waited in breathless suspense for a few moments. "this waiting in the dark is terrifying. i shall scream if i can't do something." before a reply could be made there came a snort of terror from the lean-to, and a shout of triumph broke from the raiders as the snorting discovered the whereabouts of the horses. a ripping, tearing sound betokening that the boards were being torn from the improvised stable to get at the animals followed. a roar of rage burst from farmer ashley. "at 'em, nevvy," he cried. "they're after the horses. he who shoots first has the advantage of the enemy." the young captain's reply was a shot from his musket. a howl of anger rose from the attackers as the report of thomas ashley's gun followed quickly. the two men then ran to other windows and began firing, endeavoring by quick shifting of position to give the impression that a large force was in the house. there were six muskets altogether, and one was placed by each window. "this is work for us," said nurse johnson calmly, as the women and girls in answer to sally's plea came down-stairs. "we can load while you two do the shooting. peggy, do you stay with me while mary and sally take that side." there ensued several minutes of brisk work from without as well as within, and bullets came spitefully through windows and doors. presently mary ashley spoke shrilly: "father, where is the cartridge paper? there are no more cartridges made up." "i don't know, mother," shouted mr. ashley successfully dodging a bullet that came through a shutter. "ask nevvy." but fairfax turned a look of consternation on his aunt. "if there are no more cartridges in the pouch we are done for," he said. "there's plenty of powder and ball, but i don't know where to lay hand to wadding." "any sort of paper will do, mary," interposed nurse johnson. "get a book." paper was a scarce commodity in those times, and few houses, especially country houses, kept it in quantity. books were rarer still, so now mrs. ashley spoke with the calmness of despair: "there isn't a book on the place. i let----" "wait a minute," cried peggy. "i have one." she ran up the stairs as she finished speaking and soon returned, a book in her hand. "oh, peggy," wailed sally, "'tis thy diary. and how will the girls ever know what hath befallen us without it?" "they are apt to know naught if we do not use it, sally," said peggy with some excitement, proceeding to tear the leaves into squares. presently she paused, powder-horn in hand. "how much powder do i put in, friend nurse?" she asked. while nurse johnson was showing the proper amount the enemy's fire slackened suddenly. farmer ashley and fairfax exchanged apprehensive glances. were they weary, or was their stock of cartridges getting low? then the fire ceased altogether, and as the smoke lifted fairfax stole a look through the opening in a shutter. he turned a troubled face toward them after a moment's survey. "there's nothing to be seen," he said. "surely they have not gone away?" at this juncture a call came from outside: "tom ashley!" "well? what's wanted?" cried the farmer. "we want that nephew of yours, and we're going to have him." "come and get him, then," growled thomas ashley. "we're going to, tom. we've burned your barn, and taken your horses. now unless you let us have that captain we'll burn the house right over your head. will you surrender captain johnson?" "no," came from the farmer in a roar. "what manner of man do you think i am that i'd let a pack of tory scoundrels have my nephew?" "the woods won't be pleasant camping for your women-folks at this time of the year, tom," came in threatening accents. "no," shouted the farmer. "you can't have him." "uncle, i'd better go out to them," said fairfax. "if they will promise to let the rest of you alone, and not burn the house, i'll----" "you'll do nothing of the sort, nevvy," spoke tom ashley gruffly. "if they spare the house now 'twill be only that they may burn it later. you can't depend upon the word of a tory. we will stay here as long as we can, then make a dash for the woods. thanks to peggy we have plenty of cartridges now." "something is burning," cried sally suddenly, sniffing the air. a peculiar odor came through the loopholes of the windows, and the wind whirled a puff of smoke into the room. the faces of the girls blanched, and they looked at each other fearfully. the entire party seemed benumbed for the moment, then fairfax sprang to the door of the lean-to. "i'm going out to them," he announced determinedly. "you shan't burn here like rats in a trap." "don't go, son," screamed his mother. and, "don't go, friend fairfax," came from the girls. "'tis death out there." "and death to all within if i stay," he answered, opening the door resolutely. a burst of flame from the lean-to forced him to recoil, and before he could recover himself his uncle had closed the door quickly. "you young idiot," he growled, "stay where you are. 'twould be a useless sacrifice. you'll do more good by staying here, and helping to cover the retreat of the women should we have to take to the woods." fairfax made no answer, but stood in a dejected attitude, his head sunk upon his breast. the stillness without was ominous. presently jets of flame crept across the threshold of the door leading to the lean-to. the farmer uttered an exclamation almost of despair as he reached for the water bucket. "we are all right as long as the water holds out," he groaned, dashing the bucket's contents on the blaze. "god help us when 'tis gone." "uncle tom," spoke the youth imploringly, "they only want me. let me at least make a dash for the woods. there would be a chance of escape, and 'twould draw them away from here." "would they really take after fairfax if they saw him taking to the woods?" queried nurse johnson abruptly. "of a truth, hannah. you see they'd like to get him on account of capturing edwards, but we won't give him up. he's too necessary to the country." "another place is on fire, friend," screamed sally at this moment. both the youth and his uncle sprang for the blaze, beating the flames with heavy wet cloths. under cover of the excitement nurse johnson threw her son's long cloak around her, caught up his three-cornered hat, and, before they realized what she was about, had opened the rear door of the kitchen and darted out. a shout went up from the raiders, telling that she had been seen. a few scattering shots followed, then the clarion tones of the leader rang out: "don't shoot, boys. take him alive. we've got him now." "mother!" cried fairfax, springing toward the door. tom ashley caught him in an iron grip. "be quiet, nevvy," he said sternly. "hannah's got too much wit to be taken, and she hath saved you; and all of us, for that matter. you are too valuable to the country to be given to such wretches. even though all the rest of us perish, you must live. now help me put out this fire. peggy, do you run up-stairs, and see what's happening." up the stairs darted peggy, with mrs. ashley and sally following after. too eager to be cautious she flung back a shutter, and looked out. the night was now far spent, and in the dim gray light of early dawn nurse johnson's tall figure was not unlike that of her son. the intrepid woman had cleared the open spaces of the yard, and was now under the great trees of the forest, with the raiders in full pursuit. a few moments, and hunted and hunters were swallowed up by the long dark shadows of the woods. chapter xiv marching orders "our bugles sound gayly. to horse and away! and over the mountains breaks the day; then ho! brothers, ho! for the ride or the fight, there are deeds to be done ere we slumber to-night! and whether we fight or whether we fall by saber-stroke or rifle ball, the hearts of the free will remember us yet, and our country, our country will never forget." --_rossiter worthington raymond._ it was not until morning that the farmer and his nephew succeeded in getting control of the fire. when at length it was extinguished only a few charred timbers remained of the lean-to, and the dwelling itself was badly damaged. a heap of ashes marked the spot where the barn had stood, and the scene was one of desolation. the day had come, but there was no glory in the sunshine. the dank smell of early morning rose from the dew-drenched earth, but its freshness and fragrance were marred by the overpowering odor of smoke, and wet, charred wood. in the countless trees of the forest the birds were singing, but their songs fell upon unheeding ears. to the inmates of the farmhouse instead of melody the pines whispered a message of menace and despair. "and now," spoke fairfax johnson, as thomas ashley declared that there was no further danger of fire, "now i am going to see what hath become of my mother." "and i'll go with you, nevvy. you must not think me hard and unfeeling, boy, but just now, when men are so scarce, we cannot afford to lose one unnecessarily. to have gone out to those men would have been certain death for you, and your mother did the best thing that could have been done. to be a patriot demands a great deal of us. to die is a small matter, but how we die is much. your work is not finished. until it is, nevvy, your life is not yours to lose needlessly. it belongs to the country. even though hannah be captured, it would not follow that aught of harm would come to her. she is a woman. but come!" "peggy," whispered sally, "friend ashley reminds me of brutus." "yes," answered peggy gazing after fairfax with misty eyes. "duty to country is first, of course; but sometimes when the heart is torn with anguish over the sacrifice of a loved one it doth seem that duty asks too much of us. oh, sally! sally! will peace ever come? will the country ever be aught but torn and disrupted by warfare? i cannot bear it." "don't, peggy," came from sally sharply. mrs. ashley, who was moving about the fire preparing breakfast, came to them quickly. she gave each girl a gentle kiss, and a soft pat, saying: "now, now, 'twill not do. after being such brave, helpful girls all night, are ye going to give way now? 'twill never do, sweetings. for the boy's sake, ye must be brave. see! i have nice, hot coffee all ready. run after them, and tell them that i want them to take a cup before going far." "and we were going to be so brave," reminded sally wiping her eyes. "'tis all my fault," said peggy, "but 'twas the thought of----" "now be quick, or they will be gone too far," interrupted mistress ashley. the two men were entering the confines of the forest when peggy called to them: "mistress ashley wishes that ye would take a cup of coffee before going, friends. she hath it already prepared." fairfax shook his head. "mother first," he said. "i could not take anything." the tears came again to peggy's eyes. "yes, yes," she said chokingly. "make sure of friend nurse's whereabouts first. how brave she was! how----" "did i hear something said anent coffee, peggy?" came nurse johnson's voice, and from among the trees she came toward them. she was smiling, but her appearance was anything but cheerful. her face was very pale, her hair was unbound and hung upon her shoulders in a tangled mass; her garments were dew drenched, and she limped painfully. with a bound her son reached her side. "mother! mother!" was all he could say. "i thought ye'd get through, hannah," cried thomas ashley. "i was just telling the boy so. mary, mary! hannah's come." with cries and exclamations of wonder and joy they gathered about her, heaping caresses upon her until the good woman begged for mercy, declaring that she was hungry, and would have no breath left wherewith to partake of food. then they bore her into the house, and while sally and peggy dressed the sprained ankle, mrs. ashley brought coffee, and mr. ashley cut great slices of ham, insisting that the occasion warranted a feast. but the son remained by her side as though he feared to leave her. they grew calm finally, and then nurse johnson told of her escape. "'tis naught to make such a pother about," she said settling back comfortably in her chair, a cup of coffee in hand. "i knew that tom wouldn't be able to hold fairfax much longer, and i wasn't going to have those rascals get him if i could help it. providence was on my side, for i seemed to have wings given me. i didn't know that i could run so fast, but fear, aided by a few bullets, would develop speed in the most of us, i reckon. "i had a little start of the tories, though i knew that i could not keep it, when my foot caught in a vine, or root, and i fell. i tried to get up, but my ankle was sprained so i could not rise. instead, in my efforts, i began to roll down the declivity, for the ground was slightly rolling where i had fallen, and over and over i went until presently the bottom was reached, and i came to a stop in a little hollow. something stirred as i rolled into the thicket, and an animal, 'twas too dark to see what it was, though it seemed like a doe, or a fawn, leaped up and bounded away through the forest. i heard the men go crashing after it, and it came to me that if i did not move they might pass on, thinking that the deer was their prey. that is all there is to it. so you see i did naught after all. save for the mishap of a sprained ankle, and a little chill, i am no worse off than ye are." "oh! but the risk, friend nurse," cried peggy. "was no greater than to stay here. we did not know of a certainty that the men would leave the house in pursuit. it was just a chance, but it happened to work all right. now, tom, what shall be done? do you think the raiders will return?" "'tis hard telling, hannah. sooner or later they will try to get the boy again. if edwards is hanged they will stop at nothing to effect his capture. but, hannah, every man in the company runs the same risk. the thing to do is to have the men make headquarters here. 'twill be of mutual benefit, for 'twill throw a safeguard about each member of the company." "yes," she agreed thoughtfully. "and the girls?" uttered fairfax. "what of them?" "until we have horses we can do naught, nevvy." "then horses we are going to have," he said with determination. "i shall start for freehold now to see what can be done. there may be other news of the raiders, too." "go with him, tom," cried his mother quickly. "there may be skulkers in the woods." but fairfax would not hear of this. "nay, mother," he said. "uncle tom's place is here. you are in more danger than i am, for the raiders may come back. you had your way last night; this morning 'tis my turn." with this he was gone. some hours later when he returned, astride a bay mare of great beauty, he headed quite a cavalcade. behind him rode the little company of twelvemonth men and militia of which he was captain; back of these came two large wagons. "what think you?" he cried waving a folded document excitedly in greeting. "the council of safety hath confirmed my commission as captain, and hath ordered me to take the company to tom's river to garrison the fort there. the salt works are threatened, and there is some contraband trade to be checked. we came to take you with us." "to do what, nevvy?" gasped the farmer, bewildered by the suddenness of the matter. "to take all of you with us," repeated the youth, dismounting. "think you that i could go, and leave you here unprotected? you will be safe there. at least," he corrected himself, "as safe as 'tis possible to be in monmouth county. the garrison will afford more security than you would have here. i brought these wagons for the very purpose of taking you. there must be haste, uncle tom. we must be off in an hour." "but----" began thomas ashley protestingly, when his wife interrupted him. "why, father! that's where charley is. 'tis the very thing." so the youth had his way, and there ensued a busy hour. the wagons were shore wagons, owned by oystermen of tom's river who were returning to that village after bringing fish and oysters to the interior, he told them in explanation of the odor that clung to the vehicles. it was great good fortune that they could be had just at this time. presently, here they were, with nurse johnson, comfortably installed upon a feather-bed, mrs. ashley and the two girls in one wagon, while the farmer rode in the other to look after such household effects as they were taking. both because of nurse johnson and the sandy nature of the soil they were obliged to proceed in a leisurely manner, but the family, rejoicing in the sense of security afforded by the presence of an armed escort, minded neither the manner nor the mode of travel. with the buoyancy of youth, peggy and sally soon regained their accustomed spirits, and chatted gaily. above was the blue and white woof of the spring sky. the plaint of the meadow-lark and the note of the robin sounded sweetly against the stillness of the air. a trio of crows sailed athwart the blue, their great wings beating the air to slow, solemn measure. the pine woodland added shelter and picturesqueness to the road, and to the light breeze its sweet resinous odor. and fairfax was here, there, everywhere, looking after things with all the zeal of a young officer. "you are merry," he said after a time, accommodating the speed of his horse to that of the wagon in which the girls rode. his manner had brightened perceptibly since the beginning of the journey, and he spoke lightly. "yet i feared that you might be annoyed by the smell of fish. they are oyster wagons, you know." "is it fish that we smell?" cried sally, laughing for very joyousness, and forgetting to wonder at the unusualness of his addressing them. "methought it was the pines." "nay; 'tis fish," he declared. "at what are you looking, mistress peggy?" "i am admiring thy horse," she replied. "'tis a beauty. almost as pretty as my own little mare." "nay," he protested. "few animals are that. star hath not many equals." peggy flushed with pleasure. praise of her little mare always delighted her. "thee can afford to be unstinted in thy praise when thine own mount hath so much of beauty," she remarked. "and what has thee named her?" questioned sally. "it should be something charming." "a name hath just occurred to me that is both charming and uncommon," he responded, meeting her glance without blushing. it was the first time that she had seen him so much at ease in ordinary intercourse, peggy reflected marveling. "i think," continued the youth, "that no other horse ever bore it." "then it must be unusual," declared sally. "thee makes me very curious, friend fairfax. what is it?" "marsal," he answered. a twinkle came into his eyes as he added: "after margaret and sally: marsal!" saluting, he passed on to the head of the column. there was a gasp of surprise from the maidens, then a peal of laughter followed, so mirthful that nurse johnson and her sister joined it. "he hath the best of us, peggy," cried sally. "but who would have dreamed that he had it in him?" "of a truth he hath improved markedly," agreed peggy. "i fear me that we shall have to change our tactics, sally." "'tis not that he hath lost his diffidence, girls, but the reaction from fear of danger to us hath rendered him light-hearted," declared the lad's mother. "he is so relieved that 'tis easy to jest." and this was the case with them all. so merrily the journey proceeded. the incubus of fear was lifted from them for the time, and a certain joyousness of expression was the natural result. it was twenty-five miles from monmouth court house to tom's river, and so slowly did they travel that it was not until the next evening that they emerged from the forest into a long stretch of cleared road at the end of which lay the thriving little town. about a hundred yards to the east of the road, on a slight eminence in the center of cleared ground, stood the blockhouse. it was a rude structure, unfinished, about six or seven feet high, built of logs with loopholes between them, and a number of brass swivels on the top, which was entirely open. indeed there was no way of entering save by climbing. a short distance beyond the fort a bridge spanned the river, for the village was situated on both banks of the stream. four miles away the tides of barnegat bay swelled and ebbed through cranberry inlet into the ocean. it was the nearness of this inlet that gave the little place its importance. it was at this time perhaps the best inlet on the coast except little egg harbor, and was a favorite base of operations for american privateers on the outlook for british vessels carrying supplies to new york. in the near vicinity of the village a gristmill, a sawmill, and salt works gave evidence of the occupations of the inhabitants; while on the river, which at this point broadened into a bay, floated the barges and boats of the fishermen, and the rafts and scows from the sawmills. the town proper consisted of about a dozen houses beside an inn, around which the dark forest seemed to crowd and press. the place had been subjected to attack several times by the british, owing chiefly to the desirability of the inlet, and the possession of the salt works. an unusual characteristic of the town was the fact that not a tory, nor tory sympathizer was allowed to dwell in it; which was an exceedingly uncommon feature of any place in monmouth county. as the company drew near the blockhouse there came a sharp command from within, and over its walls scrambled a few men who drew up at attention, while drum and fife sounded a welcome to the new captain. a dazzling light of pleased surprise came into the young man's eyes, and he squared his shoulders with an involuntary movement. from the village came the people to give welcome also; for the intrepidity with which the young man fulfilled his duties, his recent exploit in capturing the noted edwards had given him a reputation, and the town rejoiced that he had been sent to take command of the post. with blushing modesty the lad made a stammering response to the welcome, while thomas ashley beamed with gratification, and his mother could scarce conceal her pride. the ceremony was ended presently, and the company took formal possession of the blockhouse. the family passed on into the village. "'tis so interesting to be with the military," sighed sally ecstatically as she and peggy were preparing for bed. they had found quarters with the family of justice green, old friends of mrs. ashley. "just think, peggy owen! thee had a whole winter of it at middlebrook. and with the main army at that. i should think thee could never find contentment in our quiet city again." "were we there, sally, i'd never wish to leave it," spoke peggy so earnestly that her friend looked up in surprise. "what is it?" she asked quickly. "has thee the migraine, peggy?" "no, sally." peggy was thoughtful for a moment before she explained: "these people are so grateful because the company hath come. were there not great cause for fear they would not have so much appreciation. it looks as though they lived in dread of attack." "and i have been feeling so secure because the blockhouse was here," exclaimed sally. "hasn't thee?" "i did for a time, but i am not so sure that i do now," was peggy's response. "is not fairfax a fine fellow?" queried sally after a moment's silence. "i wonder if thee knows how often thee says that, sally?" peggy turned, and gazed searchingly into sally's face. "i don't say it any oftener than he deserves it, miss," retorted sally, brushing her hair composedly. "he is all that valor and modesty can make him. i heard friend pendleton say once that humility was the sweetest flower that grew in the human breast. fairfax thinks so little of himself; yet he is so brave, and modest, and kind; and his uncle declares that he fights like a tiger." "yes?" gasped peggy, regarding her friend with amazement. "he is all that. and what then, sally?" sally laughed. "i was just thinking, peggy mine, that some time--oh, years and years from now, after the war is over, thee knows--we girls might want to make some additions to the social select circle in the form of---well, partners for life," she ended, blushing adorably. "and was thee thinking of annexing fairfax?" cried peggy in a paroxysm of merriment. "oh, sally, sally! that i should live to hear thee say such things!" "i? oh, no! i was thinking of betty. thee knows that he would require some management, he is so bashful, and betty----" "i am not so sure, sally." peggy was laughing so that she could scarcely talk, but she continued mirthfully: "has thee not noticed that he is always equal to an emergency, and that he is cool and collected in danger? sally, sally! thee'd best give o'er such match-making plans." "well, i do think 'twould be monstrously nice," said sally. "so there!" "for sally?" teased peggy. "nonsense!" ejaculated sally, reddening. many things contributed to dispel whatever of misgiving peggy might have had. the people resumed their daily vocations, and while on every hand could be heard encomiums upon the ardor with which the young captain discharged his duties, the presence of the company seemed no longer to be regarded as a strict essential to safety. so the maiden's fears were lulled to rest, and she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the seaside life. the bay daily beheld the arrival and departure of privateers, which sometimes brought prizes with them. there were boats from the different mills, and teams always loading at the wharves with lumber, salt, oysters and fish for the interior. whenever there were prizes with the privateers, the town became a busy and lively place from the influx of visitors who were mostly business men from various parts of the state come to purchase captured vessels, or their cargoes. sometimes fairfax joined them in their walks along the bay, for this was the favorite with the girls, and they could not but comment upon his increased manliness of bearing. he had found his position no sinecure. there were many farmers along the river who, while undeniably patriotic, saw no reason why they should not take the hard money of the british in new york in exchange for supplies, and this contraband trade had to be kept in check. an unceasing watch was in consequence kept on the river and coasts to prevent such persons from running the blockade; the salt works had to be guarded, and a strict patrol maintained to report any advance of english or refugees. "thee is getting thin, friend fairfax," commented peggy one evening as the two maidens and the youth stood watching the boats on the bay. "thee takes thy duties too seriously. does he not, sally?" "indeed he does," agreed sally, her blue eyes scanning the young man's countenance with solicitude. "what hath gone amiss, friend? something is troubling thee." "there is activity on sandy hook that denotes action of some sort by the enemy," he answered gravely. "it hath been impossible so far to find just what the movement portends, but i fear that an attack of some kind is intended. would that ye were at home, though i know not how to get you there." "and does thee fear that this is the place to be attacked?" queried sally. "is it the salt works?" "yes," he replied. "that is one of the things that would invite assault. the works have always been a bone of contention between the two armies, and the british need of the article is pressing just at this time. were it not that the highway from freehold to trenton is infested by those miscreants of the pines, i should say go with one of the shore wagons to trenton. as it is there is naught for you to do but to stay here." "where there is a garrison for protection," spoke peggy with more lightness than she felt. "it is small," he said with hesitation. "small, and the fort unfinished. i fear me that 'twill not withstand attack, even though it should be defended with stubbornness. but i must not make you uneasy. there may be no ground for apprehension after all." so he spoke, and knew not that at that very moment some british and loyalists from sandy hook were landing at coates' point, a few miles to the north of tom's river. here their number was augmented by the addition of a band of refugees under the tory, davenport. a vidette dashed into the village with the news at midnight. almost instantly came the order: "every man to the blockhouse! the british and refugees are approaching!" chapter xv the attack on the blockhouse "last noon beheld them full of lusty life, last eve in beauty's circle, proudly gay, the midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, the morn the marshaling in arms,--the day, battle's magnificently-stern array!" --_byron._ the cry echoed and reã«choed through the streets of tom's river: "every man to the blockhouse! the british and refugees are approaching!" it seemed but an instant until the village was aroused. candles flashed in the windows, and lanthorns gleamed in the streets as the people prepared for the foe. every man and boy capable of bearing a musket hurried to the fort, while white-faced women snatched their little ones from their cots, and huddled together for mutual comfort and consolation. peggy and sally had awakened at the first alarm. often the former had been thankful for the quaker teaching which enabled her to retain her self-control. she felt doubly grateful for it now in the midst of a confusion that was terrifying. men shouted hoarsely as they ran through the town: sometimes repeating the orders of their captain, sometimes calling reassuringly to the women. the wailing and crying of the children, added to the screaming of the mothers, made a commotion that was frightful. the girls were pale, but they managed to retain composure. "is thee afraid, peggy?" whispered sally. "yes," admitted peggy squeezing her friend's hand. "i am, sally, but 'twill not help matters to give way to it." "ye are brave girls," commented mrs. ashley joining them. "let us go down-stairs. 'tis planned to have all of the women and children come here, as this is the largest house, and 'twill give comfort to be together. if some of us remain calm it will help to quiet the others. you can aid greatly in this." so the quakeresses went down among the assembled women, and, by assisting to quiet the children, helped mrs. ashley, nurse johnson, and others to bring a sort of order out of the tumult. an hour went by; then another, yet there was no sign of the enemy, and the tension relaxed among the waiting, frightened women. a few whispered that it was a false alarm, and smiled hopefully. some slept; others sat quietly by their slumbering children, or stood about the rooms in listening attitudes. all wore the tense expression of those who face a fearful danger. slowly the time passed, until another hour had gone by. all at once the sound of hurrying feet was heard without, and peggy and sally ran out on the verandah to find the meaning of it. it proved to be a scouting party sent down the river road by captain johnson to intercept the foe should it approach from that direction. "i feel better out here in the air; doesn't thee, sally?" asked peggy after the men had passed. "yes; let's stay for a while. there is naught more that can be done inside." for answer peggy slipped her arm about sally's waist, and the two sat down on the steps of the porch. the house was near the bay, and the restless lapping of the waves smote their ears with rhythmic dismalness. a brisk southwest wind was singing through the pines, but after the tumult engendered by the alarm, the stillness seemed abnormal. the streets were deserted now, and the only sign of life came from the dim lanthorns of the blockhouse. nothing was stirring save the waves, the wind, and the leaves of the forest. slowly the gray dawn crept into the sky, and still the maidens sat on the steps, silently waiting and watching. then, so suddenly that it drew an involuntary scream from both of them, a rifle went bang among the trees in the direction of the fort. another report rang out, followed almost instantly by twenty or more in a volley. in the imperfect light of the dawn a number of dark forms could be seen running toward the blockhouse. "'tis from the court house road," exclaimed sally rising quickly. "and oh, peggy! fairfax thought they would come the river way." "yes," said peggy with despair in her voice. there seemed to be a great many of the attacking party, and she recalled fairfax's misgivings concerning the fewness of the garrison. "and he hath sent part of his force to meet them there. i fear! i fear!" had peggy been aware of the full force of the attacking party she would have known that there were grounds for grave apprehension. this is what had happened: forty loyalists, under command of captain evan thomas, had embarked from new york on whaleboats manned by lieutenant blanchard, of the british navy, and eighty armed seamen. landing at coates' point, a place near the mouth of tom's river, they were there joined by a detachment of monmouth county refugees under richard davenport. securing a guide, the party had made a wide dã©tour through the woods, coming upon the blockhouse from the court house road instead of the river road, which was the logical one to use. the small force of the garrison was outnumbered several times over by their assailants, but of this fact both sides were ignorant for the time being. all these particulars peggy, of course, did not know. she only knew that the fort was being stormed; that the numbers of the enemy seemed multitudinous, and that the noise was deafening. by this time the women were up; either out on the verandah, or at the windows of the upper floors of the dwelling straining their eyes eagerly toward the blockhouse. firelocks and muskets were banging, and the surrounding woods swam in smoke. volley after volley swept the pines, then came the thundering report of the cannon. the smoke came driving toward the town into their faces, blinding and choking them. again and again the cannon flashed and thundered. again and again came the dense black pall of smoke. but so long as the fort stood the village was safe, and breathlessly the anxious women waited the issue, striving, when the smoke lifted, to catch glimpses of what was occurring. [illustration: a cry of anguish went up.] for a considerable time the report of musketry and the cannonading was incessant. the assault on the part of the enemy was furious, and was met by the defenders with great firmness and gallantry. suddenly the sound of the cannon ceased. the women gazed at each other in alarm. what did it mean? had the garrison repulsed the foe, or was the ammunition exhausted? for a little longer the volleys from the muskets continued unabated, then these became fewer, until presently only a few scattering reports sounded. soon the firing stopped altogether. the countenances of the women blanched. what was taking place behind those clouds of smoke? as if in answer to the question, the smoke cleared. through the whirling rifts they caught glimpses of the sky, the tree tops, and finally of the blockhouse itself. an awful cry arose from the women. the walls were partly down, and a terrific hand-to-hand struggle was taking place between friend and foe. there followed a few moments in which attackers and attacked were indistinguishable. then, high above the clash of pike and bayonet, sounded the terrible command: "no quarter! no quarter! no quarter!" a dreadful moment succeeded when the air resounded with the screams of wounded and dying men, the agony of the conquered. the blockhouse had fallen. a cry of anguish went up from the women. a cry so terrible, so heart-breaking in its bereavement that peggy and sally covered their ears to shut out the awfulness of its desolation. this was war in its most fearful aspect. war, civil war, that knows neither mercy nor compassion. war, the juggernaut that rides to victory on a highway of women's hearts, watered by women's tears. o liberty! thou art as the breath of life to man. without thee he were a base, ignoble thing! we cannot set thy metes and bounds, for thou art thine own eternal law. thou art the light by which man claims kinship with his maker. and yet, at what price art thou bought? at what price! at what price! the tragedy darkened. a tiny tongue of flame darted up from one corner of the doomed fort. at a little distance another showed luridly. presently the whole structure was a mass of flames. trussed like fowls, the prisoners were taken to the oyster boats on the river, and thrown in unceremoniously. the barges and scows not wanted by the conquerors were scuttled and sunk, or fired and burned to the water. then, with shouts of triumph, the yelling horde of british and refugees came toward the ill-fated village. as though paralyzed with fear the terrified women waited their approach. of what use to flee? all that made life dear was about them. that gone, what was left? and so they looked on in the numbness of despair while their houses were stripped and the torch applied. house after house burst into flame, and pitchy clouds of vapor obscured everything. suddenly the women were galvanized into action as the enemy approached the house near which they stood. it was the only one remaining. as though animated by one impulse they turned and fled into the forest. peggy found herself running with the others. in all her short life she had never been so possessed by blind, unreasoning terror as she was at that moment. when at length tree and sky, and objects resumed their normal relation, she found that she and sally were clinging to each other, and sobbing convulsively. and sally was saying something. peggy could not comprehend at first, but presently the words came to her clearly: "we must go back, peggy. we must go back." "why?" whispered peggy, her voice filled with the horror of the scenes she had witnessed. "because, because," sobbed sally, "there must be wounded. oh, the poor, poor fellows!" peggy made a violent effort to collect herself. "yes," she said. "thee is right, sally. we must go back." soon they regained a degree of composure, and then they turned back. when again they came into the village, or rather the place where the village had been, the enemy had gone, but the destruction was complete. not a dwelling stood, the salt works, the grist-mills, the lumber mills, even the little boats of the fishermen had been destroyed. of that busy, lively, little town not a vestige remained. shudderingly but with the resolution to be of service, if service should be necessary, the two girls made their way to the spot where the blockhouse had stood. as they drew near they saw the form of a woman moving among the bodies of the dead. she limped slightly, and they knew it was nurse johnson. "friend nurse! oh, friend nurse!" cried the girls running to her. "he is not here," said nurse johnson apathetically. "they carried away some prisoners; he must be among them." "then he can be exchanged," cried peggy, a gleam of joy irradiating her countenance. "oh, i'm glad, glad!" nurse johnson smiled wanly. "i shall know no peace until i find where he is," she said. "i am glad that you are safe. why came ye back from the woods? the british have just gone." "the wounded," cried the maidens together. "we must care for them." "only the dead lie here," she told them with terrible composure. "did ye not hear the order to spare none? there was no quarter given after the surrender. 'tis that which makes me fearful for my son." with that she sat down upon the bank of the river, and bowed her head upon her hands. one by one the women stole back from the forest. each went first to those still forms lying so quietly, searching for father, husband, son or brother among them; then silently sat down among the ashes, and bowed her head. the little children stifled the sobs that rose in their throats, awed by this voiceless grief, and crept softly to the sides of their mothers, hiding their faces against them. more than a hundred women and children were stripped of everything, and rendered homeless, widowed and orphaned by the attack. as though unable to bear the sight of such sorrow, the sun hid his face behind a cloud, and the forest lay in shadow. the waters of the bay sobbed in their ebb and flow upon the sands, and the wind that sighed through the pines echoed the wail of the grief-stricken women: "desolate! desolate! desolate!" chapter xvi "of what was he guilty?" "close his eyes; his work is done! what to him is friend or foeman, rise of moon, or set of sun, hand of man, or kiss of woman? "fold him in his country's stars, roll the drum and fire the volley! what to him are all our wars, what but death bemocking folly?" --_george h. boker._ there is no time when man so realizes his helplessness as in the presence of great affliction. so now peggy and sally, wishing to give comfort but at a loss how to do so, withdrew a short distance from the stricken ones, then they too sat down. the girls were in sore need of consolation themselves, for they were faint and weary after the trying ordeal through which they had passed. it was therefore no wonder that through utter exhaustion they fell into slumber; for youth and weariness will assert themselves against the tyranny of nerve-racking stress. a slumber that was of short duration. a drop of rain splashed suddenly upon peggy's hand causing her to start up in alarm. she looked about her quickly. the sky was covered by dark, lowering clouds which hung above them like a pall. the wind had veered to the east and a fiercer note had crept into its moaning. instead of the soft lapping of the tide there was an angry menace in the waves breaking turbulently upon the shore. a storm was coming, and they were without shelter. the girl ran to nurse johnson and touched her gently. "'tis going to rain," she cried, her clear young voice ringing out with startling suddenness. "does thee not think that we should try to get somewhere, friend nurse?" nurse johnson glanced at her dully, then at sight of the overcast sky she rose hurriedly. "you are right, peggy," she said. "'tis time for action now. we must give way to grief no longer. help me to rouse these women." a patter of rain which fell as she finished speaking, brought a realizing sense of the situation to the women, and bravely they rose to meet it. for one short hour they had indulged their sorrow. in the greatness of the calamity that had overwhelmed them there had seemed to come an end of everything. that freedom might live they had been bereft of all, but life with its responsibilities still remained, so resolutely they put aside their woe to take up again the burden of living. though loth to leave the bodies of the brave dead there was no alternative, so presently a sad procession wended its way into the court house road. as the forest was neared there issued from its confines a small body of armed men followed by several wagons. a cry of gladness burst from sally at sight of the leader. "'tis friend ashley," she cried. "does thee not see, peggy? 'tis friend ashley!" it was indeed thomas ashley. full of amazed incredulity, for they had believed him to be among the prisoners taken by the enemy, his wife, nurse johnson and the girls ran to greet him. "and charley, father?" cried mrs. ashley. "where is charley?" "with hannah's boy, in the hands of the british," he answered. "now, now, mother! don't give way. prisoners can be exchanged, so he is not lost to us. others did not fare so well." but underneath his assumed cheerfulness peggy detected anxiety. he did not linger talking, but bustled about helping the women into the wagons. the rain was falling heavily now, and there was need for haste. a small party of men was detached from the main body to go on into the village to bury the dead of both sides. the british had left their fallen ones to be cared for by the americans, and generously the duty was performed. at length all was in readiness, and the journey toward shelter was resumed. "and thou, friend? how did thee escape?" questioned peggy as thomas ashley rode up beside the wagon in which the family sat. "i was one of the scouting party that nevvy sent down the river road to intercept the enemy," he answered. "we were to take their fire while falling back on the blockhouse, but we did not see any signs of them. alarmed at this, we scoured the woods to find where they were, when suddenly we were set upon by a party of refugees. a lively skirmish ensued, but the enemy was in superior force, and soon had the victory. in the disorder and confusion following the surrender a few of us made our escape. meantime we heard the cannonading and knew that the blockhouse was attacked, but by the time we could make our way back to the village, the fort had fallen, and the british were burning the town. "there was no sign of the women and children, but as the foe put off down the river with the prisoners, a friend crawled out of the bushes to tell me that the women had fled to the forest. it seemed best under the circumstances to go for aid for them, so we scattered to get it. of course i am glad to be with you," he ended huskily, "but 'tis pity that it could not be either charley or nevvy." "they are young, friend, and perhaps can stand imprisonment better than thee could," consoled peggy. "and, as thee hath said, they can be exchanged, so after a short time all of us will be together again." "yes, father," spoke his wife. "peggy is right. it hath all happened for the best, i dare say. they might have been killed, and you also. so we won't grieve, but try to bear the lads' captivity as best we may. i do wish though that we could go home." "we are going to, mary; just as soon as i can find some one to take us there. there will be many to care for who have no place to go, and 'tis the right thing to make the charge as light as possible." "and we shall be as safe there as anywhere," she said eagerly. "i shall be glad to get home." peggy's glance met sally's, and her own wistfulness was reflected in sally's eyes. they too would like to be home out of this turbulence of warfare, but knowing that these friends would take them were it possible they gave no voice to their longings. as the journey proceeded parties of men swung into the road from all directions bound for the devastated town, bearing food, clothing, and medical necessities for the stricken inhabitants. the news of the attack had flown over the county like wild-fire, and the people rallied to the aid of the victims of this latest outrage, vying with each other in a generous contest as to the care of the villagers. it was found best to apportion a certain number to each party, and farmer ashley's family being in better condition than many of the others were among the last to find an abode. tarrying only long enough to rest and refresh themselves, for they were anxious to return to the farmhouse, they were soon on their way thither. "how glad we were to leave here," exclaimed sally when at length they drove into the familiar yard. "and now how good it seems to get back!" "yes," sighed nurse johnson. "would that we had never left the place. then the boys would not be in the hands of the british." "you never can tell, hannah," remarked the farmer. "had we stayed here there would have been another attempt to capture nevvy, and we might not have got off so well as we did before. it's about as broad as 'tis long. then too, nevvy had to obey orders from the council of safety, so he would have had to go to tom's river. edwards, i hear, is sentenced to be hanged; naturally the tories would have been after the boy hot-foot." after the total annihilation of the village of tom's river, the damage to the farmhouse seemed inconsiderable, and it was with a sense of rest that the girls entered the pleasant and homey kitchen. and now for a time there was peace from molestation of any sort, and the short period of repose brought healing to their bruised spirits. in some manner thomas ashley contrived to learn that fairfax had been carried to new york, and subsequently to sandy hook, where he was confined in the hold of a guard-ship. simultaneously with this information came the news that edwards, the refugee leader whom the young captain had captured, had been shot while attempting to escape, and the county exulted that at last it was rid of such a desperado. so the soft days of april passed until ten had elapsed since the return from tom's river. it seemed to peggy that never before had there been so beautiful a spring, and she spent much time among the sweet scented things of the garden. there came a morning when all the earth was kissed with scent, and all the air caressed by song. the two maidens were out under the blossoming trees, and their talk turned, as it frequently did, upon the absent fairfax. "'tis such a lovely day, but poor fairfax cannot enjoy it," uttered sally pensively. "how long doth it take for an exchange, peggy?" "i believe 'tis done in order of capture, sally. those who are taken first are first to be liberated. and rank also hath much to do with it. a captain would not be exchanged until a captain of equal rank could be given for him. as to militia officers i know not how 'tis managed. but whatever can be done, friend ashley will do. he hath influence with the principal men of the county, and will no doubt use it for fairfax's release. he is proud of his nephew. methinks he grieves over the lad's imprisonment as much as his mother does." "i think he does, peggy. then too, he hath the welfare of monmouth county so much at heart, and fairfax was especially vigilant in suppressing the incendiary acts of the tories and refugees, that he is missed. i hope he is well treated. 'tis dreadful to be confined in such weather!" "i like not to think of it," remarked peggy with a sigh. "i wish we had not teased him so; yet what sport it was to see him mantle." "there were times when i thought he liked it as well as we did, peggy. and he was beginning to hold his own with us. there was wit in the conceit of naming his horse after both of us." "i wonder what became of that horse," exclaimed peggy. "would that friend ashley had it! he hath need of it for his trips into freehold." "the enemy must have taken it. they destroyed everything that they did not take, and horses are valuable plunder. i saw naught of any animal after the town was burned." both maidens became silent at the mention of that dreadful time. neither willingly spoke of it, and any reference to the affair was casual. peggy stooped and picked a sprig of tender grass, and began to bite it meditatively. "friend ashley comes back early," she remarked glancing over the fence into the road. "methought he was not to return until nightfall." "why, that was the intention," answered sally. "i heard him tell his wife that 'twould be late ere he came back. i wonder why he did not stay?" she went to the fence and leaned upon it, gazing with some curiosity at thomas ashley's approaching form. "peggy," she called quickly, "something is wrong. does thee not see?" "he is ill," cried peggy as the farmer stopped suddenly in his onward way and leaned against a tree. "let us go to him, sally." there was no gate near where they were standing so the girls climbed to the top of the fence, then jumping lightly down on the other side, they ran hastily to farmer ashley. "is thee ill, friend?" queried peggy. "thee seems sick." "sick? ay! sick at heart, child." thomas ashley turned to them such a woebegone countenance that the maidens uttered cries of dismay. his face was lined and drawn, and into his kindly eyes had come an expression of care. he seemed no longer a robust, middle-aged man, but somehow old and feeble. "lean on me," cried peggy slipping her strong young arm about him. "sally and i will help thee into the house." "not yet," he said. "not yet. let me collect myself before i face hannah." "there is bad news of fairfax," cried sally. "what is it, friend?" "the worst," he answered brokenly. "the lad is no more." "what does thee mean, friend?" gasped peggy. "is he---no; thee can't mean that he is--dead?" her voice sank to a whisper as she uttered the word. thomas ashley let his face fall into his hands with a groan. "peggy! sally! where are you?" clearly, nurse johnson's voice came to them. a moment later she herself came down the road. "are you in hiding that you do not answer?" she asked. as there was no response from any of them she glanced from one to the other anxiously. "something hath happened," she said. "what is it, tom?" but the farmer cowered before her. "how shall i tell you, hannah?" he cried piteously. "how shall i tell you?" "it is about my son," she said quickly. "tell me instantly." as thomas ashley continued unable to speak she added with passion: "don't keep me waiting. am i not his mother? who hath a better right to know if aught hath befallen him?" "no one," he answered her. "no one, hannah. i would rather die than tell you, yet i must. hannah! hannah!" sobs burst from him that racked his body. "they hanged him this morning." a cry of horror broke from sally and peggy, but nurse johnson stood as though turned to stone. "hanged?" she said. "my boy! what are you saying, tom ashley?" "the truth," he cried with bitter grief. "the truth, god help us, hannah. the loyalists took him from prison, and brought him to gravelly point, where they hanged him this morning. 'twas because of edwards, they said. an express brought the news into freehold. that boy, that noble, gallant boy hath been hanged like a criminal!" "but of what was he guilty? what crime did he commit?" her calm was terrible to see, and peggy involuntarily took a step toward her, but sally stayed her quickly. "of what was he guilty, hannah? why, of repelling the invader. of trying to stay the ravages of the enemy. he committed the crime of which washington, and jefferson, and franklin, and john adams are guilty: the crime of patriotism." "but he was a prisoner? a prisoner taken in open warfare. how could such an one be hanged?" "by all the code of civilized warfare he could not," broke from the farmer passionately. "they have done it in defiance of the code. but there shall be retaliation, hannah. eye for eye," he cried lifting his clenched hands and shaking them fiercely above his head. "tooth for tooth, life for life. there shall be retaliation." a sudden, wild cry burst from her: "will that give me back my son? oh, my boy! my boy!" and she broke into a passion of weeping. the farmer motioned the girls away when they would have gone to her. "let her weep," he said, controlling his own emotion with difficulty. "'tis nature's way toward helping her to bear it. come! leave her for a time." so the maidens crept to their own little room to give vent to the sorrow that filled them. the shy fellow had endeared himself to them, and his untimely end affected them deeply. the days that followed were sorrowful ones. nurse johnson was completely prostrated, and mrs. ashley added to her woe a great anxiety for her own son. it fell to the lot of peggy and sally to look after the household affairs, and they were thankful for the occupation. the last sad rites were performed at freehold. wrapped in his country's flag, fairfax johnson was buried with all the honors of war. but with the firing of the last volley the indignation of monmouth county blazed forth. a single deed of violence and cruelty affects the nerves more than when these are exercised upon a more extended scale, and this act was peculiarly atrocious. the cry of thomas ashley sounded upon every lip: retaliation! the cry grew as all the details of the inhuman murder became known. the young man had been charged with being privy to the killing of edwards, even though he pointed out to his captors that the refugee's death had occurred after his capture. the opportunity to rid themselves of so active an adversary, however, was not one to be neglected; so, without listening to a defense, or even going through the form of a trial, he was hurried to gravelly point by a band of sixteen loyalists under captain lippencott, a former jerseyman and an officer in a refugee regiment, the king's rangers, and there hanged. it was said that he met death with great firmness and composure. upon his breast was affixed the label: "up goes johnson for frank edwards." the country, a little later england and the entire civilized world, stood aghast at the atrocity of the incident. a prisoner taken in open warfare hanged! such a thing was unheard of. such execution should be dealt a spy, an informer, a deserter. but a prisoner of war---even barbarians deal not so with an honorable foe. it was therefore no wonder that the cry of monmouth county reached into every part of new jersey, growing deeper and fiercer. retaliation! it passed on, and spread into every state. everywhere the cry was taken up by the press and the people: retaliation! what had happened to a prisoner from new jersey might very well happen to a prisoner from any state. the matter must be stopped before it proceeded any further. the grievance of one was the grievance of all. the issue was no longer local, but national. the cry rose and swelled into a volume. as with one voice the entire people of the new nation demanded retaliation. and the cry was heard in the halls of congress. and it was heard on the banks of the hudson by washington. heard and answered. a stern demand went to sir henry clinton for lippencott, the leader under whose command the dastardly deed had been committed. for lippencott, else the act should be retaliated upon by the death of one of the british prisoners of war. chapter xvii a glimpse of home "and as the shell upon the mountain height sings of the sea, so do i ever, leagues and leagues away, so do i ever, wandering where i may, sing, o my home! sing, o my home, of thee." --_eugene field._ "peggy, does thee know that fifth month is upon us, and that we have been here nearly two months?" sally turned from the open window by which she was standing, and looked at peggy with eyes full of longing. "shall we ever go home, i wonder!" "i hope so, sally." peggy was making the bed in their little room, and she smoothed the wrinkles out of the coverlid as she continued: "friend ashley hath no horses, and he hath been busy, as thee knows. i make no doubt but that a way will soon be opened for us. i think both he and friend nurse would be glad to find one for us." "so long as we could be of use i did not mind it so much," went on sally. "but matters are beginning to move in their accustomed groove, and i cannot but wherrit anent what thy mother and mine are thinking." "yes, i know. i hardly dare think of it, but i am hoping as i said, sally, that a way will soon be opened. thee must not dwell too much upon it, but be as brave as thee can be." "friend nurse hath another visitor," announced sally, turning again to the window. "this seems to be some one of great importance, for he hath a fine coach. i wonder who it is?" peggy came to sally's side, and leaned out of the window. "that is governor livingston," she cried. "does thee not remember i told thee how the enemy tried to capture him when i was at middlebrook? i knew him quite well there. he and father are friends." "friend nurse would wish thee to see him if she knew that, peggy. does thee not think thee should go down?" "i'll wait a little," said peggy. "no doubt he wishes to see her about something concerning fairfax, and therefore he would rather speak alone with her. thee knows that sir henry clinton refused to give up the leader, lippencott, but ordered a court-martial. 'tis reported that his excellency just waits the finding of the investigation before he acts." it was two weeks after the burial of fairfax, and the farmhouse had become a veritable mecca to travelers. from all over the state they came to learn the full particulars of the affair, and to offer sympathy to the bereaved mother. the storm of protest which the lad's death raised had so startled the british general that the honorable board of associated loyalists had been dissolved, and there were no more incursions into new jersey from that source. even the pine robbers, as though appalled by the deed, ceased their depredations for the time being, and the highways were comparatively safe. as visitors reported this improved condition of things, peggy and sally grew anxious to take advantage of it to return home, but no good opportunity had as yet presented itself. "peggy," called nurse johnson a half hour later, "come down-stairs a moment. there is some one here who knows you. bring sally too." peggy sprang up quickly. "come, sally," she cried. "i have a feeling that----" "so have i," exclaimed sally breathlessly. "let's run, peggy." "bless my soul, miss peggy," ejaculated the doughty governor, as the girls entered the kitchen. "who would have thought to find you here? and this is your friend, miss sally, eh?" "i am glad to see thee, sir," said peggy warmly. "and how are thy wife and daughters?" "well, i thank you. they are with me at trenton. by the way, mistress johnson here hath been telling me what a time you've had trying to get home. knowing what a care girls can be, i have three of my own, you remember, i have consented to take you off her hands." "nay," protested nurse johnson, "they have been no care, sir. i really do not know what we should have done without them during the past few weeks. 'tis only that we do not know when strife will break out again, and i shall be uneasy while they are here. i do not wish their mothers to mourn as i am doing." "well, have it your own way, madam," he answered. "if the young ladies do not mind an old man for a cavalier i shall be pleased to take them with me to trenton. the journey to philadelphia can be easily arranged from that place." "we are glad to accept, friend livingston," spoke peggy gratefully while sally was so delighted that she could only look her thanks. "and when does thee wish to start?" "i must get to trenton to-day, miss peggy. it will mean a long, hard ride, and i hope you can be ready, say in an hour, though the time might be stretched a little, if it were absolutely necessary." "an hour will be more than sufficient, sir," she replied. "we will surprise thee by being ready before that." "i know that you are able to do many things, miss peggy," he said smiling, "but if you and your friend are able to get ready for a journey in that length of time you will give me a new estimate of girlhood." "we will show thee," she cried eagerly as they left the room. but their very anxiety threatened to defeat their purpose. had not both nurse johnson and mrs. ashley helped them the governor must have had the best of it. as it was they were ready a quarter of an hour before the time set. then came the farewells. in spite of their desire to go the maidens found it very hard to say good-bye. there is a bond between those who have endured much together, and the girls had become almost a part of the family. both nurse johnson and mrs. ashley could not control their tears, and farmer ashley wrung their hands again and again. the maidens' own eyes were soft with weeping, and they silently took their places in the coach. nurse johnson had told governor livingston the trials which the girls had undergone, so now as the coach rolled away, he spoke cheerily: "when my girls start on a journey i give them three mile-stones to get over weeping. susannah usually sniffs for two more before she begins to laugh. i am wondering how many will do for you girls?" "we are going to cheer up right now, aren't we, peggy?" spoke sally wiping her eyes. "we are indeed," answered peggy resolutely. "now that's sensible," he commended warmly. "see that orchard over there. how beautiful it is! so full of bloom. there is nothing to my mind prettier than blossoming trees. indeed, i am fond of trees of all kinds." and so he talked, kindly directing their attention to anything of interest by the wayside, until soon both girls were chatting with more animation than they had known for weeks. they reached trenton that evening, and stayed with the governor's family that night. a stage-coach and wagon ran between princeton and philadelphia by way of trenton and bristol three times a week. it happened that the next morning was one for the tri-weekly trip, and the girls insisted upon taking the coach. it would mean another day of hard riding, but they were anxious to get home. "and we will have all the rest of our lives to rest up in," declared sally. "for i don't believe that anything will ever tempt me to leave philadelphia again. peggy, did thee feel like this when coming back from thy other flittings?" "yes, sally. it hath always proved hard to get back because of the enemy. i think it always will until we have peace. i don't want to leave home again either." "if ever we get there," said sally looking fearfully out of the coach window. "peggy, when the governor's family insisted that it would make too hard a journey to take the stage to-day, i just felt that if we didn't come something would happen to the coach so that we couldn't." "i am glad we didn't wait, though it does seem as though the stage goes very slowly. it fairly crawls." sally laughed. "i dare say any vehicle would seem to crawl to us, peggy. but we are going home, home. oh, i could just shout, i am so glad." it was late that evening when the stage drew up before the indian queen in fourth street. leaving their portmanteaus to be called for, the girls fairly ran down the street, turning presently into chestnut street. "is thee afraid, sally?" asked peggy pausing before her home. "if thee is, mother and i will see thee home." "afraid in philadelphia?" cried sally. "why, there are neither raiders nor pine robbers here. no; go right in, peggy. i'm going on to mother. i will see thee to-morrow." she was off as she spoke, and peggy mounted the steps, and sounded the knocker. her mother gave a faint cry as she opened the door. "my daughter!" she cried. "oh, peggy, peggy! i have feared for thee." and peggy crept into her arms, feeling that no harm could come to her in such loving shelter. it was long before she was calm enough to tell all that had happened, but at length sitting by her mother's side with her head on her lap, she related what had occurred. "the poor boy!" sighed mrs. owen. "it is too dreadful to think about it. and his mother! i read of it, peggy, in the paper. thee can imagine my feelings knowing that thou wert in the midst of such occurrences. and sally's mother hath been well-nigh crazed. ah, my daughter! i am thankful to hold thee in my arms again, but my heart bleeds for that other mother who will nevermore clasp her son." "and he was such a dear fellow," said peggy brokenly. "and so brave! thee should have seen how he fought the pine robbers. in just the short time that he was in monmouth county he had made a reputation. and he was as modest as he was brave, mother." mrs. owen stooped suddenly so that she could look into her daughter's eyes. "was thee very fond of him, peggy?" she asked softly. "so fond, mother." peggy met her mother's look frankly. "sally and i both were. thee would have been too had thee been with him long." the anxious gleam which had shone for a second in mrs. owen's eyes faded at peggy's answer, and she said quietly: "i liked him very much as it was, my daughter. the matter hath created quite a stir in the city. nothing but retaliation is talked of. report hath it that general washington expects a speedy adjustment of the matter when the new british commander comes. they expect him in a few days. it is a sad affair. but oh, peggy! i am glad thee is home!" "and i never want to leave philadelphia again," cried peggy. "it seems so hard to get back when i do go away. no; i never want to leave it again." "that is unfortunate, peggy." her mother stroked her hair gently. "david hath writ that he is to be stationed at lancaster all summer, and that, as 'twas possible to get a comfortable house there, he would like for us to come to him. we might then all be together once more. but thy experiences have been most trying, my daughter. father would understand if thee feels that thee would rather stay here." "why, mother, if i am with thee and father i won't mind," spoke peggy quickly. "of course i love philadelphia, for it is my own city. no other place seems quite like it to me; but, after all, home is where our loved ones are. if i can be with thee and father, i will not mind where i am." mrs. owen kissed her fondly. "i am glad that thou hast so decided, peggy. it would have been a great disappointment to david had it been thought best not to come. his visits home have been infrequent, and we have not been together much since the winter at middlebrook." "and when do we go, mother?" "in about a week. robert dale hath some business with general washington, and is at newburgh now. he will act as our escort on his way back to lancaster." "is robert to be there all summer?" "i believe so. he thinks we shall like lancaster. the congress met there while the british held this city, thee remembers?" "yes, mother. oh, 'tis so good to be with thee!" peggy laid her head down in her mother's lap with a sigh of content. "i don't believe that any other girl ever had so dear a mother as thou art." mrs. owen laughed softly. "i wonder what sally is thinking," she said. chapter xviii herod out heroded "but what is life? 'tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air, from time to time, or gaze upon the sun; 'tis to be free. when liberty is gone, life grows insipid and has lost its relish." --_addison's "cato."_ "is thee nearly ready, peggy? robert should be here soon with the wagons." "yes, mother." peggy ran to the head of the broad staircase to answer mrs. owen's call. "there are but few more things to pack. sally is helping me." "that is well, my daughter. only----" "only let our fingers work while our tongues fly?" completed the girl merrily. "we will, mother dear. does thee hear, sally?" "i hear," laughed sally as peggy reã«ntered the chamber. "i think thee is the one to heed, miss. i am as busy as can be." she worked industriously on the portmanteau for a few moments, and then looked up to say, "i am glad that thee is going to ride star, peggy." "so am i," answered peggy as she donned her riding habit. "father wrote that there are some excellent roads about lancaster, and that, as he had a good mount, we might have some fine rides together. it will be quite like old times. i wish thee was going, sally." "well," hesitated sally, "i would like to be with thee, peggy, but i should not like to leave mother again. i am glad to be home, and quite content to stay here for a time. but i shall miss thee, peggy. particularly as betty is to leave so soon." "betty to leave? why, where is she going? i had not heard. she was here yesterday, and she said not a word anent going away." peggy paused in her dressing, and regarded sally inquiringly. "she told me to tell thee, because she could not bear to," replied sally, her tears beginning to fall. "oh, peggy, our social select circle will soon be no more. betty is going to marry her frenchman, and go to france. she said that she would write thee all the particulars." "oh, sally, sally! how we shall miss her! why, how can we get along without her?" "we can't." sally closed the portmanteau with a vicious snap. "i never did care much for the french alliance, and i think less of it than ever now." "sally, thee won't do anything of the kind, will thee?" asked peggy tearfully. "i could not bear for thee to go away." "i? oh, i shall never leave philadelphia, peggy. i shall always stay right here, and be a nurse." "dear me! there's mother calling again," cried peggy in dismay. "we have been talking in very truth instead of working. there is so much that i should like to hear about betty. i think she might have told me. what a belle she hath become, and how pretty she is! so all thy plans for her and fairfax would have gone awry, had the poor fellow lived!" "peggy, does thee think that he really cared for her?" peggy's brows contracted into a thoughtful look. "i don't know," she responded. "he was of a truth much interested when he saw her. she was very sweet that day. it was when clifford was here, thee remembers?" "i remember, peggy. if thee sees thy cousin will thee tell him all about how i came to show sheriff will the closet?" "yes, sally. i will." "and if thee gets into trouble, and can't get home, if thee will let me know i'll come for thee," said sally impressively. peggy laughed. "there won't be any trouble about it this time, sally. father and mother are with me, and they will arrange everything." "thy mother is calling again, peggy. we will have to go down. be sure to write, and i will keep a journal for thee of betty's doings. she is to have so many things from france. would thee were to be here!" "i should like to be," answered peggy opening the door. "we are coming at last, mother." quite a caravan awaited peggy's coming. there were a number of wagons, some containing continental stores for the military at lancaster; others filled with private property belonging to citizens, and still others which contained household articles which mrs. owen was taking for her use. all were under a strong guard. a roomy and comfortable calash had been provided for the lady, in which peggy was to ride also when she should become tired of the saddle. robert dale, with the reins of his own horse thrown over his arm, stood waiting by star's side to help peggy mount. "we were thinking that we should have to become brigands and carry you off, peggy," he remarked as the girls joined them. "thee will not wonder that i was delayed when i tell thee the news, robert," answered peggy as, with the youth's assistance, she vaulted lightly into the saddle. "oh, sally, i do wish thee was going!" "and so do i, sally," spoke robert. "i should like to be with both of you, but i am glad to be in philadelphia for a time," replied sally. "tell him about betty, peggy." they were off at length, going by way of high street across the middle ferry into the great lancaster road. the distance was something more than sixty-five miles, and it was the intention to make it by brief stages. the road had formerly been known as the king's highway, and was famed for the number of its taverns, which were jestingly said to be as many as its mile-stones. there was, therefore, no difficulty in making each day's journey as long or short as might be desired. peggy felt her spirits rise under the influence of the sunshine, the refreshing fragrance of the morning air, and the ride among scenes of romance and beauty. it was a country of rolling hills and gently sloping vales through which they passed, with occasional rocky dells and low cascades. a country of orchards, meadows, and woodlands; a country of flowing water, salubrious, fertile and wealthy; dotted with a few villages and many fine farms. the road ran incessantly up and down hill through dense woods of oak, hickory, and chestnut. the face of the country seemed like a great rolling sea, and it was no wonder that the girl's heart grew light as the ride unfolded the pleasing and picturesque landscape to view. on the afternoon of the third day peggy and robert cantered ahead of the party for a short dash, but the road becoming hilly and steep they were obliged to slow their horses down to a walk. the road ascended the north mountain here rising by three ridges, each steeper than the former. below them lay the valley, enclosed on the left by the valley mountain with all its garland of woods; and by the welsh mountains on the right. hills and rocks, waving with the forests of oak and chestnut, bordered the road and, as their leaves rustled to the wind and twinkled in the sun, gave to the depth of solitude a sort of life and vivacity. peggy had been telling robert dale about the attack on tom's river, and all the sad details of fairfax's death. following the narrative a silence had fallen between them which was broken abruptly by peggy. "look yonder, robert! something hath befallen a wagon, and there seems to be no one near it. to thy right. does thee not see?" major dale uttered an exclamation as his glance followed peggy's index finger. "you are right, peggy," he cried. "something is amiss there. the wheel hath been broken, and the wagon abandoned, yet 'tis full of merchandise. this must be looked into." he gave spur to his horse, and dashed forward followed closely by peggy. a wagon, one of the conestoga sort, was drawn to one side of the road, and left under a tree. one of the wheels was broken, but there was no sign of horse or driver to be seen, though in truth the vehicle was filled with goods. "well, this is a strange proceeding," mused the young man. "here we must needs have an armed guard for the safe arrival of our goods, yet this wagon stands on the broad highway unmolested. i'll take a look at these goods. it may be----" "good-morrow, friends," spoke a soft voice, and from behind some bushes a feminine form arose, whether maid or matron could not be determined at once, so voluminous were her wrappings. her whole exterior, as well as her speech, showed that she belonged to the society of friends. a long cloak of dark-gray superfine cloth enveloped her form completely. a small bonnet of gray taffeta silk was tied primly with a demure bow under her chin. it left not a wisp of hair visible. a riding mask covered her face so that only a finely turned chin was to be seen. so suddenly did she appear that both robert and peggy were guilty of staring. the youth was the first to recover himself. "i cry you pardon, mistress," he said springing from the saddle, and approaching the newcomer. "if this be your wagon, you are in trouble. are you all alone?" "and if i am, friend, what is it to thee?" the words as well as the manner of the questioner caused the young man to flush, but he answered promptly: "a great deal. you are in trouble, and alone upon the highway. i repeat, 'tis a great deal to me, as it would be to any man to find a woman so situated." "thee must give me thy pardon, friend. methought the query was prompted by idle curiosity. by a great oversight my driver forgot to put his box of tools in the wagon, so that when the accident occurred he was obliged to ride on to the next tavern for help. i doubt not but that he will return soon." "but the distance to the next tavern is six miles. it was unwise to leave you here alone upon the road. do you not know that these highways are not safe?" "i have seen no one; nor hath any spoke with me before this. i fear naught." "but it should not be," he said with decision. "peggy, do you think that your mother----" "mother would be pleased to offer the friend a seat in the calash, robert." peggy unfastened her riding mask as she spoke, and turned toward the quakeress warmly. "i am margaret owen," she said. "and this is major dale, of the army. my mother is just beyond yon bend of the road in her coach. she will be charmed to have thy company to the next inn, and farther if thee wishes." "and i am truelove davis," returned the other, acknowledging the introductions with the briefest of bows. she did not remove her mask, peggy noted with surprise, but she was conscious that the girl was regarding her intently. "perchance," continued the newcomer, "perchance it would not be agreeable to thy mother to do this charity." "nay, it is thou, friend, that dost lack charity, to suppose any one unwilling to do so simple a kindness." peggy's voice reflected her pained amazement. friends usually accepted such favors with the same simplicity of spirit in which they were offered. "nay, i meant no offense, margaret, i think thee called thyself so. i make no doubt but that thy mother is most gracious." "indeed she is," said robert dale warmly. "i will ride back and explain the matter to her. the wagons should be hurried up a bit, also. i will see to the mending of this wheel, mistress, and send the wagon along with ours. it is most unwise to leave it here with its contents unprotected. will you come, peggy?" "nay, let the damsel abide with me until thy return," spoke truelove davis quickly. robert glanced at peggy questioningly. "i will stay, robert, if the friend wishes it," said peggy. he saluted and remounting his horse sped back down the road. the quakeress turned toward peggy mildly. "did not the son of belial call thee peggy?" she asked. peggy felt the slight irritation that had assailed her but a moment since return at this remark, so she answered with dignity: "major dale so called me. all my friends speak of me as peggy." "'tis pity to spoil so fine a name as margaret by substituting peggy for it. i much mislike the practice." "i do not," responded peggy briefly. "i fear thee is frivolous, margaret," chided the other serenely. all in a moment peggy was amused. she reflected that this friend must come from one of the country districts where observances as to demeanor and dress were much stricter than in the cities. she was, no doubt, conducting herself according to the light that was in her, and with this view of the situation peggy's ruffled feelings were soothed. "i fear so too, truelove," she said laughingly. "quite frivolous. now thine own name: did none ever term thee true, or love? either would be sweet." "thee must not utter such things," reproved the other in a shocked voice. "'tis indelicate for maidens to even speak the word love. where is thee going?" "to lancaster, to be with my father, who is stationed there." "stationed there? is not thy father of the sect of friends? thou art using the speech." "yes; but he is in the patriot army, truelove." "defying those who are set to rule over us? hath he not been taught to bear meekly that which providence hath called us to suffer? where did he learn of fox to retort violence for violence, or that shedding of blood was justifiable? and does thee hold with these misguided whigs, margaret?" "i do," answered peggy shortly. she had dismounted, and was letting her pony graze while she awaited robert's return. a slight regret that she had offered to let this quakeress be her mother's companion assailed her. [illustration: "where is thee going?"] "and was thee not punished for it?" truelove davis was regarding her with a curious steadiness of gaze that peggy found extremely irksome. if she would but remove that riding mask, she thought, she could talk to her better. "did the friends bear in silence that thee and thine should depart from their peaceful practices?" "they read us out of meeting," replied peggy controlling herself with difficulty. "father, nor any of us, did not embrace the cause of liberty without due thought. it did seem to us that life was not of worth unless it were accompanied by freedom. to be free to worship god in our own fashion was the reason that the great founder built our city on the delaware. england would have taken religious freedom from us also had not her oppression with regard to political rights been checked. it was not without the guidance of the inward light that we arrayed ourselves with liberty, truelove." "sometimes what one thinks is the leading of the inward light is but the old adam that is within us tempting to strife," remarked truelove provokingly. "i greatly fear 'tis so in thy case, margaret. 'tis easily seen that thou art of a froward and perverse nature. come! sit by me, margaret, while i read thy duty to thee. thou art in need of a lesson." "not from thee." peggy's eyes were sparkling now, and she spoke with some heat. "who art thou that 'tis thy duty to read me a lesson? thou art a stranger, met but a moment since. i listen to no lesson from thee, truelove davis." "and there spoke the owen temper," came from the other severely. peggy turned toward her quickly. "what know thee of the owen temper?" she asked in amazement. "everything, margaret. how hot and unruly it is. i well know how it doth refuse advice, howsoever well meant. thee should be sweet and amiable, like me." "like thee?" puzzled, perplexed, and withal indignant, peggy could not help retorting. "will thee pardon me, truelove, if i say that thy amiability lacks somewhat of sweetness?" "nay; i will not pardon thee. lack somewhat of sweetness indeed, mistress margaret owen! does thee think thee has all the sweetness in the family? obstinate, perverse peggy!" with a cry peggy sprang toward her. "thy face!" she cried. "let me see thy face. 'tis harriet's voice, but harriet----" "is before you." the girl unclasped the mask and revealed the laughing, beautiful face of harriet owen. "oh, peggy! peggy! for a quakeress you did not show much meekness. so you would not take a lesson from a stranger, eh? you should have seen your face when i proposed it." "but how did thee come here, harriet? and why did thee assume this dress?" "come sit down, and i'll tell you all about it," said harriet, giving her cousin a squeeze. "don't be afraid, peggy. i promise not to teach any lesson. i should not dare to. but oh!" she laughed gleefully. "i shall never forget how you looked. you'll be the death of me yet, little cousin." chapter xix the turn of the wheel "from every valley and hill there come the clamoring voices of fife and drum; and out in the fresh, cool morning air the soldiers are swarming everywhere." --_"reveille," michael o'connor._ "but first, harriet, do take off that bonnet, and let me see thee as thou art really; with thy hair about thy face. so." peggy reached over and untied the bow as she spoke, then removed the prim little bonnet from her cousin's head. "how beautiful thee is," she commented gazing at the maiden with admiring eyes. "i think thee grows more so every time i see thee. that bonnet doth not become thee." harriet shook back her chestnut ringlets, and laughed gaily. her wonderful eyes, dancing with mirth, were starry in their radiance. "one would think that i did not make a good quakeress, peggy, to hear you talk. now confess," pinching peggy's cheek playfully, "you did not dream that i was aught other than truelove davis; did you?" "n-no; and yet thee puzzled me," said peggy. "oh, harriet, thee should turn play actress." "well, there are times when i think of it, cousin mine. 'tis rare sport to make others believe that i am that which i am not." "but why did thee do it, harriet? and to be here alone on the highway!" "i wanted to see clifford, peggy. neither father nor i had heard aught from him since the misfortune at yorktown, save that he was at lancaster. we knew not whether he was ill or in health, or whether he was meeting with kindness or not. as your congress permits supplies to be sent to the captured british it occurred to me that i might come along with them and find out about my brother. of course, as the most honorable council of pennsylvania had banished me from the state, i dared not come openly, so i slipped in by the back door, as it were. "father would not hear of my coming at first. then i dressed up in this garb, and went in to where he sat talking with the new commander, sir guy carleton, who hath come to take sir henry clinton's place, and neither one of them knew me. sir guy declared that there would be no danger, as a quakeress would meet with respectful treatment anywhere. he gave me a pass which would further insure my well being, and so, when a boat load of stores was shipped to head of elk the first of this week, i came with it. everything hath gone off well until this breakdown, and i do not regret that, since it hath brought us together. so you see, peggy, the matter is very simple after all." "yes," said peggy. "harriet, thy brother was at our house in third month." "he was?" exclaimed harriet. "tell me about it, peggy." and peggy told her all that had happened on that memorable first of march, with its consequences. "so the council hauled you and sally up before it, did it?" cried harriet. "oh, dear, peggy! you are always getting into trouble over us, aren't you? and sally, and robert, and fairfax, all helped you in the affair. that makes me feel sorry about fairfax johnson. do you know, peggy, that matter hath created quite a stir in new york? there were many who wanted sir henry to turn over captain lippencott to the rebel general, but the court-martial found that he was acting under verbal orders from the honorable board of associated loyalists, and so should not be punished for obedience. sir guy is not altogether satisfied with the finding." "it was very sad, harriet," said peggy, the tears coming to her eyes. "fairfax was only doing his duty in defending the state from invasion, and 'twas most inhuman to execute him in such a lawless manner. our people are not satisfied to let the matter rest, because 'twas a crime committed in open defiance of the laws of war." "oh, well," spoke harriet lightly. "don't let's talk about it, peggy. i dare say sir guy carleton and your general washington will arrive at some understanding regarding the affair. is that your mother's coach coming?" "yes. she will be glad to see thee, harriet. she is fond of thee. and robert dale is beside her. thee will like him, harriet. indeed, i know not how one could help it." "indeed, my cousin?" harriet's brows went up quizzically. "i thought you were all for captain drayton? i rather prefer this major dale myself. he hath more manners than john drayton ever had." peggy's face flushed, but she observed quietly: "they are both dear lads, harriet. thee will see john also at lancaster. father said that he had been sent there." "then it will be quite like old times, peggy. at middlebrook there were john drayton and your father to take us about. if we have robert dale, in addition to clifford, we should have a gay time." "perhaps," was peggy's answer. a look of intense amazement appeared upon robert dale's face as he rode up. he had left a demure quakeress with peggy, and returned to find this beautiful, radiant girl. both girls laughed at his bewildered expression. "'tis my cousin harriet owen, robert," explained peggy. "she hath assumed this dress that she might go through to lancaster with safety to see her brother, clifford." "but--but truelove davis?" the youth was plainly nonplused. "he wants truelove, peggy," cried harriet her eyes dancing with mischief. "where is that bonnet?" she caught it up as she spoke, tying it again under her chin. "does that please thee better, friend youth?" she asked turning toward the young man roguishly. "would that i were a limner to paint you," burst from the young fellow impulsively. harriet smiled charmingly as she swept him an elaborate courtesy. "in that thee does not agree with my cousin, friend. she doth not consider the bonnet becoming. in truth, i fear me that i did give her rather a bad quarter of an hour when i wore it." "harriet?" exclaimed mrs. owen looking out of the calash which by this time had come up to where they were. "why, child, how came thee here? robert thought----" "yes, i know," cried harriet. "i know what robert thought, but 'tis as you see, madam my cousin. if i may ride with you i will explain all." into her voice there crept the supplicating quaver that peggy remembered so well. her mother responded instantly to the plea. "why, harriet, thou art doubly welcome. once for the stranger whom we thought thee, and again for thyself. get right in with me, child, and tell me all that hath befallen thee. why, 'tis long since i have seen thee." "how beautiful she is," spoke robert dale as he and peggy rode on after harriet had climbed into the coach beside mrs. owen. "how beautiful she is!" "is she not?" asked peggy eagerly. "methinks she grows more so every time i see her. does thee not think so too, robert?" "i do not know, peggy. this is the first time i have ever seen her. when you were at middlebrook i was with general arnold in philadelphia. when you were in philadelphia i was with the army, and so you see, peggy, this is my first glimpse of your cousin." "why, so it is, robert. no wonder thee thinks her beautiful when 'tis the first time thee has seen her. every one does. are not her eyes dazzling?" "they are, peggy. now tell me why she appeared in this garb here." "it was to see how clifford fared," answered peggy. "she hath not heard from him since yorktown, and she wished to see for herself how he was." and forthwith she related all that harriet had told her of the matter. "that is very brave, peggy," he declared with admiration. "brave and daring! what love she must bear him to risk so much to see him! i should like to know her better." "thee shall, robert," she cried, warmly pleased with this whole-hearted commendation of her beautiful cousin. "harriet rides well, and she shall ride with thee part of the way." and so with harriet alternating with peggy in riding star the rest of the journey was passed. they came into lancaster the next day, the tall spire of the court-house with the two faces of its clock being the first thing to be spied. the town swarmed with soldiers. it seemed to peggy that there was one on every corner. in truth lancaster was in fair way toward being a military camp. the americans found much difficulty in disposing of their prisoners. they had no military posts regularly fitted for the purpose, and could suggest no better means for securing them than to place them under guard in a thickly settled part of the country, where the inhabitants were most decidedly hostile to the english. so reading, carlisle, and lancaster were chosen in pennsylvania, together with other points in virginia and maryland remote from the coast. in addition to the prisoners from the surrender of saratoga, who had been hurried into lancaster at the first invasion of virginia, many prisoners of lord cornwallis's army were confined there. this required a large number of american soldiers for guards, and it was no wonder that the town seemed overrun with troops. the streets of lancaster were regular, and paved with brick like those of philadelphia. it was the most important of the interior cities, and was noted for the manufacture of guns, stage-coaches, stockings, and the peculiar vehicles known as conestoga wagons. peggy, who was on star when they entered the town, was gazing about with the interested pleasure that a new place always excites, when she gave an exclamation of joy. they were passing the black bear tavern at the time, and at the entrance of the inn stood a well-known form. "john!" she called. "john drayton!" captain drayton turned at the call, and an expression of delight swept over his face at sight of the girl. with the jaunty gesture she knew so well he took off his cocked beaver, and came to them quickly. "peggy," he cried, his gladness at seeing her plain to be seen. "you are come at last. your father told me that you were coming, and i have watched every day for a week for you. major dale hath all the luck, to bring you. i should like to have gone, but i could not get leave." "and how does thee do, john?" "well, peggy. well indeed. by the way! you know, i dare say, that your cousin clifford is here. i am barracks' master, and the prisoners are confined in the barracks. is it not a strange turn of the wheel of fortune that he should be in my charge, when a little less than a year ago i was a prisoner under him? he doth not relish it much, either. is your mother in the coach, peggy?" "yes; with harriet," answered peggy. "harriet!" he ejaculated amazed. "now what doth harriet want? i thought we had those cousins where they would not trouble you again." "have you seen the lady of whom you speak, drayton?" asked robert dale abruptly. "often, major." drayton laughed merrily. "there is not much love lost betwixt us, either, although i owe much to her for rescuing me from an exceedingly embarrassing position. she would not let me thank her because, she informed me, that what she did was for peggy. now what doth she want, peggy?" "she wants to see how clifford fares, john. thee is kind to him, i know." "i do all that i can, peggy, because he is your cousin. i'd do much more if he would allow me. you know he never liked me, and he would actually deprive himself of necessities if he had to receive them at my hands." "will thee let us see him, john?" "certainly. we are not very rigid. we keep a strict guard to prevent escape, but otherwise we give the prisoners many privileges. i will speak to your mother now, and harriet." a cloud came to robert dale's brow as he heard mrs. owen say: "john, dear lad, if thee can get away from duty why not get inside with us, and go on to the house? then we shall all be together once more." "thank you, madam," answered drayton with alacrity. "i was hoping that you would ask me. i shall be pleased." "i did not know that captain drayton was so well known to your family, peggy," remarked robert with some stiffness. "why, we have known him for years, robert," replied peggy. "doesn't thee like him?" "he is one of the most daring, dashing, reckless officers in the service, peggy. whenever there is anything of an especially dangerous nature to be done, john drayton is the first fellow to be named in connection with its performance. i have always had a high regard for him. at least until----" he paused in some confusion. peggy laughed out suddenly, and a sparkle of mischief came into her eye. "at least until thee found that we knew him well. is that it? what unworthy people we must be that the mere knowing us would render him unfit for thy regard." "now, peggy," he began protestingly, then he too laughed. "i am the unworthy one," he acknowledged humbly. "i did feel a pang that you people should know him so well, and i not know it." "fie, robert! as though we had not room in our hearts for many friends. each hath his own peculiar nook, and thou hast thine." chapter xx a slight emphasis on "that" "of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, that press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, beyond comparison, the worst are those which to our folly or our guilt we owe." --_john strange winter._ "and you will take peggy and me to see clifford this morning, won't you, cousin david?" harriet smiled brightly over the breakfast table at david owen as she spoke. despite the long journey the girls had awakened betimes, and appeared looking so radiant and so thoroughly wholesome that mr. owen had declared that they surpassed the morning itself in brightness. "thou wilt have to wait until about noon, harriet," he answered smiling at her kindly. "i have some work which must be attended to first. when that is done i shall be at thy service." "and when thee does go, harriet, try to persuade thy brother to give his parole, that he may visit us," exclaimed mrs. owen. "i quite long to see the lad, and john said that there was no reason why he should not be at large, if he would but give his word not to go beyond the limits of the town." "i'll make clifford see reason," said harriet confidently. "he doesn't like john drayton, and therefore does not wish to accept any favor from him." "but why should he dislike him, lass? drayton hath been kindness itself to him." "you see, cousin david," explained harriet with a charming blush, "clifford cannot rid himself of the idea that captain drayton may have been in favor with me. once i made a shirt which i gave to the captain in sport. it seems that he twitted clifford about it, and clifford tore the garment up. i believe they came to blows over the matter, and there hath been bad feeling between them ever since." "that would explain many things," spoke mr. owen musingly. "there is certainly strong dislike on clifford's part. thou art sure that thou hast given no cause for the feeling, lass?" "why, i dislike john drayton extremely, cousin david. he wears his beaver in what he supposes is a jaunty fashion over his right eye, and he swaggers when he walks. how could one show him favor?" mr. owen laughed. "the lad does swagger a bit, harriet, but 'tis not an offensive swagger. as to his hat: 'tis a standing joke of the army as to how he keeps it on in battle. the hotter the fight the further on the side it gets. i saw a letter that general greene writ to his excellency in which he declared that drayton fought with it on his right ear all through the battle of hobkirk's hill. john was made a captain for valor shown during that engagement. general greene says that if it ever gets an inch further down he will be a general, sure. thee is pleased over that, peggy?" "oh, peggy is hopeless where captain drayton is concerned," cried harriet. "i have never known her to do aught but stand up for him, except when she thought him a deserter at yorktown. even then she would not talk against him." "well, he is very deserving, lass. all his mannerisms are those of youth. underneath them i agree with peggy that thee will find john drayton of sterling worth." "to my mind he does not compare with major dale," said harriet. "he hath obtained the rank of major, and hath not found it necessary to bring his ear into service as a resting place for his hat, either." even peggy joined in the laugh which this remark caused. "well, i must to work, to work," ejaculated mr. owen rising. "i would much prefer to stay with you, but i must get to work. be ready at noon, girls." "what is his work?" questioned harriet as the door closed behind him. "'tis in regard to thy people, harriet," mrs. owen told her. "i make no doubt but that thee knows already that there is a great deal of illicit trade carried on betwixt thy people in new york and some of our citizens. 'tis david's duty to examine all goods that are brought into the town to see that none are contraband." "then would he have to examine the wagon load of stores which i came with before it could be given to our soldiers?" asked harriet. "of course, child. if there is naught contraband in it thee need have no uneasiness. as soon as they are passed upon they are turned over to major gordon, a paroled british officer who hath charge of the prisoners here. he distributes them according to the need of the prisoners. the table stores are divided equally." "oh!" uttered harriet thoughtfully. after a moment she turned to peggy. "and how shall we amuse ourselves, peggy, until 'tis time to go to clifford?" "let's go through the house and grounds," suggested peggy. "thee would like to see them, would thee not?" "yes," answered the girl. "shall we go now, peggy?" the house was roomy enough to house the family comfortably without too much care in its ordering, having a wide piazza in front, with a kitchen, bakehouse and oven in the rear. there were large grounds,--part orchard, part garden, and part meadow-land. but the maidens were most pleased with the great number of flowering shrubs about the grounds. "there are going to be heaps and heaps of roses, harriet," cried peggy delightedly. "just see the buds! the color is already beginning to show through the green." "i see," replied her cousin, pausing beside a lilac bush to break off a fragrant cluster of blossoms. "i do wish i had brought my horse, fleetwood. your father spoke of rides, peggy, but i see not how i can go with you." "father will, no doubt, get thee a mount, harriet. of course 'twill not be fleetwood, but thee won't mind that, will thee?" "no, peggy." it was just noon when david owen came for them. the prisoners confined at lancaster were for the most part kept in barracks, but many were permitted at large on parole so that the streets swarmed with them. the house was but a half mile from the barracks, and this distance was soon traversed. a strong stockade with four blockhouses, one on each corner, enclosed the barracks. captain drayton met them just as they passed through the stockade gates. "this way," he said, leading them across the parade-ground where a company was drilling. "i sent for captain williams to be in the anteroom. he should be there waiting for you. i did not tell him who wished to see him." major dale was standing at the entrance of the barracks, and the party stopped for a moment's chat with him. presently peggy passed on into the anteroom. clifford was sitting disconsolately by a table with his head resting on his hand. he was pale, and thinner than she had ever seen him, but his resemblance to her father was more marked than ever. he cried out at sight of her. "peggy," he cried springing to his feet, "is this what that yankee captain meant by sending for me? cousin david said that he expected you, but he did not tell me that you had come." "i just came last night, my cousin," she answered scanning his face with deep concern. "and how is thee?" "oh, i'm all right," he answered carelessly. "that is," he added hastily, "as right as one well can be who is a prisoner." "mother is here too, clifford. she wishes to see thee so much. we want thee to be with us, my cousin, while we are here, and captain drayton hath said that thee might come and go at thy pleasure if thee would give thy word not to try to escape." "drayton is very kind," he remarked, his lip curling. "i give no word to him of any sort. why, harriet!" he broke off abruptly. "how did you get here?" "hasn't peggy told you all about it?" cried harriet running to him. "oh, cliff, 'twas such a good joke that i played on her. i made a stricter quakeress than she does. you see we had not heard from you for so long that 'twas quite time that some of us looked you up. sit down, and i'll tell you about it." "father ought not to have permitted it," he observed, when she had finished the recital. "i don't see why he did. i like it not, my sister." "nonsense, cliff! there was no danger. peggy can tell you that there was no risk of my being thought other than i seemed." "i like it not," he repeated. "and now, harriet, what will you do? it doth not seem wise to me, or right for you to return to new york." "i shall stay with peggy for a time," she told him easily. "we shall be pleased to have her with us, my cousin," spoke peggy instantly, noting his troubled glance. "but she may have to remain until peace, which may be long in coming, peggy." "i think not, clifford," spoke harriet, before peggy could make any response. "if we enforce the new policy which sir guy carleton hath inaugurated, america will be glad to have peace on any terms." "i have heard of no new policy," he said somewhat curtly. "what is it?" "you have scarcely been in the way of hearing new things, my brother. know then that the colonies are to be so harassed from all sides that they will sue for peace. on the frontiers," she exulted, seemingly unmindful of peggy's presence, "and on the coasts." "there hath been too much of that already," he said grimly. "it hath brought us into disfavor with the entire world. take the death of fairfax johnson, for instance, which was the direct result of such a policy. 'twas a base and ignoble act to murder him; for it was murder." "englishmen did not do that, clifford. 'twas the loyalists." "englishmen sanction the act while they retain lippencott, the murderer," he answered. "have they given him up yet?" "no, of course not," she responded. "the court-martial exonerated him. you would not feel about the matter as you do, cliff, if you had not known fairfax. sir guy hath also another plan of which i am not at liberty to speak. and, cliff, i wish you would have major gordon come in here. i have something to say to him." "why, harriet, you do not know him," exclaimed clifford, turning a startled glance upon her. "what could you possibly have to say to him?" "i want to tell him about the goods that i brought, my brother," she made answer. "i did not understand that you brought them," he said. "i thought you merely took advantage of the fact that they were being sent to come with them." "why, so i did, cliff." "then there is no need to send for the major," he said firmly. "the goods pass through cousin david's hands, and are then turned over to major gordon for distribution among us. he will get them without you troubling about them." "very well," she said. "then let us talk about ourselves. madam our cousin wishes you to take dinner with her to-day. cousin david was called away by some matter pertaining to his work just as we were coming in, but he said that he would join us presently to insist upon your going. you must not refuse, clifford. 'twould be churlish." "clifford, do come," pleaded peggy. "there is so much to talk about that we cannot begin to say half of it here. and sally. i have somewhat to tell thee of sally." "i do not care to hear anything concerning mistress sally," he said loftily. "naught that you can say anent the lady interests me." "thee is unjust, my cousin," began peggy, when harriet interrupted her. "that is simply pig-headedness, cliff. if sally evans said that she did not betray you, then she didn't. that's all there is to it. when you come to know these quakers as i do you will find that they always speak truth." "thank thee, harriet," said peggy gratefully, not a little delighted that her cousin should speak so warmly. "but i won't say anything more to thy brother anent sally if he does not wish to hear it. sally would not like it." "'tis close in these barracks," cried harriet rising. "let's call john drayton, so that you can give him your parole, clifford. we are to have dinner at two. it will be ready by the time we are there." clifford owen's lips set in a straight line of determination, but before he could speak the door opened to admit david owen, robert dale, and john drayton. the countenances of all three were very serious, and peggy felt her heart begin to throb with anticipation of approaching disaster. something had gone amiss. what could it be? harriet noticed nothing unusual in their appearance, and flashed a brilliant smile at them. "you are just in time, cousin david," she cried, "to help us persuade this obstinate brother of mine to give his parole to captain drayton." "a moment first, lass." david owen's voice was very grave. "tell me what was in the wagon in which thee came?" "there were supplies for our soldiers, sir," she answered. "table stores and clothing. why do you ask? your congress permits them to be sent." "true, lass," he said. "true. does thee know what my work here is?" "i did not know until this morning," she told him gazing at him fearfully. "then i learned that it was to check the contraband trade which is held betwixt your people and mine." "that is it exactly," mr. owen made answer. "harriet, it gives me much pain, but i must ask thee if thee----" but at this point clifford owen went quickly to his sister's side, and faced mr. owen boldly. "of what do you accuse my sister, sir?" he asked. "hath she not just said the wagon contained stores for our soldiers?" "yes, lad; but it also contains many pounds of goods which are illegal to bring to thy soldiers." "and if it does contain such articles she knows naught of how they came there," spoke the youth wrathfully, his face white with anger. "we are not traders, sir. harriet would not stoop to smuggle goods here. why do you not ask the driver concerning the matter?" "he hath disappeared, clifford. i pray thee to permit thy sister to answer for herself." mr. owen spoke with great mildness but none the less firmly. harriet's face became pale as he turned toward her. her gaze clung to his as though fascinated. "what did you find, cousin david?" she half whispered. "a false bottom in the wagon, together with false sides, which gave the vehicle capacity for five hundred pounds of contraband goods," he told her. "truly?" she cried, sitting bolt upright. her wonder and amaze were such that none could doubt her sincerity. "why, they did not tell me about that. truly, truly, cousin david, i knew naught about that." was there the slightest emphasis on the "that"? peggy asked the question of herself almost unconsciously. she glanced at the others. the faces of her father and robert dale were glowing with relief and satisfaction. clifford's belligerent attitude had relaxed slightly at his sister's declaration. john drayton's glance alone met hers with understanding. "i believe thee, lass," cried mr. owen heartily. "robert here would have it that thee knew naught of the matter. thee understands that 'twas my duty to probe the affair." "why, it's all right, cousin david," she returned sweetly. "you had to do your duty, of course, and there's no harm done. and i thank you, major dale, for your belief in me. i shall never forget it." the tears came into her lovely eyes as she spoke, making them lovelier than ever. "i knew that you would not be guilty of such a thing," exclaimed robert dale fervently. "and now let's go home for dinner, and forget all about this little unpleasantness," exclaimed mr. owen. "clifford, lad, we can't leave thee here. my wife will not forgive us if we do so." again clifford's lips set in an obstinate line, but drayton spoke quickly: "captain williams, i know how it irks you to be obliged to give me your parole; so, if you will go with mr. owen, or the major here, to general hazen, he will receive your parole." for a moment clifford struggled with himself. then he said, and the effort it cost him was plainly visible: "i can be as generous as you, sir. i give you my word of honor that i will make no attempt to escape while i am at large." "thank you," said drayton simply. "you are at liberty to go with your relatives, sir." peggy lingered for a second behind the others. "isn't thee coming too, john?" she asked. "not to-day, peggy. clifford will enjoy it more if i am not there. odds life! he did well to give that parole. he deserves to have one day free of me. but, peggy, i'll come out to-night, if i may. and don't worry about that wagon. i'll take it in hand while your father is not here." "was there anything else contraband in the wagon, john?" she queried anxiously that evening when the two found themselves alone on the piazza. "yes. the quartermaster was about to turn it over to major gordon when i told him i would take another look through the contents. peggy, in a barrel of vinegar was a water tight cask just filled with goods. that slight emphasis on 'that' lost the british a pretty penny. i was alone when 'twas found, peggy, so that no one knows about it but us two. we won't let your father, her brother, or dale know about it. they all believe in her so, and i owe her something for what she did for me at yorktown." "perchance she really does not know any more about this than she did about the false bottom to the wagon, john." "it may be, peggy. we will give her the benefit of the doubt, but it does look suspicious. she is not so high minded as her brother is." "john!" peggy hesitated and then spoke quickly: "thee knows how proud i am of her, and that i am fond of her. she is so beautiful and brilliant that i cannot help but be glad when she is with us. but there is always an uneasy feeling too. is there any mischief to the cause that could be done here?" "no," he answered emphatically. "aside from bringing in goods for the illicit trade there is but one thing that could be done now, peggy, and that thing harriet will never do. 'twould be to peddle those illegal goods to the country folk about here. harriet won't do that, peggy." "no, she would not do that," agreed peggy. "then set your mind at rest concerning her. we have the goods which she was sent to bring. she will never know that all have been found; so there is mutual satisfaction on both sides. if you can get any enjoyment out of her presence, peggy, do so." "thank thee, john. thee has set my mind completely at rest," said peggy. chapter xxi chosen by lot "sound to arms! call in the captains,- i would speak with them! now, hope! away,--and welcome gallant death!" --"_cataline," croly._ enjoy harriet's presence peggy did. never had the english maiden been more charming. her vivacity, her endless sallies of wit and humor, and her unfailing store of anecdotes rendered her irresistible. peggy had always been her mother's assistant in the household but now, quite to the amazement of both mother and daughter, harriet insisted upon helping. "i have been a guest long enough," she laughingly protested in answer to mrs. owen's remonstrance. "father declares that you are an excellent housewife, madam my cousin. he would be pleased indeed to have me learn of you. beside," she added with a most charming blush, "i dare say that i shall have a house of my own to look after some day; so 'tis quite time that i knew something of housewifery." and marveling greatly at this change in the once indolent harriet, mrs. owen took the girl forthwith under her wing, and spent long hours instructing her in the mysteries of housekeeping. but the time was not all devoted to labor. there were lighter hours in which the maidens took daily rides. there was also much dining about among the officers, their families, and the neighboring gentry of the town and neighborhood. as the weather became warmer picnics followed in the near-by woods, so that there was no lack of diversion. in these pastimes clifford was an almost constant attendant. mr. and mrs. owen had pressed him to become an inmate of their home, which, being on parole, he was at liberty to do, and he had accepted. the young people made a lively household, and it seemed to peggy that it was the happiest time that she had enjoyed since the long, grim, weary years of fighting had begun. so the days sped pleasantly and may passed, and june with all its riotousness of roses was upon them. one warm june morning the family gathered in the pleasant, low-ceiled dining-room for breakfast. harriet, attired in a wash dress well covered by a vast apron, flushed and rosy, stood at the head of the table. "i have cooked every bit of the breakfast myself," she declared proudly. "cousin david, if you and clifford don't do justice to it i shall take it as a personal affront." "no wonder the breakfast is an hour late," murmured clifford to peggy as they sat down. "i do think she might have invited major dale, or that yankee captain, instead of making us her victims." "clifford!" pouted his sister. "you are really trying. madam my cousin hath said that i can bake and brew almost equal to peggy, so you will have no need of simples after eating. now does not that strawberry tart look tempting?" "it does indeed, lass," observed mr. owen. "peggy will have to look to her laurels if you can get up such a meal as this. come, come, clifford! the proof of the pudding lies in the eating. fall to, lad!" "my death will be upon your head, harriet," observed her brother with such a sigh of resignation that peggy could not help but laugh. "i do wish john drayton were here." so with jest and laughter the family lingered over the meal, as if loath to make further exertion in the growing heat. in the midst of the cheer the knocker sounded, and, as though in answer to clifford's wish, the door swung back quietly, and john drayton entered. peggy sprang up at sight of him. "thee is just in time, john," she cried gaily. "clifford was just wishing for thee. i'll lay a plate for thee." "clifford?" drayton's tones were filled with astonishment. there had been a sort of tacit truce established between the young fellows, but the feeling between them was such that for either to express desire for the other's company was cause for wonderment. "strange, is't not?" queried clifford dryly. the insolence which he could not keep out of his voice whenever he addressed drayton crept into it now. "you see, sir, my sister hath cooked this meal, and i was wishing for other victims than cousin david and myself." "knowing to whom miss harriet is indebted for her knowledge of cookery i have no fears regarding results," remarked drayton, with a slight bow in mrs. owen's direction. "miss harriet, that strawberry tart looks enticing. i should be obliged for a liberal helping." clifford flushed angrily at drayton's words, but he had the grace to refrain from further remark. after all captain drayton ate but little. he trifled with the food, and was distrait and plainly ill at ease. usually he enjoyed a tilt of words with clifford, but after the first crossing of lances he said but little. the meal was over at length, and drayton faced them as he rose from the table. "i have a most painful duty to perform," he said unsteadily. "i feel like a thief in the night sitting here listening to your innocent mirth, knowing what i must do." "what is it, john?" asked mr. owen, as they all turned wonderingly toward the captain startled by his seriousness. "we know," he continued kindly, "that thou wouldst do naught that would be disagreeable for any of us were it not in the line of duty. speak out, lad." "i am come to take clifford back to the barracks," spoke drayton, unconsciously using clifford's given name. "but why?" asked clifford quickly. "i have passed my word not to try to escape. and i am 'clifford,' sir, only to my friends." "i beg your pardon, captain williams," spoke drayton courteously. "i spoke without thinking." he passed his hand across his brow as though in doubt how to proceed, then he began to speak rapidly: "all of you know how poor fairfax johnson met his death at the hands of the loyalists in new jersey. well, we have been able to obtain no satisfaction from the enemy for the outrage which they acknowledge was unjustifiable; so congress hath determined to select an officer from among the english prisoners who shall be executed in retaliation for johnson's death. "therefore, thirteen officers from among the prisoners of war have been ordered to report at the black bear tavern this morning in order that a victim may be chosen for retaliation. captain williams is among those so ordered to report." a long moment of silence followed this announcement. drayton's distress was plainly visible. the stillness was broken by harriet. "and why, sir," she said sharply, "should my brother be among those who are bidden to report?" "on account of his rank, miss harriet," he returned. "johnson was a captain, so eight captains and five lieutenants make up the thirteen officers. the victim should be as near the rank of captain johnson as possible." "it is according to the rules of war," spoke clifford owen clearly. "the americans but act according to their rights. we should do the same. i am ready to accompany you at any time, captain drayton." "you shall not, clifford," shrieked harriet, throwing her arms about him. "john drayton is but one. we can overpower him, and you can escape." "break my parole!" he ejaculated, horrified. "my sister, you know not what you say." "and after all, he may not be the unfortunate one, miss harriet," spoke drayton with an attempt at consolation. "there are thirteen from among whom the choice is to be made." david owen roused himself. "true, there are thirteen," he murmured. "would it be permitted, john, that i go with the lad?" "yes, mr. owen." john drayton's eyes were full of compassion. "no undue rigor is to be used in carrying out orders, though of course few spectators will be allowed." "and a place must be found for me," cried harriet. "do you think i can stay here and not know whether my brother is to be killed, or not?" "we can't do it, miss harriet." drayton's voice was inflexible. "it would upset all arrangements to have a woman present. it cannot be done. come, captain williams." clifford was the calmest among them as he bade them farewell. harriet was too agitated to do more than wring her hands continually. "it will be he, i know it will," she cried as mr. owen and john drayton disappeared from view, clifford walking between them. "we must hope for the best, my child," said mrs. owen trying to comfort her. but harriet could only say over and over: "i know that it will be clifford." she was walking up and down the floor as she uttered the words again and again. suddenly she paused, and held out her hand to peggy: "come!" she said. "i am going to that tavern." at a sign from her mother peggy went to her. harriet clasped peggy's hand tightly in her own, and all through the trying scene that followed never once did she let it go. without thought that they were still in their morning dresses, and without stopping for hats the girls hastened into the street. a hush seemed to have fallen upon the town. there were groups of people clustered about everywhere talking in subdued tones of the act of reprisal that was about to follow. retaliation had been the demand of every patriot since the inhuman and lawless murder of fairfax johnson. no american prisoner was safe so long as the act was unrequited. at length congress had taken measures whereby a victim should expiate the outrage upon the jersey captain. so the citizens stood on the corners talking to each other almost in whispers of what was going on at the tavern. peggy and her cousin passed them unheedingly. in the yard of the inn twenty dragoons stood waiting the result, ready to take the unfortunate victim off to new jersey for immediate execution. there were many others standing about; some on the piazza, others in the corridors, all awaiting the result of the meeting which was taking place in a room of the tavern. once only some one tried to bar their entrance, but harriet turned such a look upon the man that he slunk away abashed, and they proceeded unmolested. through the corridor they passed to the stairs. here they met the wife of the landlord. "ye can go no further, young ladies," she said, her ample form blocking their progress. "there is an important meeting up-stairs, and no one is allowed up there." "madam, you must let me go," burst from harriet. "my brother is one of the men from whom the victim is to be chosen. do, do let me be where i can at least hear what is going on." the girl was so lovely in her distress that only for a moment did the woman hesitate, then she turned abruptly. "follow me," she said, "bless your pretty face, i could not refuse such a request as that. but you must make no noise. you must just listen." "yes, yes," spoke harriet feverishly. "that is all we ask." "the meeting is in there," said the woman pausing before a door. "ye are to go in here, where there is a door between the rooms. ye can hear very well there. now, remember: no noise." "yes, yes," spoke harriet again. "come, peggy." and into the room they hurried. at first they heard nothing but distant echoes, as of closing doors and people hurrying in and out of rooms. these noises resounded through the passages, and gave a note of unusual commotion down-stairs. presently the distant sounds ceased, and out-of-doors all was quiet too. all at once the hum of voices in the adjoining room came to them. harriet went swiftly toward the closed door, and before peggy realized what she was about to do, the girl had opened it. so intent were the men in that other room that they did not notice the opening of the door, nor did they turn their heads as the faces of the girls appeared in the entry way. brigadier-general hazen, who had charge of the post at lancaster, was speaking, and all eyes were fixed upon him. on one side of a long table which stood in the center of the room sat the thirteen young officers from whom the victim was to be selected. back of them stood the british major gordon. a little apart stood mr. owen and robert dale with the officer of the dragoons. on the side of the table opposite the unfortunate thirteen were john drayton and the commissary, with two little drummer boys. the scarlet coats of the british made a pleasing note of color against the buff and blue of the continentals. "that this drawing may be as fair as possible," general hazen was saying, "it has been deemed best that the names of the thirteen officers shall be placed in one hat; in another hat shall be placed thirteen slips of paper of the same size, all of them blank save one on which is written the word, 'unfortunate.' these drummer boys are to draw out the slips simultaneously from the hats. the name drawn at the same time that the word unfortunate is drawn will be the victim selected. gentlemen, i have only to say that no one can regret more deeply than i the course events have taken. captain drayton, will you and the commissary take the hats?" amid a silence so profound that a pin could have been heard to fall the two officers took the hats, and stood holding them on the table while the drummer boys began the drawing. into peggy's mind darted thomas ashley's words: "'there shall be retaliation, hannah. eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life.'" she started as though some one had spoken. retaliation! was this what it meant? that another innocent life should be taken? how horrible and bloody a thing is war! because some one else hath committed a crime must another pay the penalty? one, two, three, four, five. five names drawn. and clifford's name not yet. not yet. her breath came gaspingly but strangely quiet as that other room was no one noticed it. harriet was clutching her hand so tightly that it ached for hours afterward, but at the time neither girl knew it. six, seven, eight, nine! and still clifford's name had not been called. harriet bent forward as the boy drew the next slip: "captain williams," he read clearly. and from the other, hitherto so silent, sounded at the same time a word that fell upon the ear like a knell of doom: "unfortunate!" and then from every american as well as every englishman present there broke a sob. that is, from every man except clifford owen. he was very quiet, very composed, but his gaze was turned upon john drayton as though he expected triumph at the result. but tears were running down drayton's face, and clifford's own countenance softened as he saw it. once before peggy had heard strong men weep. then it had been over the defection of a brilliant soldier; now they wept that a fresh young life must be given in reprisal. once, twice, general hazen had tried to speak. at last he laid his hand upon clifford's shoulder, and turning to the officer of the dragoons, said huskily: "this gentleman, sir, is your prisoner." but at that harriet, who had stood as though stunned, gave a great cry, and ran to clifford: "my brother! my brother! my brother!" chapter xxii what can be done? "here we have war for war, blood for blood, controlment for controlment." --_king john._ exclamations of pity and compassion came from the men as harriet threw her arms about her brother. on general hazen's countenance consternation showed as well as commiseration. the scene was sufficiently trying as it was. the feminine note added to the complexity of the situation. over clifford owen's face there swept a swift, indescribable change. he drew his sister to him and held her close, bending his head to hers with a gesture that was full of yearning. there was not a dry eye in the room. both americans and english felt it no shame to their manhood that tears streamed unrestrainedly down their cheeks. the brother and sister were so young. the youth, noble and handsome, was striving to bear the tragic fate trust upon him with fortitude yet was torn by his love for his sister. the maiden, so surpassingly lovely that even the violence of her grief could not mar her beauty, was filled with anguish over the impending doom of her brother. that the boy had all he could do to maintain his composure was manifest to every one. for a time it seemed that affection would submerge all other emotions; then came a quick stiffening of his body as though he were preparing himself to resist any further appeal to his tenderness. when he spoke it was clearly and composedly: "my sister, what do you here? this is no place for you." "i had to come," she cried passionately. "think you i could stay away when i knew not what would be done to you?" "'tis known now, harriet. the lot hath been taken. i must accept my fate. help me to do it bravely, my sister. you are a soldier's daughter, a soldier's sister. let us show americans how english men and english women meet untoward events." "oh," she uttered piteously, "you are to die. what is pride of race when you are to die? and father? what will father say?" "he is a soldier, harriet. he knows that war hath its vicissitudes which to-day may bring victory; to-morrow, death. he knows this, and we, his children, should know it also. he would like us to meet this with courage and calmness." "i cannot," she cried sobbing convulsively. "i cannot, clifford. they mean to hang you, my brother; just as fairfax johnson was hanged. i cannot bear it." "cousin david!" the boy turned appealingly toward mr. owen. his lips were white. his brow was wet with perspiration. he was fast approaching the limit of his endurance. "will you take her? i--i cannot----" he compressed his lips tightly, unable to proceed. "yes, my lad," answered mr. owen brokenly. he beckoned to peggy, and they both endeavored to unclasp harriet's clinging arms from her brother. "no, no," she shrieked. "i cannot let you go, clifford. is there no way to prevent this awful thing? major gordon," turning toward that officer suddenly, "can't you do something? can't you do something?" "there is naught that can be done," replied major gordon pityingly. as the principal british officer in lancaster he had been present that he might be satisfied that everything was conducted with fairness. beyond that he was helpless, being himself on parole. general hazen spoke at this moment, to the relief of all: "my dear young lady," he said gruffly, to hide his emotion, "your brother need not start for new jersey to-day. he may remain in lancaster for two days longer, which will give a slight respite. he must be held a close prisoner during that time, well guarded to prevent escape; but you may see him once each day. it is not in my power to do more than that, but it is something." "it is much, sir," she cried seizing his hand, and impulsively kissing it. "i thank you, sir," said clifford courteously, quick to seize the advantage such diversion created. "i shall see you then to-morrow, my sister. captain, i am ready." with firm step he placed himself by the side of the dragoon, who took him by the arm. on the other side of him walked the british major gordon, and thus they passed out of the room. the youth's departure was the signal for this most tragic meeting to break up. quietly, showing no elation that they had been spared and another taken, their faces expressive only of sorrow, the twelve british officers, each saluting harriet as he left, filed out of the apartment. the drummer boys tiptoed after them. general hazen was the last to go, pausing only to say: "you shall see him twice more, my dear. i think i would go home now, if i were you. this hath been most trying. odds life, most trying!" "you are very kind, sir," she said miserably. "i appreciate it. but--but after two days; then what?" "child," he said gravely, with great compassion, "i cannot delude you with false hopes. after two days your brother must go to meet his fate in new jersey. i can do naught to prevent it." he took a pinch of snuff hastily, then hurried from the room. "peggy!" harriet stretched out her arms to her cousin with a cry of bitterness. "what shall i do? what shall i do?" but peggy shook her head sorrowfully as she drew the girl into her arms. what could be done? she knew of nothing. that the safety of american prisoners might be assured congress had decreed the death of a british officer to retaliate upon a lawless act of the enemy. that the officer chosen chanced to be her cousin did not change the justice of the act. fairfax johnson's death had been too recent, too near to peggy for her not to see the fairness of retribution. and yet, and yet! that it should prove to be clifford. it seemed so hopeless, so dark, peggy could only shake her head while her tears fell fast. "we must go home, lass," spoke david owen. there were tears in his eyes, and he patted harriet's shoulder with infinite tenderness. he was deeply moved by what had taken place, for clifford had become dear to him; yet the boy's conduct under the trying circumstances filled him with pride. now he patted the girl's shoulder, saying, "'twill be far better for us to be at home than here. come, harriet! perchance something will occur to us now that we have time to think." "yes, cousin david." the girl wiped her eyes and rose obediently as though where she was made no difference. as she did so her glance fell upon captain drayton and major dale. the two young men had lingered, loth to leave them in their trouble. "are you not coming too?" she asked. "we do not wish to intrude, miss harriet," answered robert dale, speaking for both. "but you will not," she replied. "i want you to come. both of you. you are of the army, and may be able to suggest something. come, and let us talk it over." so, accompanied by the two youths, they went slowly back to the house. the news had spread throughout the town, and the people, knowing that the unfortunate victim was a relative, respectfully made way for them. the young english captain had become a well-known figure during the time he was on parole, and his youth, manliness, and unfailing courtesy caused every one to deplore the fact that such a doom should have fallen upon one who so little deserved it. mrs. owen met them at the door, and her manner told them that she had heard what had resulted from the meeting. she took harriet at once in her motherly arms. "i shall take thee right up-stairs to bed, my child," she said. "this hath been very trying for thee." "nay, madam my cousin," said the girl, smiling wanly. "'tis no time for coddling. i shall have all the rest of life to lie in bed; now i must try to find some way to save my brother." "mistress harriet!" drayton, who had been unusually thoughtful, now spoke abruptly. "what i am about to suggest may not be of worth, but it can be tried. why not go to general washington and plead for your brother? if that fails, and fail it may because retaliation is demanded as the only safeguard americans have for their countrymen who are prisoners, then go on to your own commander. he may be able to arrange matters with our general." harriet listened dazedly at first, as though unable to grasp what he was saying. all at once, as she comprehended the full import of his words, a magical transformation took place. the color returned to her cheeks, and the light to her eyes. she seemed infused with new life. "john drayton," she cried eagerly, "i do believe that you have hit upon the very thing. how strange that no one else thought of it! general washington might postpone the carrying out of this dreadful measure. and sir guy! why, if the rebel general will only wait until i can see my own commander all will be well. he is indebted to me for service in behalf of the new campaign, and will be glad to requite it. i shall go to general washington. thank you, captain drayton, for the suggestion. i'll never forget that 'twas you who offered it. i haven't always been very nice to you, but if----" "i am your debtor, miss harriet, for what you did for me last year at yorktown," interrupted drayton quietly. "mind! it may come to naught, but 'tis the only thing that can be done." "and i shall do it," she said with determination. "i shall start for philadelphia when they leave with my brother." "to add to what captain drayton hath suggested," spoke major dale, "carry the matter to congress while you are in philadelphia. if you can get the execution postponed, and have influence with sir guy carleton, get him to turn lippencott over to us. he is the man who should be punished." "he shall do it," she cried. "captain lippencott is but a refugee, and clifford is an english officer. an officer who hath given good and honorable service to his king. 'tis not meet nor fitting that such an one should be punished for the crime of a refugee. sir guy shall be made to see it properly. he shall! he shall!" "but now thee must go to bed," exclaimed mrs. owen alarmed by the girl's excitement. "thee can talk again with the lads, but now to bed." despite her protests the good lady hurried her off to bed, nor would she consent that harriet should leave it until the next morning. by that time the maiden had entirely regained her composure, and was eager to go to clifford with the news of her intention to go to philadelphia. accordingly, as soon as it was permissible to see her brother, she set forth with peggy for the guard-house at the barracks where he was confined. there were two troopers in the room with him whose duty it was to keep an unfailing watch upon him. clifford was slightly pale, but seemed to have himself well in hand. he dissented strongly from harriet's proposal to see the congress and general washington. "'twill be useless," he said. "the congress seek reprisal. if i am not the victim 'twill be another. there is no reason why i should seek to evade that which must be the fate of some english officer." "clifford, don't you care?" she wailed. "yes; i do, harriet," he answered gravely. "i care very much. i don't want to die at all, particularly by hanging. i don't suppose that fairfax johnson did either, but his wishes weren't consulted in the matter. and they will remember that fact. it hath been said that he met death with great firmness and composure. i want to do as well." "i must do something," she cried. "i cannot bear it unless i try to do something to save you." "then, harriet, you shall make any effort that you wish," he said tenderly. "but do not ask for my life, my sister. plead for a postponement, an you will; then go to sir guy. if you must humble yourself, let it be to your own commander. you are english, remember." "and peggy shall go with me, clifford," she said. "you will, will you not, my cousin?" he asked turning to her. "if thee wishes it, clifford," answered peggy gently. "i do wish it. she should have some one with her who would prevent rashness. i cannot imagine where she got the idea----" "it was john drayton's suggestion," interrupted his sister. "he was the only one who seemed to have any idea what to do." "drayton?" exclaimed clifford, surprised out of his composure. "why, that is strange!" "they are coming for us, harriet," spoke peggy. "we shall have to go." "but i have not yet begun to talk," cried harriet protestingly. "why do they make the interview so short?" "it is pleasant to have one at all, my sister. 'tis an indulgence that is not often granted in such cases. beside, you have leave to come again to-morrow, and if you go to philadelphia there will, no doubt, be opportunity for conversation upon the road." but as harriet passed through the door clifford laid a detaining hand upon peggy's arm. "my cousin," he said speaking rapidly, "you have always spoken truth to me, and i want you to do so now. does cousin david think there is aught of use in harriet's seeing the congress, or general washington?" peggy's lips quivered, and her eyes filled. "father said last night, my cousin, that there was but one hope," she said mournfully. "'tis the talk of the barracks that captain lippencott should be given up to us. if he hath an atom of honor, rather than have an innocent person suffer for his deed, he will give himself up as soon as he hears of this. every one says this, clifford." "and that is the only hope, peggy?" "i--i fear so, clifford. if lippencott----" "he won't," said clifford with a sigh. "thank you, little cousin. it was better that i should know the truth. i am glad that you will go with harriet, and when she hath finished with general washington, get her to go right on to father, peggy." "i will," she promised. "good-bye, then, until to-morrow," he said. "is cousin david coming?" "yes, clifford." "peggy," called harriet, and peggy went out to join her. mr. owen, after his visit to clifford, announced that if leave could be obtained he would accompany them also to philadelphia. "there may be trouble for thee in entering philadelphia again, harriet," he said. "thou hast been banished, remember." "true, but they would not hold it against me now," she cried in dismay. "i think naught will be said anent the subject," he replied. "but in case there might be 'twould be well to have me with thee. for this and other reasons i shall go." "i am so glad, cousin david," she cried. and peggy too felt greatly relieved when she was told. so it came about that when the dragoons set forth with their prisoner two days later they were accompanied by major gordon, mr. owen, and the two girls, peggy and harriet. clifford was closely guarded, but there was no undue severity shown. he was permitted to converse with his cousins and his sister whenever he wished. frequently he rode long stretches of the road with them, the troopers in front and behind. and everywhere, at the inns, and the towns through which they passed, the people flocked to see this victim of retaliation. and the extreme youth and manly bearing of the unfortunate young man won him much compassion. the people had been greatly stirred by the death of fairfax johnson. he too was young, and his death had been such a lawless proceeding that it had roused the whole country to the necessity of reprisal lest other americans be subjected to a like fate. but there was a dignity in the warm passions of these people that the instant it was in their power to punish they felt a disposition to forgive. and so there was pity and compassion freely expressed for the young captain and his untoward fate. it was a sorrowful journey. the troopers rode hard and fast, so that the afternoon of the third day after leaving lancaster brought them to the middle ferry. the sun was just sinking behind the hills of the schuylkill as they crossed the ferry, and rode down high street into philadelphia. mr. owen and the two maidens left the party at fifth street, bound for the owens' residence in chestnut street. the troopers continued down high street to third; for they were to stop at the bunch of grapes tavern. chapter xxiii a little humor despite a grim situation "alas! regardless of their doom, the little victims play! no sense have they of ills to come, no care beyond to-day." --_gray._ the great clock of the state house was striking ten, the next morning, as peggy emerged from the west entrance of the dwelling, and, basket in hand, went down the steps of the terrace into the gardens. it was a lovely day. the sky was blue with june's own cerulean hue, and across its depths floated the softest of fleecy white clouds. the air was fresh and balmy, and tinged with the honeyed sweetness of red roses. with basket and shears the girl wandered from bush to bush, cutting the choicest blossoms. that her mind was not on her task was manifest by the fact that ever and anon she paused, shears in hand, and became absorbed in thought. in this manner she sauntered through the grassy paths and graveled alleys until she came at length to the fence which separated the garden from fifth street. peggy stopped here, and gazed thoughtfully across at the state house, as she was wont to do in the early years of the war. "what will the congress do?" she mused. "would that i could see into that east room! will they listen to harriet, i wonder? and the people! how many there are in the square. what makes them cluster about the grounds so?" the state house square was in truth filled with groups of men who stood about talking earnestly. it was the custom of the citizens of philadelphia to do this when any exciting event occurred, or when any stirring measure was before the congress. peggy's curiosity as to the cause was therefore natural, but there was no one near who could gratify it, so she turned reluctantly from the fence, and resumed her task of cutting the roses. abstractedly she worked, oblivious to her surroundings, when all at once the sound of flying feet brought her back to reality. startled she turned to see sally evans running toward her from under the trees. "i have just heard about clifford, peggy," cried sally, flinging herself upon her friend. "mr. deering told me. i thought that i should find thee here, or some of thy people. oh, peggy! peggy! that it should be clifford." "yes," replied peggy sorrowfully, as she returned the embrace. "'tis dreadful." "and what is thee going to do anent it? why, peggy owen! surely thee hasn't been coolly picking flowers?" "i had to do something, sally, to while away the time until they come back," apologized peggy meekly. "waiting is trying when so much depends upon the issue." "whatever is thee talking about?" demanded sally bewildered. "sit down here under this tree, peggy, and tell me all about everything. whom does thee mean by they?" "father and harriet, sally. they have gone over to see the congress to see if aught can be done for clifford." "harriet?" ejaculated sally. "i thought that harriet was in new york city with her father. how did she come here?" "i'll tell thee all about it," answered peggy, sinking down beside sally under a tree. forthwith she told her friend everything that had happened since leaving philadelphia, beginning with the meeting with harriet on the road to lancaster, and ending with the journey back to the city after clifford had been chosen as the unfortunate victim. sally listened attentively. "oh!" she breathed when peggy had concluded her narrative. "and does thee think the congress will do anything for him, peggy?" "i fear not," answered peggy sadly. "father hath little hope of it, but harriet will leave naught undone that promises the least relief. if congress does nothing, we are to go on to general washington. in any event harriet will go to new york to see the british general." "well, general washington ought to do something," cried sally. "he hath a kind heart, and it does seem awful to hang clifford when he had naught to do with fairfax's death. doesn't thee think he will?" "sally," spoke peggy earnestly, "there is but one thing that can save clifford owen: that is for the english commander to give up captain lippencott. that he hath heretofore refused to do." "oh, peggy! then thee believes that he must die?" came from sally in a sob. "i am afraid so, sally. clifford himself thinks there is no hope." for a time sally sat very still, then she spoke softly: "peggy!" "yes, sally." "did thee tell clifford about me? how i did not betray him to sheriff will?" "i tried to, but he would not listen. harriet took him to task for it, sally. she told him that if thee said thee did not betray him, thee didn't." and peggy related all that had passed regarding the matter. "then he will die believing that i was a false friend to thee, and that i betrayed him who was a guest of my hospitality," remarked the girl mournfully. "oh, 'tis bitter to be misjudged! 'tis bitter!" and to peggy's astonishment she burst into tears. "why, sally! i did not know thee cared so much," cried peggy. "i--i don't," flashed sally. "at least, not much. 'tis only--only that i do not like to be misjudged. and i've never been given so much as a chance to defend myself. oh, dear!" dabbing her eyes viciously with her kerchief as she spoke, "i don't suppose they can help it, but of all stubborn, unreasonable creatures on this earth i do think englishmen are the worst! i'd just like one chance to tell clifford owen so." "well, why doesn't thee?" asked peggy suddenly. "peggy!" sally sat up very straight and stared at her. "just what does thee mean?" "just what i say, sally. he is at the bunch of grapes. if thee wishes to see him i will take thee there. then thee can have thy chance." "but--but----" the color flooded sally's face from brow to chin. presently she laughed. "well, he couldn't run away from me, could he? he would have to listen. i'll do it. 'twill be the last opportunity i shall ever have of clearing myself. i would not dare do it only, being bound, he cannot help but listen. come, peggy!" "bound?" exclaimed peggy amazed. "what put such a notion in thy head, sally? he was not when we came from lancaster." "that was because he was riding. 'tis only since he entered the city. did thee not know that the minister of war hath charge of him now? 'tis he who hath insisted upon extra precautions being taken on account of the tories. 'tis talked everywhere on the streets, peggy, that he is bound." peggy instantly became troubled. "that would be severe treatment," she said. "methought 'twas understood that he was to be granted every indulgence consistent with his safe-keeping. i like not to think of him being bound. let's go, sally." quickly they made themselves ready, and then proceeded to the bunch of grapes tavern in third street. sally alternated between timidity and assurance. "with the shadow of death upon him he ought to wish to right every injustice that he hath done," she remarked as they reached the inn. peggy caught sight of major gordon just then, and did not reply. instead she called to the british officer. he came to them instantly. "may we see captain williams for a few moments, sir?" she asked. "i'll see, miss peggy," he answered. "you know, of course, that he is guarded more stringently here than he was on the road, but i think there can be no objection to his friends seeing him." "tell him 'tis his cousin, margaret, and----" "don't thee tell him who is with thee, peggy." sally's whispered admonition was plainly audible. she had all at once become fearful. "if he were not bound i would not dare venture in." a puzzled look crossed major gordon's face. he turned to her quickly. "may i ask why you would not venture in unless he were bound?" he asked. "because," uttered sally blushing, "if he isn't bound he will not listen to what i have to say. i want to explain something that he ought to know. he would never listen before; now he cannot help himself." a violent fit of coughing seized the officer, preventing him from replying. presently recovering he cleared his throat, and left them precipitantly. he was gone but a few moments. "you may see him for a short time, ladies," he reported. "this way." they followed him into a large room situated at the end of a long hall. the first thing the girls saw was clifford, who was half sitting, half reclining in a chair. and his feet and hands were wound about with cords. peggy felt a catch in her throat as she saw it, while sally turned white to the lips. the room was scantily furnished, and several dragoons lounged about, but for all their apparent negligence they never for one moment ceased to regard their prisoner. the youth himself looked wan and haggard. he greeted peggy with marked pleasure. "and where is harriet, my cousin?" he asked. "she hath gone with father to see the congress," replied peggy. "and here is sally, clifford. 'tis for her sake that we have come. she wishes to speak with thee." "you wish speech with me, mistress sally?" questioned he coldly. "wherefore?" "thee is to die," burst from sally with emotion. "i could not bear for thee to die believing that i had betrayed thee." "i am to die, yes," he said with settled calm. "what have such things to do with me?" "everything," she answered shrilly. "if i had to die, clifford owen, i should want to right whatever of injustice i had done, were it possible to do so. and thee has been unjust to me. i have come hoping that now thee will listen to my explanation. thee wouldn't hear peggy, thee wouldn't hear mr. owen, but now thee will listen to me, won't thee?" "i don't see how i can help myself, mistress," he responded grimly. "seeing that my hands are bound, i cannot stop my ears." and at this peggy marveled anew. closely guarded the youth had been all the way into philadelphia. major gordon had spoken of an increase in vigilance since entering the city, but to bind him! americans were not usually so unkind. the change in treatment puzzled her. "why should they bind thee?" ejaculated sally in reply to clifford. "'tis cruel!" "i thought that you wished me bound, miss sally," he observed gravely. "we-ell! i don't wish thee bound, friend clifford, but thee would not listen to me unless thee were. do--do the thongs hurt thee very much?" now when an exceedingly pretty girl pities a man for any discomfort he is undergoing it would be an abnormal being who did not get out of it all that he could. and sally, with her hair escaping from under her cap in soft little tendrils, her blue eyes wet with tears of compassion like violets drenched with dew, made a bewitching picture. so clifford pulled a long face, and said lugubriously: "it's pretty bad, mistress." "oh!" she cried. "i wish i could help thee. 'tis monstrously cruel to use thee so! yet thee would not listen to me if thee were not bound; would thee?" "perchance 'twould be best to take advantage of the fact, and tell me what you have come to say," he suggested with the hint of a smile. and rapidly sally told him how the wretched mistake had occurred which led him to disbelieve her truthfulness. she told also of the council and what had happened before it. all this part he had heard from mr. owen, though he did not tell her. "and now," she ended with a deep sigh of relief, "thee knows at last just how the matter was." "well? and what then?" clifford was smiling now. "now you wish me to acknowledge how wrong i was, i suppose?" "nay," spoke sally rising. "i did not want anything except for thee to hear the facts. 'twould be too much to ask of an englishman to admit that he was wrong. 'tis a national characteristic to persist in wrong-doing, and wrong believing even when the right is made plain. had this not been the case we should not have had to go through all these weary years of fighting." "'fore george, mistress sally, but you hit from the shoulder! now here is one englishman who is going to prove that you are mistaken. it was unjust of me to believe that you could be capable of treachery. i crave your pardon most humbly. i believe that you did your best to help me last spring. these past few days, since i have known that death is so close, have made me look differently at many things. if you think of me at all in future, miss sally, let it be as gently as you can." he rose as he finished speaking, lightly throwing aside the cords that confined his wrists and ankles, and held out his hand to her with his most winning smile. much moved sally placed her hand within his; then, with an exclamation, she withdrew it suddenly. "why!" she cried. "why, thee isn't bound at all!" "no? well, you see i understood that you would not dare to come in unless i was bound. of course, rather than cause you annoyance i had to pretend to be so." the youth was laughing now, and peggy, mightily relieved to find that such harsh treatment was not to be accorded him, laughed also. not so sally. she stood regarding him with eyes in which slowly grew an expression of pain and scorn. "now you aren't going to hold it against me, are you, miss sally?" he pleaded. "when i asked thee if the bonds hurt, thee said, 'pretty bad,'" stated sally, her manner full of accusation. "i did," he admitted. "it was not true," she cried. "and thee is to die! to die, and yet thee could stoop to trickery! oh, how could thee do it? thou art under the shadow of death. i would rather a thousand times that thee would have remained the obstinate englishman that i deemed thee than to know that thee could do this." with that she flung up her head, and without another glance in his direction went swiftly out of the room. chapter xxiv "thee may tell him at the last" "a hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate; i've seen the last look of her heavenly eyes,- i've heard the last sound of her blessed voice,- i've seen her fair form from my sight depart! my doom is closed." --_count basil._ clifford started as sally uttered the word, "trickery," and a deep flush dyed his face. he threw out his hands in a protesting gesture, and opened his lips to speak, but she was gone before he could say a word. he turned toward peggy appealingly. "will you listen, my cousin?" he queried. "or are you also shocked?" "nay, clifford; i believe that thee intended naught but to have a little sport," she replied. "that's just it," he cried eagerly. "everything hath been so depressing the last few days that a little diversion was welcome. when major gordon came in, saying that you wished to see me, and that a friend was with you who feared to come in unless i was bound, i knew at once it was miss sally. when the major suggested that 'twould never do for the young lady to find me unbound, the idea appealed to me immediately. it promised some brightness, a little fun which is all my excuse, peggy. i intended naught else. i thought you both would regard it as a great joke. i see now that i should not have done it. it was caddish." "i think sally felt the worst anent thy saying that the cords hurt pretty bad," peggy told him. "it seemed like an untruth to her." "'fore george, peggy!" cried the youth earnestly, "if she could but know the trouble i had in keeping still so that those ropes would not fall off she would think it was pretty bad." he laughed at the remembrance, and then became grave. "i seem to be unfortunate in more respects than one," he said with a sigh. "first, i misjudge you, peggy. i can only explain that fact by saying that never before had i met any one of like truthfulness and so straightforward. then, not knowing that your friends had the same attributes, i am guilty of injustice toward sally. now she misconstrues what was meant for a jest into a contemptible trick. oh, it was! i see it now. i' faith! the sooner that execution comes off the better," he ended bitterly. "don't speak like that, clifford," chided peggy gently. "i'm going to sally and explain the matter to her. 'twas all a miserable misapprehension. she will laugh most heartily when she understands it." "i don't believe she will, peggy," he answered gloomily. "she feels tricked. she will never forgive me. you quakers are queer people. i did not dream that words spoken in jest would be taken so seriously." "well, my cousin, we have been taught that for every idle word we shall give account. perchance we do not speak with so much lightness as the world's people." "'fore george, you do not," he ejaculated. "but, peggy, to a soldier the thought of death becomes familiar. so familiar in fact that even when we are under its dark shadow if there comes a chance for amusement of any sort we seize it. i would not for the world offend her, peggy. will you try to make peace for me? tell her," he smiled involuntarily, "that she is the unreasonable one now; that if she will not listen she lays herself open to the charge of being english which would be a most dreadful downfall from the high estate of being an american." "i'll tell her everything, my cousin. i am sure that all will be well as soon as she understands. and harriet will come to thee this afternoon. thee must not let this, or aught else make thee down-hearted, clifford. i am hoping that something will come up to avert this terrible fate from falling upon thee." but the youth shook his head. "i have no hope," he said. "'tis only to please my sister that i have consented that she should try to get your general to postpone the execution until she can see sir guy. it seems but a useless prolongation of anxiety. now as to this other matter: you will go at once to sally, will you not, my cousin? tell her that i am sorry that i lent myself to such deception, and that i wish she would not think hardly of me. i shall never see her again, peggy, but i like not to think that she thinks ill of me." "i'll tell her all, my cousin," promised peggy as she took her leave. "oh, dear!" she sighed as she wended her way toward little dock street, where sally lived. "oh, dear! will naught ever go right again? now just as clifford gets so that he will listen to sally this had to happen! but sally ought not to hold it against him. she must not." sally was up-stairs, her mother told peggy, and slowly she went up to her friend's room. a crumpled heap on the bed told where sally was, but it did not turn as peggy entered. she went over and put her hand on the head that was buried between two pillows. "thee is taking this too seriously, sally," spoke peggy. "don't be too hard on him. after all thee knows that clifford is just a boy." sally turned a reddened, tear-stained face toward her. "he is to die," she murmured in shocked tones, "yet he jested. he jested, peggy." "sally, 'tis naught to make such a pother about. men, especially soldiers, regard death differently from the way we look at it. let me tell thee about the matter." "i don't care to hear any explanation," answered sally shortly. "sally, sally, is thee going to be unreasonable and obstinate now? 'tis as clifford said: 'thee should say naught against the english for perverseness. thee isn't much better.'" "did clifford owen say that?" demanded sally, sitting up with flaming cheeks. "nay; but something like it. how can i tell thee what he said if thee will not listen? or has thee made up thy mind not to listen to clifford's explanation in revenge for the time that he was in listening to thine?" concluded peggy artfully. "peggy! thee knows better than that. of course, if there is an explanation i will hear it. it did not occur to me that there could be one." "now that is my own sally," cried peggy kissing her. she sat down on the side of the bed, and began earnestly: "sally, we must not forget that my cousin belongs to the world's people. many things which to us are of gravity are not so to them, and our belief is as naught if it doth not make us regard their feelings with charity. clifford feels sorrow now for the joke, and grieves because thee is inclined to think hardly of him." forthwith she told sally how the jest had come about, ending with: "so thee sees, sally, that thou art somewhat in fault thyself, insomuch as thee said that thee would not venture in unless he were bound." "i see," remarked sally thoughtfully. "i see, peggy. well, 'tis all right, of course; but oh, peggy! if--if he had not made me feel so sorry for him. if i had not cried because i thought those ropes hurt him i would not mind so much; though it was in truth ill to jest when he is to die." "but i cried too," soothed peggy. "any one would who had the least bit of sensibility." "does thee really think so, peggy?" "yes, i do," answered peggy. "'twas all in fun, and done on the impulse of the moment. but he says now that he sees 'twas wrong, and that he is sorry. thee must forgive him, sally." "of course if he is sorry it makes a difference," said sally. "somehow, peggy, i am disappointed in him. harriet always spoke so highly of him, and i liked him so much when he was with us, that it pains me to find him lacking in any respect. well, if he is sorry, 'tis all right." "and i may tell him so?" asked peggy eagerly. "i don't want the poor fellow to have aught to wherrit him. he hath enough as it is." "yes; thee may tell him, peggy." sally slipped from the bed as she spoke and buried her face in the washing bowl. "after all, as thee said, 'tis naught to make such a pother about." "will thee come home with me to see harriet, sally?" "not to-day, peggy." sally began to brush her hair vigorously. "i will come in the morning. i want to think things over. thee doesn't mind?" "no," peggy answered more troubled than she cared to admit over sally. "well, i shall see thee to-morrow then." harriet and her father were awaiting her when she returned home. harriet looked weary and a little pale. "we could not see the congress, peggy," said she in answer to peggy's eager queries. "cousin david could not obtain an audience for me; but the minister of war, in whose charge clifford now is, consented that we should accompany him to the new jersey cantonment. he said that 'twas general washington's desire that clifford should be given every indulgence suitable to his rank and condition that would be consistent with the security of his person. he said too that the execution would take place pursuant to the general's orders, and therefore 'twas proper that all pleas should be made to him. we start with the dragoons and officers who guard my brother to-morrow." it was early the next morning when the start for new jersey was made. early as it was, however, sally was down to see them off. she hovered around peggy, finally saying, with a fine air of carelessness: "i had a short letter from thy cousin clifford, peggy. if he should speak of the matter, i dare say he will not, thee may say that 'tis all right. that i have no hard feelings toward him." peggy caught her suddenly, and held her fast. "is that all i am to say, sally? is there naught else? couldn't thee give me one little kind word for him? he is to die, sally." sally struggled to free herself, then unexpectedly hid her face on peggy's shoulder, and burst into tears. "tell him," she sobbed, then looked up at peggy wrathfully: "if thee tells him anything until the very last, peggy owen, i will never forgive thee. never!" "i understand, sally," encouraged peggy. "tell me." "thee may tell him, at the very last, at the very last, peggy." "yes, sally." "thee may tell him that i think him the finest gentleman i ever knew. there! of course, being thy kinsman, and because we are such friends, for thy sake, thee knows----" "yes, i know." peggy kissed sally gently, then held her close. "i have not told harriet a word," she whispered. "oh, sally! sally!" they joined clifford and his guards on the bristol road. peggy could not but reflect with what joyousness she and sally had passed over this very road a few short months before. how much had happened since that time! fairfax foully murdered, clifford, her cousin, on his way to pay the penalty of the deed. truly strange things were wrought in the warp and woof of time. so musing, for little conversation was held, the long hours of the day glided into the shadows of evening, and found them at trenton where they were to bide for the night. peggy suggested seeing governor livingston, but harriet demurred at once. "he would do naught for us, peggy," she declared. "have you forgot that 'twas i who tried to effect his captivation at middlebrook? 'tis that very thing that makes me fearful of meeting general washington. were not my brother's life at stake i would not chance it." the roads were in good condition, the business in hand most urgent, and so they journeyed from early morning until nightfall of each day with but short stops to refresh man and beast. through princeton, and along the banks of the millstone to kingston they rode. here the road left the valley and began to ascend the heights, then along the banks of the raritan river until somerset court house was reached. peggy turned to harriet. "does thee know where we are, my cousin?" she asked smiling. "we are coming into middlebrook," answered harriet gazing about her. "does it cause you painful thoughts, peggy? 'twas here that first you knew me. 'twas here that i played the spy. ah! the huts where the soldiers dwelt are still standing. 'tis most familiar, peggy." "nay, i am not pained at the recollection, harriet. thou art changed in many ways since then. i do not believe that thee would play the spy now." "you know not, peggy. i do not know myself. if aught would result of benefit to england's cause, i might. i have done other things. i do not know." "are you two talking about those huts yonder?" questioned clifford, who had been riding with mr. owen. "cousin david says the american army camped here in the winter of '79." "we know it, my cousin," answered peggy. "this is where we first met. harriet and i passed that winter here." "tell me about it," he said. "there are many things concerning that winter i would know." so with each girl supplementing the other the story of middlebrook was told. harriet did not spare herself in the recital. with amazing frankness she related how she had tried to capture both general washington and governor livingston. her brother listened in wide-eyed astonishment. "and father let you engage in such emprises?" he queried with pained surprise. harriet smiled. "i liked the danger, cliff," she said. "'tis risk that gives the zest to all undertakings. life is like food: insipid without some spice. beside, here was peggy to rescue me from paying the penalty of my acts. poor peggy! she thought she had fallen upon evil days when i carried her off to new york." "poor peggy indeed!" he agreed briefly; then relapsed into thought. the road beyond middlebrook was new to both maidens, and had they not been saddened by the knowledge that each mile traversed brought them nearer to the place where clifford must be left they would have been delighted with the romantic scenery. soon the heights of morristown came into view. a few miles to the eastward of morristown lay the little town of chatham. between the heights and the village lay the cantonment of the jersey line, clifford's destination. chatham was a pleasant little place. there were many hills in the vicinity, and a fine view of the valley of the passaic river, which stream ran through the village. but none of the party noticed hills or river as they went through the town toward the encampment. harriet grew pale at sight of the tents. "you must be brave, my sister," pleaded clifford, observing her pallor. "i must meet the colonel, you know. help me to do so with composure. besides, you will come back here after you have seen sir guy." "true," she answered. "i am not going to break down, clifford. there is much to be done." they were received with extreme kindness by colonel elias dayton, who had command of the jersey line. no orders concerning clifford had as yet been received from general washington, he told them, save only that he must be closely guarded. "and naught will happen to him until you have had time to see general washington," he reassured harriet, moved by her grief at parting from her brother. "'tis a most distressing affair, and there is no one in the american lines who does not desire that general carleton will give us the real culprit." and with lightened hearts mr. owen and the two girls proceeded to morristown, where they were to pass the night. chapter xxv at headquarters "but mercy is above this sceptered sway, it is enthroned in the hearts of kings, it is an attribute of god himself; and earthly power doth then show likest god's, when mercy seasons justice." --_shakespeare._ the route now took the little party through a most romantic country, but after leaving clifford their distress of mind was such that at first they did not remark it particularly. nowhere in the world can there be found more beautiful scenery than that along the hudson river. the views vary from what is pleasing and picturesque to that which is in the highest degree magnificent. and so, as gentle wooded slopes were succeeded by bold promontories, deep vales by extensive valleys, hills by lofty precipices, harriet and peggy found themselves roused from their apathy, and their attention, in spite of grief, was caught by the majesty of the noble river. war with its attendant evils receded into the background for the time being, recalled only by the fortifications of new york island, and the batteries of stony point and its sister garrison of verplanck's point on the eastern shore. sometimes the journey led them through fine woods; at others, through well cultivated lands and villages inhabited by dutch families. sometimes there were long stretches of dark forests, wild and untamed as yet by civilization; at other times, the road wound along the top of the palisades, those rocky heights that extend like everlasting walls along the jersey bank of the river. again, the road descended these rocky walls skirting their base, and they found themselves marveling at the broad expanse of the water which in places seemed like a vast lake. as they ascended into the highlands, cliffs seemed piled on cliffs rising precipitously from the water's edge, forming a surprisingly beautiful and sublime spectacle. the majestic river hemmed in by towering heights densely covered with forests made a picture of impressiveness and grandeur. again and again the maidens drew rein, sometimes uttering cries of delight as some new prospect unfolded its beauty; at others, sitting in silence awed by the magnificence of the panorama expanding before them. in such mood as this they approached west point on the afternoon of the fourth day after leaving chatham. the river here ran in a deep channel formed by the mountains whose lofty summits, on every side, were thick set with redoubts and batteries. from the fort of west point proper, which lay on the edge of the river, to the very top of the mountain at the foot of which it stood were six different forts, all in the form of an amphitheater so arranged as to protect each other. "and this," spoke harriet with quickened interest, "is the fortress that general arnold was to deliver into our hands?" "yes," answered david owen briefly. americans could not even yet bear mention of the treason of the brilliant arnold. "it looks to be an important post," commented the english maiden with a glance around that embraced all the grim redoubts of the lofty summits. "had we obtained it the misfortune at yorktown would not have occurred." "perchance not, lass. here we are at the sally-port of the fort. i will turn you girls over to mrs. knox for the night, while i find quarters elsewhere. i for one am glad to reach here. it hath been hard riding. are ye not tired?" "i am, father," answered peggy wearily. "and yet i have been delighted with the beautiful river." "and i also," agreed her cousin. with the morning came the realization of the matter which had brought them. the noble river with its superb amphitheater of mountains no longer had power to enthrall their senses. clifford's fate rested upon the result of the interview before them, and that was the thing which now concerned them. newburgh, where general washington's headquarters were, was not far distant. a ride of a few hours brought them to the southern extremity of the village, where the hasbrouck house was situated. it was a farmhouse, constructed in the dutch fashion, on the west side of the hudson. the front stoop faced the river, and a beautiful picture of mountains, sky and water was spread before the eye, but it extorted but a passing glance. the army was at west point, and only the life-guards were near the quarters of the commander-in-chief. hence, there was lacking much of the bustle and movement which ordinarily existed about the chief's quarters. an orderly took charge of their horses, and presently they were ushered into a large room which served as office as well as dining-room for the general. he sat now before a small table looking over some papers, but rose as they entered the room. he looked weary, and there were tired lines upon the strong face, but his manner was courteously attentive. "ah, mr. owen," he said shaking hands cordially with david owen. "i am glad to see you. i have excellent reports of the work you are doing in lancaster. miss peggy, 'tis long since i have had the pleasure of seeing you. and--miss harriet!" the smile died from his lips as he uttered her name. general washington had an excellent memory for faces and events. harriet's duplicity at middlebrook was not easily forgotten; so his expression changed, and his face grew stern and cold. harriet's color faded and she began to tremble. nevertheless she sank in a deep courtesy before him. "it was my understanding," he continued, "that you were banished from our lines. if this be true how is it that we are favored with your company?" "sir," she answered, gaining control over herself and speaking in a steady voice, "'tis true that i was banished to new york; but i think you will find that 'twas only from philadelphia. i did not understand that it was from the entire line. i know, your excellency, that i have no right to come to you to ask a favor. i have no claim by which i can urge even consideration. still, i do ask mercy. i do entreat you to use clemency; not because i deserve it, but because i do not believe that you would be guilty of aught that savored of inhumanity or barbarity." harriet was very beautiful as she made her plea, her unusual humility lending softness to the customary hauteur of her manner. a perplexed look crossed the general's countenance at her words. he bent toward her courteously. "unravel the matter, i beg of you," he said more gently. "do i understand that something hath gone amiss for which you are entreating lenity?" "it is not for myself, sir. my cousins here can bear witness that i came within your lines for the sole purpose of seeing my brother." she raised her head proudly, and met his glance with unwavering eyes. "he was at lancaster. at lancaster, where he hath been chosen as the most unfortunate victim of retaliation. it is for him i plead." "your brother?" for the merest second a gleam of astonishment shone on his face. it faded, leaving his countenance as impassive as ever. he turned to the table, and picked up a folded document from among the many lying upon it. hastily he scanned the page, then looked up. "'tis as i thought," he said. "brigadier-general hazen hath reported concerning that matter, and the young man herein named is not your brother, miss harriet. on the contrary, 'tis one captain wilson williams who hath been the unfortunate selected to pay the penalty." "and captain williams is my brother, sir. my brother, clifford owen, who because father did not wish him to go into the service enlisted under another name. my brother, and he hath been chosen to die shamefully because another hath committed a dastardly crime. sir, in the name of that mother whose son you are, i entreat you to have mercy upon him who is an only son, an only brother----" "and a mother in new jersey mourns an only son, and she a widow," he interrupted, his voice implacable in its sternness. "miss harriet, i lament the cruel necessity which alone can induce so distressing a measure. it is my desire not only to soften the inevitable calamities of war, but even to introduce on every occasion as great a share of tenderness and humanity as can possibly be exercised in a state of hostility. but for the barbarous and inhuman murder of captain johnson there must be satisfaction." "and will it give satisfaction to wreak vengeance upon an innocent person?" she cried stung to bitterness. the grim countenance of the general was not encouraging. his eyes seemed to pierce her as with cold steel. "is it not as barbarous, as inhuman to execute one who is as guiltless as yourself in the matter? you, sir, are dealing ruthlessly when you visit such penalty upon a victim. it shows want of humanity." "i am listening to you, miss harriet," he said patiently, "because you are grieved and anguished over the affair. i know that you are much overwrought. therefore will i explain to you that by all the usages of war, and upon the principle of retaliation i should have been justified in executing an officer of equal rank with captain johnson immediately upon receiving proofs of his death, and then informing the british commander of what i had done." "you are so stern," she cried with growing excitement. "so stern! so unfeeling!" "nay," he protested, and there was compassion in his tone. "not unfeeling. although duty calls me to make this decisive determination in the matter humanity prompts me to drop a tear for the unfortunate offering. i most devoutly wish that something might be done to save his life." "you do?" she cried eagerly. "why, sir, 'tis easily done. a scratch of the pen is all that is necessary. oh, 'tis a great thing to have such power! see, here are ink-horn, powder and paper! what doth hinder you from writing an order for his release?" she stepped quickly to the table as she spoke, and picking up a quill held it appealingly toward him. his eyes softened. "stay!" he said. "i do feel just that way, miss harriet, but there is a duty that must be performed toward our people. there are many american prisoners held by the enemy. among them some as young, as manly, as lovable as your brother. if the matter be suffered to go by without retaliation what assurance have we that they will not be as lawlessly dealt with as captain johnson?" "oh!" she said looking at him miserably. "but clifford hath been guilty of naught. were he a spy, an informer, a deserter, i would not ask you to abate one jot or tittle of his fate. i might in such case try to rescue him by trickery, by deceit, by any means that would save his life, but i would not question the justice of his doom. but he is not a spy, not an informer, not a deserter----" [illustration: "i kneel to you, sir."] "nor was captain johnson," he reminded her. "yet he was hanged most treacherously." "but not by clifford, sir! not by clifford! he would scorn to do such a deed." she stood for a moment, regarding him with such pleading that peggy choked. suddenly harriet crossed the room and flung herself before him. "sir," she cried seizing his hand, "harriet owen hath never knelt to mortal man before save her king. i kneel to you, sir, and i beg, i implore you to exercise clemency toward my brother. he hath been guilty of naught save that he hath served his king. he hath a blameless reputation as a soldier, and you yourself are a soldier. it may be just to retaliate; i know not. but is there not mercy as well as justice? 'twill be great and noble to exert leniency in such a case as this." "rise, i beg of you," he exclaimed, much pained. "i must do my duty, however abhorrent it may be to me. there hath been mercy shown already in that your brother hath had several days of grace, and the order for his execution not yet signed." at that harriet clung to his hand desperately. "do not sign it yet, sir. you will not give his life--give me then a little time." "for what purpose? is not uncertainty full of anguish and suspense?" "no, no, no," she answered vehemently. "it hath hope, possibilities. sir, give me time to go to sir guy carleton to lay the matter before him. he is our own commander. he should give you captain lippencott, the one who did the deed." "and there we are agreed," he made answer. "i will do this, miss harriet, though i fear that your efforts will meet with no success. with your commander-in-chief lies the only gleam of hope that the situation possesses. sir guy hath reprobated the act in no uncertain terms, but still he finds himself unable to do aught than to accept the rulings of the court-martial. go to him, miss harriet, and bring all the influence you have to bear upon him that he may release to us this man, lippencott. no one would rejoice at your success more than i. meantime your brother shall live until the result is made known to me. you shall have a reasonable time allowed." "thank you, sir. i thank you----" the girl attempted to lift the hand to which she still clung to her lips, but a deadly faintness seized her. she trembled, grew pale, and fell in an unconscious heap at his feet. chapter xxvi the adventure of the glen "fair as morning beam, although the fairest far, giving to horror grace, to danger pride, shine martial faith, and courtesy's bright star, through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow of war." --"_lady of the lake._" the morning gun at west point had not ceased to echo among the surrounding hills the next morning when the horses for mr. owen and the two maidens were brought to headquarters. harriet, quite recovered from her indisposition of the day before, vaulted lightly into the saddle, and bowed low as general washington came forth to bid them farewell. "your excellency overwhelms us with kindness, sir," she cried. "you have been nobility itself in granting this respite to my brother. i have no fear now as to the outcome of the matter. there is no doubt in my mind but that the real culprit will be delivered into your hands within a few days." "i trust that it may fall out as you wish, miss harriet," answered the general courteously. "as i have said, you shall have ample time for your mission." "thank you, sir. ten days should be more than sufficient time. 'tis but to go to new york, lay the whole affair before sir guy carleton, and return." "there are many things which might occur to bring about delay, miss harriet," he observed quietly. "in a case of this nature 'tis the part of wisdom to accept all that is offered. we will say two weeks; but general carleton must give his decision by the end of that time. the matter now rests with him. i wish you all a safe journey." he bowed gravely, and, overcome by the kindliness of this great man, the three left newburgh much happier than when they entered it. harriet was to cross the river at dobbs ferry, the post where all communication between the two armies was maintained, while mr. owen and peggy were to return to chatham to inform clifford of the result of the interview with general washington. in high spirits harriet laughed and chatted as she had not done for days, pausing ever and anon to admire the beauties of the river, uttering exclamations of delight at some particularly imposing view. before them lay west point with crow's nest mountain, butter hill and the two beacon mountains; on the southwest, pollopel's island, in use at this time as a military prison, lay at the northern entrance to the highlands; on the east were the fertile valleys of the mattewan and wappinger's creeks, and the village of fishkill landing; behind them was newburgh bay with the little village of the same name upon its shores, beyond which lay a broad champaign country. "father and clifford must see this before we sail for home," cried harriet. "oh, if i were king i'd never let the americans deprive me of such a river!" "if it affects thee like that, lass, perchance then thee has a slight idea of how we, who are natives of the country, feel toward those invaders who try to wrest it from us." "i don't wonder at your feelings, cousin david," she said. "'tis only, being english, that it seems to me a mistake to give these colonies up." "we have demonstrated by force of arms that we are no longer colonies, harriet," he reminded her quietly. "oh, i know, cousin david," she replied gaily. "but, until peace is declared, i cannot but regard you as belonging to us." at this david owen laughed heartily, but his daughter's cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled. "thee amuses me, lass. thy attitude is england's precisely. the king and his counselors know that they are beaten, but are loath to sign articles of peace, acknowledging our independence, because by so doing they surrender their last hold upon what they are pleased to still term 'colonies.' but it must come." "a truce, a truce," she cried laughing. "how can we acknowledge that we are beaten? when did england ever confess such a thing? at any rate you never could have been victorious had you not been english yourselves." peggy joined her father's laughter, and harriet too was merry. "get all the consolation thou canst out that fact, harriet," said mr. owen. "so long as independence is acknowledged we care not what sop england throws to her pride. but," he added with a deep sigh, "i do wish most earnestly that peace would come." and so, in such frame of mind, for harriet's confidence was so great that it could not but infect them, dobbs ferry was reached. the girl waved them a lively farewell as she stepped aboard the barge which was to take her across the river. "it won't be a week ere i shall be back, peggy," she cried. "i don't mind saying now that i have reason for my belief that sir guy will do as i wish in this. a week, my cousin, and you, and clifford, and i will start again for lancaster." she secreted her passport as she waved again to them. "i pray so, harriet," returned peggy. "she builds too strongly upon the belief that the british commander will help her, i fear me," remarked mr. owen as the ferry pushed away for the far shore. peggy turned to him quickly. "has thee no hope, father?" "very little, lass. general washington warned sir henry clinton what the consequences would be if he did not give up the perpetrators of the murder of captain johnson. sir henry responded by ordering a court-martial. when sir guy came he communicated the findings of the court, and seemed to feel bound by the fact that it returned a verdict of not guilty against the leaders. i see not how harriet can change the attitude of the british commander." "if she fails will general washington carry out the execution, father?" peggy's lips tremblingly put the question. "he must, child. he must do what is right at whatever cost to his feelings. this whole affair hath distressed him greatly, but justice to the army and to the public require that the measure be carried out in full. he did not come to his determination without mature deliberation, and his course hath been sanctioned by congress, and supported by the approbation of the principal officers of the army. the general explained the matter at some length to me last night. it is peculiarly distressing to us, lass, because the victim happens to be of kin. still, however painful the matter is, we must acknowledge the justice of the proceeding." "ye-es, father." but peggy's voice was very faint, and she looked white and spent. just? oh, yes; it was just, but granting justice; granting that it was the method of procedure in warfare, what comfort could that give to those who loved the boy? peggy was greatly downcast in spirits when, as harriet's figure became a mere speck on the farther shore, she and her father resumed their journey to chatham. colonel dayton was greatly pleased over the report from headquarters. "i hope that the guilty may be brought to punishment instead of this youth," he ejaculated fervently. "i cannot tell you, mr. owen, how exceedingly distasteful this whole affair is to all of us. if it were not right and just we could not proceed with it. i believe that i voice the thought of every american when i say that i hope the sister will succeed in her efforts. did the general send any message regarding the young man's treatment?" "there is a letter, colonel," exclaimed david owen, drawing forth the missive. "i had nigh forgotten it." "this is most kind of the general," exclaimed the colonel with an expression of relief as he perused the letter. "i will call the young man to hear it." in a few moments an orderly with clifford in charge entered the room. the youth greeted his cousins affectionately, and listened attentively to the officer as he read the epistle: "you will treat captain williams with every tenderness and politeness consistent with his present situation which his rank, fortune and connections together with his private estate demand. further, inform the young gentleman that his sister hath been permitted to go to new york to place the matter in the hands of sir guy carleton. no further steps in the matter will be taken until his commander is heard from." colonel dayton looked up benignantly. "so there is hope that you may not suffer for the guilty, captain williams," he said. "if sir guy will but let us have captain lippencott, you, young sir, will not have to pay the penalty for this most atrocious deed. let us hope that your sister will be successful." clifford smiled rather wearily. "'tis but a prolongation of the suspense," he remarked. "she won't succeed. sir guy can't give up any man after a court-martial absolves him from blame. still, i am glad that harriet is well away. 'twill be just as well for her to be with father until this whole miserable business is brought to a conclusion." "then, lad, thou hast no hope?" questioned mr. owen. "none whatever, cousin david. how long a time hath your chief given harriet?" "two weeks, clifford." "two weeks! why, that is a lifetime," exclaimed he. "much may happen in two weeks." "true, captain williams; and, provided you will give your word of honor that you will make no attempt to escape, you shall be free to go and come at your pleasure," spoke colonel dayton. "i give it, sir, and thank you," returned clifford. "you have been and are most kind." "then we shall begin by leaving you with your cousins," said the colonel. "come, orderly." "is there aught that thou wouldst have me attend to, my lad?" asked mr. owen as colonel dayton left them. "if there is anything that can be done i should be glad to do it." "there is something, cousin david." clifford looked at him eagerly. "i suppose the end will come soon after the two weeks are up, therefore i wish you would stay until 'tis over. you and peggy. when i was in virginia last year wounded, as i thought, unto death, peggy came to me there that i might have some of my kindred near me in my last hours. my need is greater now than it was then. it won't be very long. i'd like a friendly face near me at the last." mr. owen was almost overcome by the plea. "my lad," he replied huskily, "it distresses me to refuse thee aught at this time, but i cannot stay. i am a soldier, as thou art, and under orders. leave was given for a few days, but 'tis nearly gone. i will make an effort to come again before the two weeks are up." "then let peggy stay, sir. accommodations are easily procured either in the village, or out here with one of the officers' families. she would be well cared for, and 'twould be a comfort to me." the boyish face was full of pleading. he was very young. david owen's eyes misted suddenly as his youth came home to him. "it must be as peggy says, lad," he rejoined, turning toward his daughter with concern. he had noted her pallor and sadness when he told her that there was but little hope for the boy, and he knew that if she stayed it must of necessity be a tax upon her strength. peggy met his anxious glance with a brave smile. she was ever ready to sink self if by so doing she could give comfort to another. "certainly i will stay, if clifford wishes it, father," she said. "i think i should like to, and harriet would wish it, i know." "can thee bear it, lass, knowing that thy cousin's time may be short?" "cousin david," spoke clifford quickly, "there isn't going to be anything melancholy about these two weeks. 'twould benefit neither my cousin nor myself to dwell upon the approach of death; so----" "she shall stay, lad," interrupted mr. owen. "thy words remove the last scruple i had anent it. would that i might be with thee also, but i shall try to come back." accordingly when david owen started on his return to lancaster peggy was left at chatham. mrs. dayton had declared that she must make her home with them, and gratefully the maiden accepted the hospitality. clifford, conformable to the instructions sent by general washington, was subjected to little restraint. relying upon the safeguard of his honor the american colonel let him come and go through the cantonment, the village, and about the surrounding country at his pleasure. peggy had her own little mare with her, and clifford having procured a mount, it came about that they spent long hours in the saddle, exploring the neighboring hills, the roads and byways around the camp. at no time did clifford exhibit sadness or melancholy. had it not been for the knowledge ever present in the background of their consciousness of what was to come it would have been a happy period. the days passed. ten had gone by, but there came no word from harriet. peggy found herself growing apprehensive. would harriet succeed? she asked herself again and again. no word had come from her. did it mean failure? she had been so sure. and peggy was glad that general washington had insisted that two weeks be the period given for the mission. that clifford was not insensible of the flight of time was made known to her the day before the two weeks were up. "we are going to ride as far as we can to-day, my cousin," he said as the horses were brought round. "there may be word from harriet, or from your general to-morrow. perhaps something will occur that will prevent us from riding." "where shall we go, clifford?" asked peggy falling at once into his mood. "our longest ride is to the five knob tree on the short hills road." "that will do admirably," he answered. "and the glen beyond. let us go through it once more. it hath much of beauty and romance in its scenery." the day was quite warm, but it was pleasant riding. clifford was unusually silent, and for the greater part of the distance seemed absorbed in thought. he turned toward her at length smiling: "i am not very talkative this morning, peggy. i have been thinking of your father. he thought that he might return, you remember." "yes, clifford. and i," she added tremulously, "have been thinking of harriet. we have had no word." "she hath failed, my cousin. had it not been so she would have been here. harriet likes not to confess failure. i was certain that she would not succeed, and consented for her sake alone that she should make the effort." "still, by that means thee had an extra lease of life, clifford," peggy reminded him. "i wonder if that hath been altogether for the best, peggy," he said seriously. "sometimes, when after all one must undergo such a penalty as lies before me, the kindest thing that can happen is to have it over with without delay." "don't, clifford," she cried shuddering. "i think that none of us could have stood it. it would have broken our hearts. with the delay we cannot but hope and believe that something will prevent this awful measure from being carried out." they had reached the five knob tree by this time, and beyond it lay the glen of which clifford had spoken. it was as he had said romantic in its wildness. various cascades leaped in foamy beauty across the path of the road which ran through the deep vale. firs lay thickly strewn about, and the horses had to pick their way carefully through them. copper mines, whose furnaces had been half destroyed by the english, were now overgrown with vines and half hidden by fallen trees, showed the combined ravages of war and nature. a few yards in advance of them the glen widened into a sylvan amphitheater, waving with firs and pines, and rendered almost impassable by underbrush. a short turning in the road suddenly brought them in front of a romantic waterfall. the cousins drew rein, watching the fall of the water in silence, for the sound of the cascade precluded them from conversation. the sun shone through the tree tops giving a varied hue to the rich greenness of the foliage, and tinging with prismatic hues the sparkling water. so intent were they upon the downpour of the waterfall that they did not notice the dark forms which stole out from the underbrush, and stealthily formed a cordon about them. by the heads of the horses two forms arose suddenly like gnomes from the earth, and a scream escaped peggy's lips as a hoarse voice shouted: "you are our prisoners! dismount instantly." chapter xxvii the safeguard of his honor "say, what is honor! 'tis the finest sense of justice which the human mind can frame, intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, and guard the way of life from all offense suffered or done." --_wordsworth._ at these words peggy was much frightened, for she thought at once that they had fallen into the hands of the pine robbers. for the briefest second clifford sat passive, then he let his riding whip fall in a stinging blow on the face of the fellow who held his bridle. with a howl of rage the man fell back, but sprang forward again as the youth, seizing the rein of peggy's little mare, attempted to make a dash for liberty. had he been alone the effort might have succeeded, but hampered with a second horse the attempt was futile. the cousins were again surrounded, and clifford was dragged unceremoniously from his saddle. he struggled fiercely with his assailants, managing to shake them off so as to reach peggy's side just as one ruffian was about to lift her from star's back. "away, sirrah!" he cried haughtily. "i will assist my cousin." "as you will, captain," answered the man, falling back respectfully. "captain!" the cousins exchanged glances of surprise as the title fell from the man's lips. what could it mean? both of them were puzzled, but neither made any comment. resistance to such a superior force was useless. their captors were heavily armed, and clifford, of course, had no weapons. now as the leader issued a command to march the youth spoke: "what is the meaning of this outrage? what do you want with us?" "young man," returned the leader in a strong determined voice, "there is no personal harm designed either to you, or to the lady. if you remain silent and quiet you may reckon on good treatment; but if you resist----" he did not complete the sentence, but touched his pistol significantly. "i see no help for it, peggy," said clifford grimly. "we shall have to go with them; though for what purpose i know not. aside from our horses we have naught of value----" "peace," cried the leader harshly. "we can't stand here all day. forward, march!" and with this the party started on a brisk walk. two men walked in front of the cousins; two on each side, and the others brought up the rear, two of them leading the horses. the glen at this point became fuller of trees, and the road overgrown by a tangle of underbrush. presently it dwindled until it became a narrow foot-path, disappearing in the distance in a mass of brushwood. it would have been impossible to pass over the path mounted, and the reason for leaving the saddle was now apparent. there were still short stretches which gave evidence that the road had been a well used thoroughfare at some former time, but now abandoned. this was, in truth, what had occurred, as it had been the road to the copper mines. notwithstanding the fact that they were afoot and were using precautions their persons more than once came into contact, rudely enough, with the projecting stumps and branches which overhung the pathway. at length the party emerged from the glen, and turned off into a road which seemed narrower, and more overgrown with underbrush than the one just left. after a distance of perhaps a half mile they came into a cleared space of considerable extent. in the center of this space stood a large frame building whose courtyard, stables, and other appurtenances proclaimed it an inn. it might have been a prosperous and well patronized hostelry at one time, but at present it bore every appearance of neglect and decay. neither peggy nor clifford had been beyond the glen, and neither had heard of this tavern, so they looked at it now with much curiosity, for it seemed to be the objective point of their captors. as they entered the courtyard a boy came forward, and took charge of the two horses without speaking. it was as though he had been watching for their coming. on the piazza an elderly woman, evidently the hostess, bustled at once to peggy's side with the obvious intention of taking her in charge. clifford drew peggy's arm within his own in a determined manner. "my cousin stays with me," he said. "she goes not out of my sight." "what nonsense!" ejaculated the leader angrily. "did i not say that no harm was intended either of you? the girl will be all right." "i think so too, my cousin," said peggy after a glance at the landlady's face. she was not ill looking, and the maiden was no longer afraid. "it may be," answered clifford. "to be sure i shall keep you where i shall be certain of the fact." "very well," said the leader shrugging his shoulders. "'tis not my affair. step in here, captain." again the cousins wondered, but without a word they entered the room indicated. there was no one within, and for the moment they were alone. peggy turned toward him quickly. "what does thee think of it all, clifford?" she cried. "i have a strong suspicion as to who is responsible," he answered with darkening brow, "but we shall see." just at this moment the door opened precipitately to admit one at whom peggy stared, then rubbed her eyes to look again; for it was harriet owen. "at last, my brother," she cried advancing toward him and throwing her arms about his neck. "we have you at last. oh, won't the rebels howl when they find their victim gone?" "harriet!" clifford unclasped her arms, and held her so that he might look at her. "i feared this. what is the meaning of this?" "it means life, liberty, freedom, my brother," she cried exultingly. "i planned it all, though i did of a truth have assistance. i had spies who found that you were permitted to ride about the country. i kept a watch for several days that i might have you brought here." "for what purpose?" he asked coldly. "you could have seen me by coming to chatham." "chatham?" she answered impatiently. "clifford, don't you understand? i could not come to chatham, because i failed. sir guy will not give up that captain lippencott to the rebel general. sir guy! poof! i weary of him!" she gave her foot an impatient stamp. "why should he shield a refugee when an english officer's life is at stake? and i have helped to further his plans too, my brother. i carried goods into lancaster for him, contraband they were. 'tis the plan now to subdue the americans by their love of indulgences, and by so pampering them draw out the money from the country. when all is gone they must surrender. war cannot be carried on without money. i helped him in his plan, i say, and now he will not do this for me." "and that wagon with the false bottom was where those goods were?" he said. "harriet, how could you do it? with cousin david who hath been so kind to you in charge of that work of detection." "i did not know that he was there, clifford. as for the false bottom in the wagon, i knew naught of that, as i said. i was not told of that. it was a----" "a cask in a barrel of vinegar," put in peggy quietly. "john found it, harriet, but he did not speak of it to father, or robert, or thy brother here." "john drayton found it?" she cried, amazed. "why, how did he come to look in the vinegar?" "i think 'twas something that thee said which caused him to be suspicious, harriet. so thee sees that that part of thy general's plan hath failed." "i am glad of it," cried harriet. "glad! glad! he would not help me. he will only investigate further. and general washington will wait no longer when he has heard from him. clifford, you need too much explanation. the time hath come to act." "do i understand that you are responsible for having us brought to this place?" he asked. "yes, oh, yes," she answered hastily. "only peggy was not to come in here. she was to be kept in another room, and after all was over she was to be returned to camp." "after what was over, my sister?" his voice was cold, but harriet did not seem to notice it. "your escape, clifford. come, we have no time to lose. fresh horses await us in the stables, saddled and bridled ready for instant use. here are clothes for a disguise. don them, and we leave at once. we are to make a wide dã©tour to the north of chatham, reaching the passaic river again at newark. a boat will be there in the bay to take us to new york. it cannot fail if we start now." "and peggy?" he questioned so calmly that she should have taken alarm from the quietness of his voice. "peggy is to go back to chatham, and tell the rebels they may seek another victim," she replied gleefully. "peggy to go back to face colonel dayton with information that i have escaped?" he cried, amazement written on every feature. "she was not to know it, cliff, but you would have her to come in here. beside, they wouldn't harm her. she is a whig herself, remember. oh, she may come with us," she added as his brow grew dark. "only, clifford, we must make haste. the longer start we have the better chance we stand of success." "who are those men that brought us here?" "hirelings," she cried. "of course i paid them well. don't ask so many questions, cliff. they are natives from near here. they will do anything i ask." "come, peggy," he said rising. "we are going back. not all the hirelings in the world shall make me break my parole." "clifford, 'tis not the time for quixotic foolishness. do you not understand that sir guy hath sent word to general washington that he will investigate further? general washington does not want that. he wants lippencott, or, failing him, a victim. he will wait only so long as it takes sir guy's letter to reach him. it means death, clifford. an ignominious death." "and do you know that you are asking me to break my parole, my sister? that you are asking me to break my word of honor? that you wish me to betray the trust reposed in me by a chivalrous foe?" "a chivalrous foe!" she scoffed. "is it chivalrous to slay the innocent for the guilty? i tell you, clifford, that truly as you live i have taken the only way to save you. you are justifiable in breaking any word given under such circumstances. is life of so little worth that you do not care for it? what hath rendered you so indifferent?" "life without honor hath no charm for me, my sister," he returned solemnly. "a parole is more binding upon a soldier than ropes of steel, or chains of iron would be. men have broken paroles, but when they do they no longer are esteemed by honorably minded men. such are poltroons, cowards. i will not be of their number. a truce to this talk! if i am to die, i will die as a soldier, blameless and of spotless reputation." "clifford," she entreated him earnestly, "'tis the only hope. you have already broken your parole in passing the prescribed limits of the rides. i had regard for your scruples by having you brought here. and now, since you are here through no fault of your own, you can take advantage of the fact to escape." "sophistry," he uttered shortly. "that is no salve to the conscience, harriet." "but the death, my brother?" she was very white for clifford was moving toward the door. "'tis no way for a gentleman to die." "the mode is not at all to my liking, my sister," he answered gravely. "hanging is not, in very truth, a death for a gentleman; still a man may be a gentleman though he be hanged." he put his hand on the door-knob and turned again toward peggy. but harriet uttered a cry of anguish. "i'll never see you again, clifford," she cried. "and father will be broken-hearted. he helped me in this." "harriet!" he cried. "do not ask me to believe that colonel owen prefers his son's life to his son's honor? i'll not believe it." "believe what you will, my brother, only come with me," and she clung to him pleadingly. "i'll call those men, clifford." "you shall not, harriet," he answered putting her aside. "instead get your own horse and come back with us." "i cannot, clifford. i must see our father. aren't you going to kiss me?" but clifford turned from her, saying coldly: "you have wounded me too deeply, my sister." "clifford, thee must not leave thy sister so," interposed peggy. "mistaken she may be in her efforts for thy liberty, but 'tis done through love for thee. 'twould be monstrous to leave her unkindly!" "i mean not to be unkind, my cousin," he returned. "but consider my feelings when my own sister hath tried to put me in a position that would reflect upon mine honor." "thee must not be too hard on her, clifford. women do not regard such things as men do. when their affections are bestowed all else is subordinated to them. doth a mother, a sister, a wife cease to love when man hath lost his honor? i tell thee such things seem different to us. thy sister hath intended thee no wrong. 'tis because of her love for thee that she hath done this." "true, peggy," came from harriet brokenly. "true." "peggy," cried clifford in astonishment. "such words from you who are the soul of honor? you would not ask me to do this." "no; but 'tis because of my upbringing, clifford. i have been taught that a word once passed must be kept. that a promise must not be broken. therefore, i understand why thee would prefer death to the breaking of thy parole. i am proud that thee feels as thee does about it. i am prouder still that even thy sister cannot tempt thee to break thy word great as is thy love for her. yet underneath it all i have a heart of a woman, and that heart aches for thy sister." "'fore george!" murmured the youth gazing from one to the other in perplexity. "i never dreamed of this. i thought of course that such things were regarded alike by both sexes. i----" he passed his hand over his brow thoughtfully. then his expression softened. "i have much to learn. harriet!" and he opened his arms. "my brother," she cried. "my wonderful brother! and you will go with me?" "no," he answered while he kissed her. "no, harriet. however such things may appear to you, for me there is but one course: i must return. but come with us." "i cannot, clifford. i must go back to father." "then i must leave you, because we have been long, too long away from camp. and now good-bye!" "something may yet come up to save him, harriet," whispered peggy as harriet followed them weeping to the piazza. "no," she said disconsolately. "this was the only hope, peggy. everything hath been done that can be done. i shall never see him again." there was no one about. long afterward peggy found that this state of things had been prearranged in order that the inmates of the inn might not be held responsible when clifford's flight should be discovered. clifford himself brought their horses from the stables. silently they mounted, then turned for a last word with harriet. but she had sunk upon the steps of the porch, and with her face buried in her hands, was sobbing in heart-breaking accents: "clifford! clifford! clifford!" chapter xxviii "how could she know?" "to-morrow! o, that's sudden! spare him, spare him!" --"_measure for measure._" colonel dayton met them as they reã«ntered the camp. his brow was wrinkled with anxiety, but it cleared as if by magic at sight of them. "odds life, captain!" he cried. "i feared lest something had befallen you. it is long past your usual hour for returning." "something did befall, sir," answered clifford, who had expected questioning. "i crave pardon for the delay. we were like not to have come back at all, but through no fault of ours. in fact, sir, we were set upon by a party of miscreants in the glen beyond the five knob tree, and captured. at the place to which we were conducted was a person through whom----" he hesitated unwilling that harriet should be connected with the affair. "in short, colonel dayton," he said frankly, "i would prefer that you do not question me concerning the manner of our release. as soon as possible we came back." "say no more, sir," exclaimed colonel dayton. "that you did come back proves you an honorable gentleman. i might have had to mourn a prisoner, but once more hath martial faith received justification. it will give me great pleasure to report your conduct to the commander-in-chief." much relieved that the matter was to be probed no further the cousins dismounted, and were preparing to retire to their respective domiciles when the voice of colonel dayton arrested them. "i wonder," he was saying, "if this doth not explain the letter that i received to-day from general washington?" "what letter, sir?" asked clifford quickly. "may i inquire if it contained any further orders regarding me?" "certainly; and i am obliged to answer that it does contain orders. listen, and you shall hear them, though it gives me great pain to read them. they mean a curtailment of your privileges, captain." whereupon he produced the missive, and read as follows: "sir, i am informed that captain williams is at the camp without a guard, and under no restraint whatever. this, if true, is certainly wrong; i wish to have the young gentleman treated with all possible tenderness consistent with his present situation, but considered a close prisoner and kept with the greatest security. it is well to be careful. there are many rumors afloat anent a rescue, which may be but idle talk. still, when dealing with a foe every precaution should be used that there is no weakness in our defenses of which he may take advantage." "so end our rides, peggy," remarked clifford, smiling slightly. "'tis a preliminary to the final order." "i trust not, captain," exclaimed the officer. "this merely limits you to the confines of the cantonment. i should not like the general to consider that i was negligent. it would have been the same, sir, had not your misadventure of to-day occurred." "i understand, colonel," answered the youth deferentially. "i appreciate the courtesy you have ever shown me. i think, on the whole, 'tis best. and it might be worse." "yes," spoke peggy. "it might be worse, clifford." so there were no more rides; but as the weather began to be very hot, and exceedingly dry, they consoled themselves with the reflection that riding would be extremely unpleasant under such conditions. another week glided by, in which there was no sign of harriet, nor was there any further order from the commander-in-chief. it seemed as though they had been set down in the midst of the cantonment and forgotten. the strain began to tell upon clifford. "would that it were over," burst from him one morning as he sat with peggy under the shade of a tree near the quarters of the dayton family. in the distance a company was drilling, and the orders of its officer came to them faintly. peggy let fall the ox-eyed daisy whose petals she had been counting, and turned toward him in dismay. "clifford, thee don't mean that," she cried. "but i do, peggy," he answered passionately. "the fluctuations from hope to despair, and from despondency to hope again are far more trying than a certain knowledge of death would be. it keeps me on tenter-hooks. so long as the thing is inevitable, i wish it would come." peggy looked at him anxiously. his face was pale, and there were deep circles under his eyes that spoke of wakeful nights. his experience with his sister had been far more distressing than she had realized. it came to the girl with a shock just how care-worn he was. "would that father were here that he might comfort thee," she cried tearfully. "thee needs him, my cousin." "an he were, he would say--'my lad, thy promise was that peggy should not be saddened by talk of thy woes; yet here thee is dwelling upon thy sorrow both to thy detriment and hers.'" the transition to david owen's manner was so abrupt that peggy smiled through her tears. "i did not know that thee was possessed of the art of mimicry, my cousin," she remarked. "harriet hath it to perfection, but thee has never shown sign of it before." "'tis only one whom i know well that i can mimic," he told her. "sometimes, i believe that i know cousin david better than father." "and thou shouldst have been my father's son," she cried. "why, thee looks enough like him to be his son. then thee would have been my brother, as thou shouldst have been." clifford smiled at her warmth. "in that case," he said quizzically, "i should have been an american. i wonder if i should have been a quaker, and a rebel with the rest of you? or should i have been a tory?" "oh, a rebel! a rebel!" she replied promptly, pleased that his melancholy was vanishing. "i doubt it. i cannot imagine myself as other than loyal to my king any more than i can think of myself as a quaker." "neither can i think of thee as a quaker," she said. "some way thee doesn't fit in with the society." at this clifford laughed outright. "that is because you know me as i am," he observed. "now i cannot think of you as being anything but a little quakeress. you see, we get our ideas of persons when we first know them, and then we cannot change." "'and cannot change,'" she repeated with some amusement. "clifford owen, thee didn't like me at all at first." "no, i did not," he responded, and laughed again. "'twas because i did not know you aright. peggy, see how light-hearted you have made me. our merriment hath caused colonel dayton to give us unusual attention." peggy glanced at the officer. he had been watching the drill, but several times had turned to look at them. as the drill ended he came slowly toward them. "you seem quite happy this morning," he observed. something in his manner struck the girl with foreboding. "yes, colonel," answered clifford. "i had an attack of the blues, but my cousin hath charmed them away. we were trying to imagine me an american." "we should welcome you, sir," spoke the colonel courteously. "may i speak to you a moment, captain?" clifford rose instantly. "it hath come then?" he asked quietly. "yes," answered the colonel huskily. "it was hard to break in upon your mirth, but i thought you would prefer to have me tell you than to hear it from another." "you are most kind, sir." the youth's voice trembled ever so little. "we were too merry, my cousin. 'against ill chances men are ever merry. but heaviness foreruns the good event.'" his tones were steady as he finished the quotation, and he added: "i am ready at any time." but at this peggy uttered a cry. "now? oh, that would be inhuman! surely not now?" "nay," said colonel dayton, alarmed by her paleness. "'tis not as you think, child. he goes to the guard-house now. the sentence will not be carried out until to-morrow morning." "'tis so sudden," she protested piteously. "nay, peggy, it hath been too long deferred," demurred clifford. "'tis well to have the anxiety and suspense over. you must not give way." "but what can i do, clifford? thee has no one but me to do for thee. how can i comfort thee?" "dear little cousin," he said softly, "you have done much already. think what these last weeks would have been for me had you not stayed here. be brave a little longer. the colonel will let me see you again." "yes," said colonel dayton briefly. and peggy was left alone. alone! with wide, unseeing eyes she stared at a patch of green grass in front of her where ox-eyed daisies grew like golden stars. alone! harriet had not come, as peggy had been hoping she would. and her father! could he not get leave? alone! alone! what comfort could she, a mere girl, be to her cousin in this trying hour? far afield the milkweed nodded a soft welcome to the butterflies winging, like flying flowers, over the fields. a bumblebee droned drowsily near, humming his song to unheeding ears. where the tall pine trees of the forest met the sky argosies of clouds spread their portly sails along the blue. in the heat of the july morning peggy sat shaking like a leaf. "i must be brave," she told herself again and again. "he hath no one here but me. i must be harriet and cousin william both to him. i must be of comfort to him." long she sat there under the tree trying to pull herself together, but after a while she rose and made her way into the house. it was well on toward the end of the afternoon when colonel dayton came to her. "your cousin wishes to see you, child," he said pityingly. "he bears up well, but i need not say to you that he will need all his fortitude to go through with this ordeal." "i shall not fail him, friend," said peggy with quivering lips. "i am all of kith or kin that is near him. i shall not fail." but the maiden had need of all her resolution when she entered the guard-house where clifford was, for he was most despondent. "i am glad it is ended, peggy," he said gloomily. "the restlessness of waiting is over at last. all the feverish anxiety, the hope, the longing, are past, and the end hath come. do you remember last year, when john drayton, that yankee captain, was condemned to this same sort of death, what father said? he said, 'the vicissitudes of war are many, my son. by sad fortune you might find yourself in the same condition as this young fellow.' and here i am, in very truth, condemned to die on the gallows. i have been thinking of it all day." "clifford," she cried in alarm, for there sounded a note of agitation in his words that made her fearful lest he lose his self-control, "thee must not talk like that. think on something else." "but to die like this," he cried. "an owen on the gibbet! 'tis bitter, bitter! i had planned a different death. 'twas on the battle-field. gloriously to fall, fighting for the king and england. i do not fear death, my cousin. it is not that. 'tis the awfulness of the mode. i cannot help but think of that other death which i would so gladly die. i have ever loved martial music, and 'twas my thought that at my death the muffled drum would beat for a soldier's honorable funeral." "clifford! clifford!" she cried. he was so young, so noble, and yet to die a cruel death on the scaffold! it was hard. what comfort could she give him? he was in sore need of it. "bear with me for just a little, peggy," he said. "it hath eaten into my heart--the manner of this death. i have talked bravely all these long, weary days of waiting, but oh! if they would just shoot me! the shamefulness of a gallows!" "don't!" she cried suddenly. "i--i cannot bear it." the boy pulled himself together sharply. "forgive me," he said speaking more calmly. "i'll be good now, my cousin, but 'tis enough to make a man rave to contrast the death he would die with the one he must. i'll think of it no more." "thee must not," she said faintly. "what--what can i do for thee, clifford?" "i have writ some letters," he said picking them up from the table. "will you see that they are sent? i need not ask. i know you will. one is for harriet; i was too hard on her, peggy. i see it now. one is for father, and one for your father and mother. had i been their own son they could not have treated me with more tenderness. and, peggy----" "yes, my cousin?" "there is one for miss sally," he said with slight hesitation. his face flushed and he busied himself among the papers on the table. "'fore george," he cried with an abrupt change of manner, "i can't forget that look of scorn in her blue eyes! it haunts me. i writ before, you remember? she did not reply, but sent word that she had no hard feelings. 'twas all i had a right to expect, but somehow---i have writ again, peggy, to tell her---well, you know i don't want her to think me altogether contemptible." it was such a youthful outburst, and so natural that peggy had hard work to retain her self-control. then, like a flash, she knew the comfort she could give him. leaning toward him with brightening eyes she said softly: "sally doesn't think thee so, clifford. she hath a high opinion of thee. she told me to tell thee something at the very last---and that would be now, would it not?" "now, or never, peggy. what did she say?" he listened eagerly. "she said that she considered thee the finest gentleman that she ever knew." "she said that?" the youth caught his breath quickly. "just that, clifford. the finest gentleman that she ever knew," repeated the maiden impressively. "was not that much to say?" "it was, my cousin. it overwhelms me." his eyes were misty, and in them there was wonder too. "it is the highest praise that she could have spoken. 'tis strange that she should so speak; because, peggy, i have always wanted to be a gentleman. oh, i am by birth, i know. i don't mean that. i mean just and honorable, chivalrous and gallant, performing heroic deeds, and--and all the rest of it," he finished boyishly. "and thee is all that, clifford," said peggy gently. "no," he said with unwonted humility. "i would like to be, but i am, in truth, a pretty stiff, stubborn, unreasonable sort of fellow. you have had cause to know that, peggy. and so hath sally. if life were, by any chance, given me i should try to be all that she thinks me; but i am to die. to die----" he stopped suddenly, and his eyes began to glow. "'fore george!" he cried, "if i cannot live i can die as she would have the 'finest gentleman' to die! what if it is on the scaffold, and not the battle-field? though it be not a glorious death, it can be glorified! how could she know that that was just what i would need to put me on my mettle? how could she know?" "then it hath helped thee, clifford?" spoke peggy, marveling at the transformation in him. "helped me? it hath put new life into me. it hath given me courage. why, do you know the shame of the thing had almost prostrated me? an owen on the gallows, peggy. i would not have minded so much if the execution had taken place right after we left lancaster, but to have it hanging over me day after day for so long. peggy, it hath eaten into my heart." "oh, clifford!" she cried pityingly. "i did not dream thee felt it so!" "i did not want you to know, little cousin. i would not tell you now, but that you have brought me the cheer that i need. how good you have always been to me, peggy. i wonder if the world holds anything sweeter than a quaker maid! that one should so highly esteem me----" he smiled at her with sudden radiance. "i shall have pleasant thoughts to go with me now, peggy. you will tell her?" "yes," she answered, and added chokingly: "i wish father were here." "and so do i. i hoped that he would be with me at the end; i believe that he would be here if he could." "thee shall not be alone, clifford. i am going to be with thee." peggy spoke bravely enough, but her eyes grew dark at the very thought, and she began to tremble. "not for the world, peggy!" he cried, horrified. "i would like to have cousin david with me, but not you. oh, not you! i can suffer firmly what 'twould kill you to see." "but to be alone, clifford?" "it can't be helped, peggy. i won't have you there. promise me that you won't go." "i will do as thee wishes, my cousin," she answered tremulously. "but--but i will be here at the door as thee comes out. i could not bear to have thee without a glimpse of a friend, or----" she could not finish. "be at the door if you wish, little cousin. i should like that, but go no further." he arose and held out his hands. "it's good-bye now, peggy." a sense of suffocation overwhelmed peggy, and she could not speak. he was so young, so noble, so manly in meeting his untoward fate, and yet he must suffer this ignominious death without the comfort of a friend's face near him. as she found her way blindly out of the room a passionate prayer rose insistently through all her being: "oh, that father would come! that father would come!" chapter xxix in the shadow of death "... a darker departure is near, the death-drum is muffled, and sable the bier." --_campbell._ the beautiful sunset retreat was sounding its inspiring notes as peggy left the guard-house, and slowly made her way across the parade-ground. there was a note of pathos in the strain which seemed peculiarly impressive, and all at once clifford's words came back to her: "i have ever loved martial music." then, because there seemed naught else than waiting before her, she sank down under the tree where clifford and she had sat that very morning, now so long ago, to listen to the music that he loved. suddenly, as she listened, there came to the girl a dim sort of understanding. there was a permeating tonal effect in the music, striking at times, merely suggestive at others, which seemed to breathe the spirit of bivouac and battle, of suffering and patriotism, and the yearning of great devotion. a lump came into her throat. an indefinable emotion swept her with an appreciation of the spirit of a soldier which renders him happy at the thought of dying in his country's battles. the flood-gates of peggy's tears were open, and she wept unrestrainedly. presently colonel dayton saw her sitting there, and came to her side. "my child," he said sitting down by her, "i have just been in to see your cousin. your visit hath cheered him greatly. he bears up wonderfully. manly he is, and noble. never hath a duty been so repugnant to my feelings as this one is. were it not just i could not perform it." "i cannot speak of justice, sir, when my cousin is to die," sobbed she. "it may be just. i know not. my countrymen are not unkind; they are not stirred by vengeful thoughts. it must be right, else general washington would not sanction it; i am but a girl. i do not know. but oh, sir! to those of us who love my cousin it doth seem that mercy should temper justice." "affection blinds us, miss peggy," he said, and sighed. "under its influence we are apt to forget that other boy to whom not even justice was given. if men were always just there would be no necessity for mercy. had justice been rendered captain johnson your cousin would not stand in need of clemency." "true," she said. "true. it must be right, since such good men say so. i cannot see it now. all sense of equity is lost to me, lost because the victim is my cousin. some time----" she paused unable to proceed. presently she looked up at him. "colonel dayton," she said, "it hath occurred to me that the matter may not end here. that perchance the enemy in reprisal for this--the loss of one of their officers--may wreak vengeance upon one of ours of like rank. that would necessitate another retaliation; to be followed by still another on the part of the enemy. sir, where will it stop?" "that very thought hath come to me, child," he said gravely. "and the thing is possible. this matter hath distressed general washington greatly. he hath never been so troubled since the treason of general arnold, and the execution of major andrã©. the affair hath been considered impartially by the principal men of the army, by congress, and by general washington. miss peggy, as there is a god in heaven, we believe that we are doing right. there is not one of us whose inclination does not prompt to mercy, but we dare not show it. the peculiarly atrocious murder of captain johnson cannot be ignored." "i know, i know," she murmured, passing her hand over her brow, and looking at him with eyes full of pain. "'tis strange that fairfax, who was my friend, and clifford, who is my cousin, should both be concerned in this." "it is strange and hard, my child. but vex not yourself with questioning. 'tis better to accept the inevitable with resignation, as your cousin hath done. he doth not question the justice of the decree." "he is a soldier, sir," she said, "and versed in the law of war." "he is a gallant gentleman, peggy. he will meet his doom bravely. but you! would that some of your people were with you." "if father were but here," she wept. "if father were here to be with him. 'tis hard to go to death alone. oh, sir, thee won't mind if i----" "not to the execution?" he exclaimed hastily. "clifford will not permit that, sir. 'tis only that i may stand at the door of the guard-house to give him a last good-bye. he is alone. his sister would wish it." "is it wise, peggy?" he asked regarding her with deep concern. "yes, oh, yes! 'twill cheer him to have a friendly face near him." "if it will be of comfort to either of you, it may be done," he said rising. "come in, child. mrs. dayton must take you in charge." obediently peggy followed him to the house. the colonel's wife was very kind, but presently left her, thinking that she slept. it was strange that no word had come from harriet, she mused. was it possible that she had indeed lost all hope after her failure to rescue her brother? it was unlike harriet to give up like that. peggy could not believe it. why then had she not heard? and her father! perhaps he was even then speeding toward them. surely, surely, something must occur to prevent this dreadful thing from happening! the daylight faded. twilight melted into darkness. from the camp the voices of the soldiers in song or story floated in to her. peggy went to the casement window and stood staring out into the night. tattoo sounded. the noises of the camp died away, for the soldiers' day was ended. would there never be another day for clifford? how was he bearing it out there alone in the guard-house? would his high courage remain with him to the end? that he would die bravely she did not doubt; but to die! for what was she watching and waiting? she did not know. she was hoping against hope that something would happen to prevent her cousin's death. it was the night which had brought rescue to john drayton at yorktown the year before. would it not be as kind to clifford? so peggy kept her vigil, and the hours passed. once, the room grew close, and, faint from watching and grief, she slipped out under the trees. there was no moon, but the stars kept watch in the sky, twinkling down at her with quiet friendliness. in the valley the placid river murmured softly. the hills in the distance seemed but a darker, lower sky lost in the obscurity of the night. from out of the gloom the tents gleamed ghostly white. it was so still that she could hear the footsteps of the sentries as they made their rounds. with the faint streaking of the dawn came a sound that caused her to flee, horror-stricken, to her room. for the sound was that of hammering. the gallows was being erected. and at that awful sound hope fled from the girl's heart. all night she had waited, hoping, believing, that something would come to prevent the execution. now she felt that all was over. clifford must die. calmness settled upon her. for with absolute despair came a peace--a numbness that left her insensible to anything save the fact that she must be brave for clifford's sake--that he was alone, and she of all his kindred was there to give him comfort. so peggy prepared for the ordeal before her. the execution was to take place at nine o'clock. long before that hour the people from the countryside gathered. a great concourse of farmers, and citizens from the near-by farms and villages, all conversant with the details of the affair, came to see the unfortunate victim. peggy saw none of them as she went with leaden feet to the guard-house. no one said her nay as she took her position by the door. the guards glanced at her compassionately, awed by the whiteness of her face, and the awful calmness of her manner. the cousins had come to be well known in the camp, and there was not a soldier who did not commiserate the youth's fate. how fast the moments go when one is expecting a dread event! it seemed that it could not be time when the drums beat assembly, and the soldiers filed into place. a squadron of dragoons and a battalion of soldiers formed in a hollow square. within their ranks was a cart in which the prisoner was to be taken to the place of execution. the bitterness of death fell upon her as she watched for clifford's coming. she must be brave. of all his kindred she alone was there to bid him a last farewell. that was all of which peggy was conscious. she did not know that the military band had taken its position in the procession, and that the entire jersey line was forming as for parade. a stir at the door betokened the coming of the prisoner. the door opened, and two guards appeared. behind them, with a guard on either side, came the unfortunate young man who was to pay the penalty of another's crime. he was very white, but composed. as the morning sunlight fell upon him he looked so young, so handsome in his scarlet uniform, that a murmur of pity rose, and spread among the people. a mist dimmed the youth's eyes as he caught sight of the little figure standing by the door. he spoke to one of the guards, then stepped quickly to her side, stooped, and kissed her. "thank you, little cousin," he said. "all is well with me." with firm step he passed on to go to his ignoble death. as he took his place in the cart the drums began to beat the dead march, and the procession moved slowly away. peggy heard nothing. her eyes were fixed on the scarlet coat of her cousin. he did not turn. he did not look to right, nor to left. like a brave, gallant gentleman he was going to his doom. as long as she could see him her eyes followed him. her breath came gaspingly as the procession disappeared around a bend in the road. her senses reeled. the ground was slipping, slipping---an exclamation, sharp, penetrating, brought her to herself. the guard near her had paused in his round, and was gazing at a cloud of dust which had suddenly appeared on the morristown road. if it concealed horsemen they were coming at a furious pace. curious knots of people began to cluster in groups to watch its approach. through peggy's dulled apprehension a thrill of interest ran. as the quick beat of galloping horses sounded on the morning air she started. hope electrified her being. could it be that some one was coming with help for clifford? she ran to the road and strained her eyes toward that approaching cloud of dust. and then, from out of its enveloping particles three horses emerged. the foremost rider was standing in his stirrups, and high above his head he waved a flag frantically. a murmur of excitement stirred the watchers as the sunlight caught the pure folds of the banner. it was a white flag. a white flag: the flag of life, of salvation. peggy shrieked at sight of it. a shriek that mingled joy with an agony of apprehension lest he be too late. lest he be too late! she tore the kerchief from her neck and waved it wildly. she called to him entreatingly to hurry, hurry, and knew not that her cries could not be heard. she wrung her hands at her helplessness. on came the horseman. nearer and nearer he drew. the horse's flanks were steaming. his eyes were strained and blood-shot. blood flecked the foam flew from his nostrils, but still his rider lashed him to greater speed. he called to her as he passed: "which way, peggy? which way?" she raised her hand and pointed toward the bend in the road, and he thundered on. she had known it was drayton before he called. she knew too that her father and harriet rode behind. her father come at last! peggy was sobbing pitifully now, every vestige of self-control gone. david owen brought his horse to a sudden stop as he came opposite her, stooped, and swung her like a child up in front of him. she clung to him crying: "they have taken him, father! they have taken him!" "steady, lass! please god, we'll be in time." they were beside harriet now. harriet who, with pale, set features, never turned. her eyes were fixed on john drayton's flying figure as though all her hope lay with him. faster and faster he rode. the white flag streamed above him. his horse was running like the wind. the bend in the road was turned at last. peggy hid her face against her father's shoulder afraid to look. but---clifford? she must know. she sat up, but at first the crowd was all that she could see. a black mass of swaying people whose heads were turned in their direction to see what the commotion portended. the mass parted as drayton dashed toward it, leaving a clear path to the cart. and oh, thank heaven! clifford sat there safe, safe. the provost-marshal stood with his hand on the rope, arrested in the very act of performing his awful duty by john drayton's hoarse shout: "forbear! forbear in the name of congress! a reprieve!" chapter xxx and then the end "here the free spirit of mankind, at length, throws its last fetters off; and who shall place a limit to the giant's unchained strength, or curb his swiftness in the forest race." --_bryant._ a mighty shout went up from the people as they heard the words. it was followed by another, and still another until the jersey hills echoed with the sound. men flung their hats in the air and were not ashamed that tears, all unchecked, lay on their cheeks. the extreme youth, the beauty of the unfortunate young man had gone straight to their hearts. he was one of the enemy, but his manly bearing in the face of an ignominious death commanded respect and admiration, and had produced the stern joy that is felt by warriors toward a foeman worthy of their steel. in compliment to the occasion, the band struck up a lively english air, and in the general enthusiasm which followed there was a rush for the cart. clifford was lifted bodily to their shoulders and borne, amid boisterous acclamations, to his relatives. a true briton has an abhorrence of any display of emotion; so now, although more moved than he had been of the menace of death, the youth struggled to retain his composure. his features worked convulsively, and his lips quivered. he could not trust himself to speak, but stood, white and trembling, endeavoring to maintain an appearance of calm. colonel dayton saw his agitation, and made his way at once to his side. "friends," he said lifting his hand for silence, "we all rejoice at this most fortunate outcome of a most unfortunate matter. but it hath been very trying to those deeply concerned, so i would suggest that we give three cheers for captain williams, who hath shown us how gallantly a brave man may face death, and then leave him with his friends." at that the tumultuous concourse stretched their throats and cheered with all their might. then followed three cheers for congress, and three for the commander-in-chief, general washington. by this time clifford had mastered himself sufficiently to speak, and he said something in a low tone to colonel dayton. again the officer raised his hand. "captain williams proposes three cheers for captain drayton, who brought the reprieve," he said. then pandemonium broke loose. cheer after cheer rent the very air. hoarse shouts of "drayton!" "drayton!" sounded, but no drayton appeared. under the confusion incident to the delivering of the reprieve he had slipped away to give his well-nigh spent horse the attention of which the noble animal stood in need. then, being in want of rest himself, he had thrown himself prone on the grass under a tree, and was at that very moment fast asleep. so, finding their calls for him vain, the crowd finally dispersed in high good humor. yet these were jersey people. people who but a few short months before had cried to congress for retaliation for the cruel murder of fairfax johnson. had lippencott, the murderer, stood before them to pay the penalty of his dastardly deed, the situation would have been different. they were a kindly people as well as a just one; so now compassion, respect and admiration led them to rejoice that this fair young life was not to be offered as a sacrifice in a blood reprisal. at length clifford was left alone with his relatives. for a time their hearts were too full to do more than utter ejaculations of thankfulness, or lavish terms of endearment upon him. when calm finally prevailed both he and peggy were eager to know all that had occurred. "as ye know, i expected to return in a short time when i left here," began david owen. "when i reached lancaster, however, i found that the enemy had been unusually active in the matter of contraband goods, so that my department was almost overwhelmed with goods to be examined, seized, or distributed. a soldier's duty comes before everything, and even though one who is dear should be in peril, he must perform it. i could have put drayton in charge had he been there, but it seems that he felt that he must exert himself in clifford's behalf, and so had obtained leave of absence a few days after our departure. major dale had assumed drayton's duty in addition to his own, but despite that fact he gave me what assistance he could, so that at last i was able to leave. i found harriet at philadelphia----" "found harriet where?" exclaimed peggy amazed. "she must tell how she came to be there," smiled her father. "we passed through morristown yesterday, by the west road, on our way to pompton, where we expected to see the marquis de chastellux; the reason for this will come in harriet's narrative. we missed him by a day, so bode there for the night, expecting to come here to-day. just as we were ready to start for this camp this morning captain drayton dashed into the yard, calling for a change of horses. you may imagine our feelings when he told us that the execution was set for this morning. had it not been that he also told us that he held a reprieve i do not know what harriet would have done. there was no time to be lost, if we would reach here in time, so, as soon as his horse was ready, we were off with what result ye know. drayton hath worked tirelessly in the matter. he hath come from headquarters with but little rest either for himself, or his horses, and was in the saddle all night after riding all of yesterday." "but why, why?" asked clifford bewildered. "why should drayton so concern himself about me?" "and now 'tis my turn to explain," broke in harriet. she did not tell him that drayton had been actuated by gratitude toward her because she had assisted him in escaping from a similar plight at yorktown. she did not wish her brother to know the part she had taken in that affair, so now she ignored his question, and began her explanation. "i gave up hope that day you and peggy left me at the inn, my brother. i knew of nothing more that could be done, so resolved to go back to father. judge of my surprise when, a few miles beyond morristown, captain drayton overtook me. he was on his way to headquarters then. i told him all that had occurred, and the exact state of affairs. he advised me to go back to philadelphia to try to enlist count de rochambeau's aid. the congress and general washington held their french allies in high esteem, he said. if their sympathies could be enlisted it would have great weight. he had been in philadelphia himself seeing gentlemen whose standing was such as might be expected to exert influence. he was urging that memorials and petitions should be sent congress in such numbers that their appeal could not be overlooked. at the highlands he intended seeing the principal men of the army, and last of all general washington, to relate how i had----" she checked herself quickly, and bit her lip. after a moment she continued: "of course i went to philadelphia. there was no one at the house but the servants, so i asked sally evans to stay with me. peggy," turning toward her cousin suddenly, "i never can tell you what a help she was. that i had been a spy at middlebrook was against me. that i had been banished the city just the year before militated against anything that i undertook. i realized keenly the difference in being there with my kindred, and then without them. i almost despaired of doing anything, but sally would not let me give up. she was full of suggestions. the gentlemen of congress would not see me, so sally cornered mr. jacob deering, and coaxed, and pleaded until, for very peace, the poor man told her that he would do what he could for us. through him i got a letter before the congress. "then sally went to see betty williams. betty's frenchman, it seems, is an attachã© to the french minister. this gave us access to both the minister and count de rochambeau. meantime, captain drayton's work began to take effect, and letters poured in upon the congress urging clemency. the french gentlemen advised seeing the marquis de chastellux, who is a great favorite with your general; so, as cousin david had come by this time we set out for pompton, where we expected to find him. 'twas there that we met captain drayton, of which cousin david hath told you. clifford," speaking with impressiveness, "'tis thought that you will be sent to philadelphia to be under the eye of the congress while the matter receives due deliberation. if you are, i want you to go to sally evans, and thank her for what she hath done." "it will give me great pleasure, my sister," he answered. a smile, winsome in its radiance, parted his lips, and he gazed across the valley at the distant hills. at the hills? or did he see instead a pair of blue eyes swimming in tears through which divinest pity shone? did he see a saucy, piquant face framed in ringlets that escaped in bewitching wilfulness from under the dainty cap of a quakeress? did he see---harriet's voice, tremulous from a mist of tears in its laughter, broke in upon his musings. "and oh, john drayton's hat," she was saying. "you should have seen it, peggy. when we started this morning 'twas nearly straight. oh, not entirely! that would be impossible. somehow i could not take my eyes from it. the harder he rode the further on the side it got. i remembered that cousin david had said that all through the battle of hobkirk's hill he had fought with it on his ear, and had been made a captain for valor. peggy, it came to me that with him it meant confidence, and a determination to succeed. i knew that he would reach here in time so long as that hat was at a perilous angle. if he had put it straight i should have died." "harriet," said clifford in determined tones, "i want to know why captain drayton was so interested? why should he exert himself to avert an untoward fate from me?" "because," answered harriet. "oh, because, clifford. he did it for me. now don't ask questions, there's a good fellow!" clifford's face became thoughtful. "i see, my sister," he said gently. harriet flashed a glance at peggy, then laughed. her brother's inference was plain. "i wonder where john is?" cried peggy. "he hath been asleep under a tree, my dear," spoke the colonel's wife. "and 'tis time for dinner. will you ask him to come in?" "let me go, peggy," said clifford hastily. "i would like to speak with him." and knowing that her cousin would prefer to see drayton alone, peggy assented. drayton lay on the grass, lazily stretching himself, as clifford approached. he rose and began to brush off his dusty uniform. "i'd be sent to the guard-house if this uniform were to make its appearance on parade, wouldn't i, captain?" he asked easily. "captain drayton," said clifford huskily, "you have given me no chance to thank you for the service you rendered me. i want to do so now----" "don't," said drayton. "it gave me great pleasure to be of service. why need we speak of it further?" "but i owe you my life, sir," cried clifford. "nay," smiled drayton. "you owe it to your sister. i did it for harriet." clifford winced perceptibly as john drayton used his sister's name without the usual prefix. it had been unconsciously done, but this of course he could not know. he started to speak, but before he could do so, drayton was speaking: "you need not fear a repetition of to-day, captain williams. anxiety and suspense are not pleasant companions, and i'd like to tell you just how things are. the temper of the people all over the nation hath changed regarding this affair. 'tis beginning to be openly talked that mercy should supersede the necessity for retaliation. then too a letter hath come to general washington from your own general in which he deplores the action of lippencott. he asks for further time for investigation, and promises that no more such atrocities shall be perpetrated upon american prisoners, which was our chief motive for reprisal. and your father, colonel owen, hath protested strongly against thus using a prisoner of the capitulation of yorktown, claiming that such an one cannot be used as hostage in any manner. our chief, sir, is exceedingly jealous of his honor. he would do naught that would savor of a breach of faith with the enemy. for this reason, and others, he hath consented that more time shall be taken by all parties for deliberation. in fact, captain williams, everything points to a pleasant termination of the matter; although you may find the waiting necessary for deliberation long and irksome." "sir," spoke clifford with emotion, "you have made me twice your debtor: first, in bringing the reprieve; and now, by relieving me of anxiety. a man may meet death with fortitude; no man can bear an indefinite suspense which may have the gallows for its termination. i cannot thank you as i would wish. words cannot express my gratitude. but, sir, i believe that i can contribute toward promoting your happiness. you have said that you did this for my sister; harriet acknowledges that it was for her. i have always been persuaded that a deeper feeling existed between you than either would confess. our first altercation was, i believe, regarding this very fact. that i have been prejudiced, i'll admit frankly. but now, sir, i want to tell you that any objection that i may have had against your suit to my sister is withdrawn. more, i will use whatever of influence i may have with my father to advance your happiness." "eh! what?" stammered drayton in confusion. his face had been a study with its varying expressions as clifford talked. "er--a---well, you see----" "do you mean that your feelings have changed, sir?" demanded clifford his brow darkening. "on the contrary," exclaimed drayton settling his neck ruffles hastily, "my esteem for miss harriet hath increased. but, captain, in america 'tis customary to consult the lady before such matters are arranged. i shouldn't like anything done until her wishes are expressed." "your delicacy does you great credit, sir," spoke clifford holding out his hand. "i have been wrong in my estimation of you." "and i appreciate your offer of assistance, captain williams." drayton shook his hand warmly, sincere admiration in his eyes. "'twas handsomely done." "and now," exclaimed clifford almost gaily, "as our little affairs are settled, i must bring you in to dinner. the colonel's wife hath commissioned me to do so." "i am not up to it yet, captain. i shall find a bed somewhere, and sleep a while longer. odds life! how seedy lack of sleep doth make a man! present my compliments to the ladies, will you?" drayton sank back on the grass as he spoke. "with pleasure, sir," answered the other. punctiliously they saluted, and clifford strode back to the house. john drayton laughed softly. "now that," he said, apostrophizing the tree, "that is what might be called an amende honorable. whew! wouldn't i like to see harriet's face when he tells her!" some hours later, having slept off fatigue, washed, and freshened himself from top to toe, drayton approached the colonel's quarters. on the piazza sat david owen, with peggy on one side of him, and clifford on the other. his arm was about his daughter; his other hand rested on the younger man's knee. it was a pretty picture; full of affection and quiet happiness. john drayton stopped short at sight of it. his face whitened, and a look of consternation flashed into his eyes. crushing his beaver over his eyes he wheeled, then strode away. the three had been so absorbed that they had not seen him, but harriet came upon the piazza in time to catch his expression. "peggy," she called. "yes?" peggy went to her quickly alarmed by the insistence of her tone. "go to that captain of yours at once. he is troubled." "john troubled, harriet? why----" "'tis naught but what you can remedy, you little goose," cried harriet shaking her. "don't you dare come back into the house until you have corrected his misapprehension. i won't have john drayton made unhappy to-day!" "but----" "oh, go!" she caught peggy suddenly and kissed her. "go!" and wondering much peggy sped down the path after drayton. he heard her light footsteps, and waited for her. "why, how tired thee looks, john," she exclaimed startled by his appearance. "i thought thee had a good sleep. thee has worn thyself out by thy exertions. and all for us. yet thee hath given us no chance to thank thee." "i was glad to do it, peggy. clifford is--yes; he's a fine fellow," he said as though he were obliged to acknowledge the fact. "he is well worth saving. i was glad to do it. yet--yet i am thankful that i did not know----" "know what?" she asked as he came to a pause. he did not answer, and the girl looked at him in perplexity. presently she spoke: "i think i never saw thee with thy hat on straight before, john. i like it not." "i did not know." he touched it indifferently. "i always find it so when i am discouraged, or hopeless." "but why should thee be discouraged or hopeless now?" she queried amazed. "how shall i bear it when you are in england, peggy?" he cried suddenly, and turned from her. peggy saw a great light. when she spoke it was with sweet authority: "put thy hat as thee always wears it, john. then let me tell thee about clifford and sally." "about whom?" drayton swung about with precipitation. "about sally and my cousin, clifford. i want to tell thee how a message from her cheered his dark hours; i want to tell thee how she helped harriet; and i want to tell thee, most of all, john, what i am hoping will happen if clifford is sent to philadelphia. dear sally!" "dear sally!" he echoed fervently, settling his hat in its accustomed place with the jaunty gesture that she loved. "dear, dear sally," he added with growing enthusiasm as he met her laughing eyes. "i shall like to hear about sally. tell me, peggy." * * * * * it was three months later. congress had recognized the altered sentiments of the country regarding the case of retaliation, and clifford was set unconditionally at liberty. england had advised that hostilities be suspended, so that--while the two armies retained their respective positions, one in new york, the other in the highlands--it was only as a precautionary measure. the prospects for peace were at last assuming reality. there were yet many months to come before the terms would be agreed upon, and the treaty signed; but american independence was not only achieved, but recognized at last by england. it was a bright october day. peggy sat with her mother in the sitting-room of the dwelling in chestnut street. the air was just chill enough to warrant a fire, and the two were deep in conversation before its pleasant warmth. the door opened hastily, and harriet, looking marvelously beautiful in a new riding habit, stood on the threshold. "i am going for a ride with robert, madam my cousin," she said, and the rich color flooded her cheeks as she pronounced the young man's name. "we may be a little late. you will not mind?" "nay, harriet." mrs. owen smiled at her fondly. "i hope that thy ride will be a pleasant one." "mother," spoke peggy as harriet closed the door, "how this terrible contagion of domesticity, as general washington puts it, hath seized everybody! here betty hath married her frenchman and gone to france; clifford is to come for sally before he sails for england; and now there is robert and harriet. what does thee think of them?" "i am much pleased," answered the lady. "it will be the making of harriet. robert is of a strong, true nature which will command her respect. he hath invested her with every noble quality, believing her to be as lovely in character as she is beautiful in person. harriet likes to be so considered. peggy, rather than fall below his ideal she will become all that his fancy paints her." "i am so glad that we are not to lose her, mother. harriet hath become very dear to me." "and mother is glad that thou art not to go across the seas, peggy. at one time i feared that perchance clifford----" "and so did john," laughed peggy. * * * * * other stories in this series are: peggy owen peggy owen, patriot peggy owen at yorktown transcriber's note: minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. edgar huntly or, memoirs of a sleep-walker by charles brockden brown to the public: the flattering reception that has been given, by the public, to arthur mervyn, has prompted the writer to solicit a continuance of the same favour, and to offer to the world a new performance. america has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but has seldom furnished themes to the moral painter. that new springs of action and new motives to curiosity should operate,--that the field of investigation, opened to us by our own country, should differ essentially from those which exist in europe,--may be readily conceived. the sources of amusement to the fancy and instruction to the heart, that are peculiar to ourselves, are equally numerous and inexhaustible. it is the purpose of this work to profit by some of these sources; to exhibit a series of adventures, growing out of the condition of our country, and connected with one of the most common and most wonderful diseases or affections of the human frame. one merit the writer may at least claim:--that of calling forth the passions and engaging the sympathy of the reader by means hitherto unemployed by preceding authors. puerile superstition and exploded manners, gothic castles and chimeras, are the materials usually employed for this end. the incidents of indian hostility, and the perils of the western wilderness, are far more suitable; and for a native of america to overlook these would admit of no apology. these, therefore, are, in part, the ingredients of this tale, and these he has been ambitious of depicting in vivid and faithful colours. the success of his efforts must be estimated by the liberal and candid reader. c. b. b. chapter i. i sit down, my friend, to comply with thy request. at length does the impetuosity of my fears, the transports of my wonder, permit me to recollect my promise and perform it. at length am i somewhat delivered from suspense and from tremors. at length the drama is brought to an imperfect close, and the series of events that absorbed my faculties, that hurried away my attention, has terminated in repose. till now, to hold a steadfast pen was impossible; to disengage my senses from the scene that was passing or approaching; to forbear to grasp at futurity; to suffer so much thought to wander from the purpose which engrossed my fears and my hopes, could not be. yet am i sure that even now my perturbations are sufficiently stilled for an employment like this? that the incidents i am going to relate can be recalled and arranged without indistinctness and confusion? that emotions will not be reawakened by my narrative, incompatible with order and coherence? yet when i shall be better qualified for this task i know not. time may take away these headlong energies, and give me back my ancient sobriety; but this change will only be effected by weakening my remembrance of these events. in proportion as i gain power over words, shall i lose dominion over sentiments. in proportion as my tale is deliberate and slow, the incidents and motives which it is designed to exhibit will be imperfectly revived and obscurely portrayed. oh, why art thou away at a time like this. wert thou present, the office to which my pen is so inadequate would easily be executed by my tongue. accents can scarcely be too rapid; or that which words should fail to convey, my looks and gestures would suffice to communicate. but i know thy coming is impossible. to leave this spot is equally beyond my power. to keep thee in ignorance of what has happened would justly offend thee. there is no method of informing thee except by letter, and this method must i, therefore, adopt. how short is the period that has elapsed since thou and i parted, and yet how full of tumult and dismay has been my soul during that period! what light has burst upon my ignorance of myself and of mankind! how sudden and enormous the transition from uncertainty to knowledge! but let me recall my thoughts; let me struggle for so much composure as will permit my pen to trace intelligible characters. let me place in order the incidents that are to compose my tale. i need not call on thee to listen. the fate of waldegrave was as fertile of torment to thee as to me. his bloody and mysterious catastrophe equally awakened thy grief, thy revenge, and thy curiosity. thou wilt catch from my story every horror and every sympathy which it paints. thou wilt shudder with my foreboding and dissolve with my tears. as the sister of my friend, and as one who honours me with her affection, thou wilt share in all my tasks and all my dangers. you need not be reminded with what reluctance i left you. to reach this place by evening was impossible, unless i had set out early in the morning; but your society was too precious not to be enjoyed to the last moment. it was indispensable to be here on tuesday, but my duty required no more than that i should arrive by sunrise on that day. to travel during the night was productive of no formidable inconvenience. the air was likely to be frosty and sharp, but these would not incommode one who walked with speed. a nocturnal journey in districts so romantic and wild as these, through which lay my road, was more congenial to my temper than a noonday ramble. by nightfall i was within ten miles of my uncle's house. as the darkness increased, and i advanced on my way, my sensations sunk into melancholy. the scene and the time reminded me of the friend whom i had lost. i recalled his features, and accents, and gestures, and mused with unutterable feelings on the circumstances of his death. my recollections once more plunged me into anguish and perplexity. once more i asked, who was his assassin? by what motives could he be impelled to a deed like this? waldegrave was pure from all offence. his piety was rapturous. his benevolence was a stranger to remissness or torpor. all who came within the sphere of his influence experienced and acknowledged his benign activity. his friends were few, because his habits were timid and reserved; but the existence of an enemy was impossible. i recalled the incidents of our last interview, my importunities that he should postpone his ill-omened journey till the morning, his inexplicable obstinacy, his resolution to set out on foot during a dark and tempestuous night, and the horrible disaster that befell him. the first intimation i received of this misfortune, the insanity of vengeance and grief into which i was hurried, my fruitless searches for the author of this guilt, my midnight wanderings and reveries beneath the shade of that fatal elm, were revived and reacted. i heard the discharge of the pistol, i witnessed the alarm of inglefield, i heard his calls to his servants, and saw them issue forth with lights and hasten to the spot whence the sound had seemed to proceed. i beheld my friend, stretched upon the earth, ghastly with a mortal wound, alone, with no traces of the slayer visible, no tokens by which his place of refuge might be sought, the motives of his enmity or his instruments of mischief might be detected. i hung over the dying youth, whose insensibility forbade him to recognise his friend, or unfold the cause of his destruction. i accompanied his remains to the grave; i tended the sacred spot where he lay; i once more exercised my penetration and my zeal in pursuit of his assassin. once more my meditations and exertions were doomed to be disappointed. i need not remind thee of what is past. time and reason seemed to have dissolved the spell which made me deaf to the dictates of duty and discretion. remembrances had ceased to agonize, to urge me to headlong acts and foster sanguinary purposes. the gloom was half dispersed, and a radiance had succeeded sweeter than my former joys. now, by some unseen concurrence of reflections, my thoughts reverted into some degree of bitterness. methought that to ascertain the hand who killed my friend was not impossible, and to punish the crime was just. that to forbear inquiry or withhold punishment was to violate my duty to my god and to mankind. the impulse was gradually awakened that bade me once more to seek the elm; once more to explore the ground; to scrutinize its trunk. what could i expect to find? had it not been a hundred times examined? had i not extended my search to the neighbouring groves and precipices? had i not pored upon the brooks, and pried into the pits and hollows, that were adjacent to the scene of blood? lately i had viewed this conduct with shame and regret; but in the present state of my mind it assumed the appearance of conformity with prudence, and i felt myself irresistibly prompted to repeat my search. some time had elapsed since my departure from this district,--time enough for momentous changes to occur. expedients that formerly were useless might now lead instantaneously to the end which i sought. the tree which had formerly been shunned by the criminal might, in the absence of the avenger of blood, be incautiously approached. thoughtless or fearless of my return, it was possible that he might, at this moment, be detected hovering near the scene of his offences. nothing can be pleaded in extenuation of this relapse into folly. my return, after an absence of some duration, into the scene of these transactions and sufferings, the time of night, the glimmering of the stars, the obscurity in which external objects were wrapped, and which, consequently, did not draw my attention from the images of fancy, may in some degree account for the revival of those sentiments and resolutions which immediately succeeded the death of waldegrave, and which, during my visit to you, had been suspended. you know the situation of the elm, in the midst of a private road, on the verge of norwalk, near the habitation of inglefield, but three miles from my uncle's house. it was now my intention to visit it. the road in which i was travelling led a different way. it was requisite to leave it, therefore, and make a circuit through meadows and over steeps. my journey would, by these means, be considerably prolonged; but on that head i was indifferent, or rather, considering how far the night had already advanced, it was desirable not to reach home till the dawn. i proceeded in this new direction with speed. time, however, was allowed for my impetuosities to subside, and for sober thoughts to take place. still i persisted in this path. to linger a few moments in this shade, to ponder on objects connected with events so momentous to my happiness, promised me a mournful satisfaction. i was familiar with the way, though trackless and intricate, and i climbed the steeps, crept through the brambles, leaped the rivulets and fences with undeviating aim, till at length i reached the craggy and obscure path which led to inglefield's house. in a short time, i descried through the dusk the widespread branches of the elm. this tree, however faintly seen, cannot be mistaken for another. the remarkable bulk and shape of its trunk, its position in the midst of the way, its branches spreading into an ample circumference, made it conspicuous from afar. my pulse throbbed as i approached it. my eyes were eagerly bent to discover the trunk and the area beneath the shade. these, as i approached, gradually became visible. the trunk was not the only thing which appeared in view. somewhat else, which made itself distinguishable by its motions, was likewise noted. i faltered and stopped. to a casual observer this appearance would have been unnoticed. to me, it could not but possess a powerful significance. all my surmises and suspicions instantly returned. this apparition was human, it was connected with the fate of waldegrave, it led to a disclosure of the author of that fate. what was i to do? to approach unwarily would alarm the person. instant flight would set him beyond discovery and reach. i walked softly to the roadside. the ground was covered with rocky masses, scattered among shrub-oaks and dwarf-cedars, emblems of its sterile and uncultivated state. among these it was possible to elude observation and yet approach near enough to gain an accurate view of this being. at this time, the atmosphere was somewhat illuminated by the moon, which, though it had already set, was yet so near the horizon as to benefit me by its light. the shape of a man, tall and robust, was now distinguished. repeated and closer scrutiny enabled me to perceive that he was employed in digging the earth. something like flannel was wrapped round his waist and covered his lower limbs. the rest of his frame was naked. i did not recognise in him any one whom i knew. a figure, robust and strange, and half naked, to be thus employed, at this hour and place, was calculated to rouse up my whole soul. his occupation was mysterious and obscure. was it a grave that he was digging? was his purpose to explore or to hide? was it proper to watch him at a distance, unobserved and in silence, or to rush upon him and extort from him, by violence or menaces, an explanation of the scene? before my resolution was formed, he ceased to dig. he cast aside his spade and sat down in the pit that he had dug. he seemed wrapped in meditation; but the pause was short, and succeeded by sobs, at first low and at wide intervals, but presently louder and more vehement. sorely charged was indeed that heart whence flowed these tokens of sorrow. never did i witness a scene of such mighty anguish, such heart-bursting grief. what should i think? i was suspended in astonishment. every sentiment, at length, yielded to my sympathy. every new accent of the mourner struck upon my heart with additional force, and tears found their way spontaneously to my eyes. i left the spot where i stood, and advanced within the verge of the shade. my caution had forsaken me, and, instead of one whom it was duty to persecute, i beheld, in this man, nothing but an object of compassion. my pace was checked by his suddenly ceasing to lament. he snatched the spade, and, rising on his feet, began to cover up the pit with the utmost diligence. he seemed aware of my presence, and desirous of hiding something from my inspection. i was prompted to advance nearer and hold his hand, but my uncertainty as to his character and views, the abruptness with which i had been ushered into this scene, made me still hesitate; but, though i hesitated to advance, there was nothing to hinder me from calling. "what, ho!" said i. "who is there? what are you doing?" he stopped: the spade fell from his hand; he looked up and bent forward his face towards the spot where i stood. an interview and explanation were now, methought, unavoidable. i mustered up my courage to confront and interrogate this being. he continued for a minute in his gazing and listening attitude. where i stood i could not fail of being seen, and yet he acted as if he saw nothing. again he betook himself to his spade, and proceeded with new diligence to fill up the pit. this demeanour confounded and bewildered me. i had no power but to stand and silently gaze upon his motions. the pit being filled, he once more sat upon the ground, and resigned himself to weeping and sighs with more vehemence than before. in a short time the fit seemed to have passed. he rose, seized the spade, and advanced to the spot where i stood. again i made preparation as for an interview which could not but take place. he passed me, however, without appearing to notice my existence. he came so near as almost to brush my arm, yet turned not his head to either side. my nearer view of him made his brawny arms and lofty stature more conspicuous; but his imperfect dress, the dimness of the light, and the confusion of my own thoughts, hindered me from discerning his features. he proceeded with a few quick steps along the road, but presently darted to one side and disappeared among the rocks and bushes. my eye followed him as long as he was visible, but my feet were rooted to the spot. my musing was rapid and incongruous. it could not fail to terminate in one conjecture, that this person was _asleep_. such instances were not unknown to me, through the medium of conversation and books. never, indeed, had it fallen under my own observation till now, and now it was conspicuous, and environed with all that could give edge to suspicion and vigour to inquiry. to stand here was no longer of use, and i turned my steps towards my uncle's habitation. chapter ii. i had food enough for the longest contemplation. my steps partook, as usual, of the vehemence of my thoughts, and i reached my uncle's gate before i believed myself to have lost sight of the elm. i looked up and discovered the well-known habitation. i could not endure that my reflections should so speedily be interrupted. i therefore passed the gate, and stopped not till i had reached a neighbouring summit, crowned with chestnut-oaks and poplars. here i more deliberately reviewed the incidents that had just occurred. the inference was just, that the man, half clothed and digging, was a sleeper; but what was the cause of this morbid activity? what was the mournful vision that dissolved him in tears, and extorted from him tokens of inconsolable distress? what did he seek, or what endeavour to conceal, in this fatal spot? the incapacity of sound sleep denotes a mind sorely wounded. it is thus that atrocious criminals denote the possession of some dreadful secret. the thoughts, which considerations of safety enable them to suppress or disguise during wakefulness, operate without impediment, and exhibit their genuine effects, when the notices of sense are partly excluded and they are shut out from a knowledge of their entire condition. this is the perpetrator of some nefarious deed. what but the murder of waldegrave could direct his steps hither? his employment was part of some fantastic drama in which his mind was busy. to comprehend it demands penetration into the recesses of his soul. but one thing is sure: an incoherent conception of his concern in that transaction bewitches him hither. this it is that deluges his heart with bitterness and supplies him with ever-flowing tears. but whence comes he? he does not start from the bosom of the earth, or hide himself in airy distance. he must have a name and a terrestrial habitation. it cannot be at an immeasurable distance from the haunted elm. inglefield's house is the nearest. this may be one of its inhabitants. i did not recognise his features, but this was owing to the dusky atmosphere and to the singularity of his garb. inglefield has two servants, one of whom was a native of this district, simple, guileless, and incapable of any act of violence. he was, moreover, devoutly attached to his sect. he could not be the criminal. the other was a person of a very different cast. he was an emigrant from ireland, and had been six months in the family of my friend. he was a pattern of sobriety and gentleness. his mind was superior to his situation. his natural endowments were strong, and had enjoyed all the advantage of cultivation. his demeanour was grave, and thoughtful, and compassionate. he appeared not untinctured with religion; but his devotion, though unostentatious, was of a melancholy tenor. there was nothing in the first view of his character calculated to engender suspicion. the neighbourhood was populous. but, as i conned over the catalogue, i perceived that the only foreigner among us was clithero. our scheme was, for the most part, a patriarchal one. each farmer was surrounded by his sons and kinsmen. this was an exception to the rule. clithero was a stranger, whose adventures and character, previously to his coming hither, were unknown to us. the elm was surrounded by his master's domains. an actor there must be, and no one was equally questionable. the more i revolved the pensive and reserved deportment of this man, the ignorance in which we were placed respecting his former situation, his possible motives for abandoning his country and choosing a station so much below the standard of his intellectual attainments, the stronger my suspicions became. formerly, when occupied with conjectures relative to the same topic, the image of this man did not fail to occur; but the seeming harmlessness of his ordinary conduct had raised him to a level with others, and placed him equally beyond the reach of suspicion. i did not, till now, advert to the recentness of his appearance among us, and to the obscurity that hung over his origin and past life. but now these considerations appeared so highly momentous as almost to decide the question of his guilt. but how were these doubts to be changed into absolute certainty? henceforth this man was to become the subject of my scrutiny. i was to gain all the knowledge, respecting him, which those with whom he lived, and were the perpetual witnesses of his actions, could impart. for this end i was to make minute inquiries, and to put seasonable interrogatories. from this conduct i promised myself an ultimate solution of my doubts. i acquiesced in this view of things with considerable satisfaction. it seemed as if the maze was no longer inscrutable. it would be quickly discovered who were the agents and instigators of the murder of my friend. but it suddenly occurred to me, for what purpose shall i prosecute this search? what benefit am i to reap from this discovery? how shall i demean myself when the criminal is detected? i was not insensible, at that moment, of the impulses of vengeance, but they were transient. i detested the sanguinary resolutions that i had once formed. yet i was fearful of the effects of my hasty rage, and dreaded an encounter in consequence of which i might rush into evils which no time could repair, nor penitence expiate. "but why," said i, "should it be impossible to arm myself with firmness? if forbearance be the dictate of wisdom, cannot it be so deeply engraven on my mind as to defy all temptation, and be proof against the most abrupt surprise? my late experience has been of use to me. it has shown me my weakness and my strength. having found my ancient fortifications insufficient to withstand the enemy, what should i learn from thence but that it becomes me to strengthen and enlarge them? "no caution, indeed, can hinder the experiment from being hazardous. is it wise to undertake experiments by which nothing can be gained, and much may be lost? curiosity is vicious, if undisciplined by reason, and inconducive to benefit." i was not, however, to be diverted from my purpose. curiosity, like virtue, is its own reward. knowledge is of value for its own sake, and pleasure is annexed to the acquisition, without regard to any thing beyond. it is precious even when disconnected with moral inducements and heartfelt sympathies; but the knowledge which i sought by its union with these was calculated to excite the most complex and fiery sentiments in my bosom. hours were employed in revolving these thoughts. at length i began to be sensible of fatigue, and, returning home, explored the way to my chamber without molesting the repose of the family. you know that our doors are always unfastened, and are accessible at all hours of the night. my slumbers were imperfect, and i rejoiced when the morning light permitted me to resume my meditations. the day glided away, i scarcely know how, and, as i had rejoiced at the return of morning, i now hailed, with pleasure, the approach of night. my uncle and sisters having retired, i betook myself, instead of following their example, to the _chestnut-hill_. concealed among its rocks, or gazing at the prospect which stretched so far and so wide around it, my fancy has always been accustomed to derive its highest enjoyment from this spot. i found myself again at leisure to recall the scene which i had witnessed during the last night, to imagine its connection with the fate of waldegrave, and to plan the means of discovering the secret that was hidden under these appearances. shortly, i began to feel insupportable disquiet at the thoughts of postponing this discovery. wiles and stratagems were practicable, but they were tedious, and of dubious success. why should i proceed like a plotter? do i intend the injury of this person? a generous purpose will surely excuse me from descending to artifices. there are two modes of drawing forth the secrets of another,--by open and direct means and by circuitous and indirect. why scruple to adopt the former mode? why not demand a conference, and state my doubts, and demand a solution of them, in a manner worthy of a beneficent purpose? why not hasten to the spot? he may be, at this moment, mysteriously occupied under this shade. i may note his behaviour; i may ascertain his person, if not by the features that belong to him, yet by tracing his footsteps when he departs, and pursuing him to his retreats. i embraced this scheme, which was thus suggested, with eagerness. i threw myself with headlong speed down the hill and pursued my way to the elm. as i approached the tree, my palpitations increased, though my pace slackened. i looked forward with an anxious glance. the trunk of the tree was hidden in the deepest shade. i advanced close up to it. no one was visible, but i was not discouraged. the hour of his coming was, perhaps, not arrived. i took my station at a small distance, beside a fence, on the right hand. an hour elapsed before my eyes lighted on the object of which they were in search. my previous observation had been roving from one quarter to another. at last, it dwelt upon the tree. the person whom i before described was seated on the ground. i had not perceived him before, and the means by which he placed himself in this situation had escaped my notice. he seemed like one whom an effort of will, without the exercise of locomotion, had transported hither, or made visible. his state of disarray, and the darkness that shrouded him, prevented me, as before, from distinguishing any peculiarities in his figure or countenance. i continued watchful and mute. the appearances already described took place on this occasion, except the circumstance of digging in the earth. he sat musing for a while, then burst into sighs and lamentations. these being exhausted, he rose to depart. he stalked away with a solemn and deliberate pace. i resolved to tread, as closely as possible, in his footsteps, and not to lose sight of him till the termination of his career. contrary to my expectation, he went in a direction opposite to that which led to inglefield's. presently, he stopped at bars, which he cautiously removed, and, when he had passed through them, as deliberately replaced. he then proceeded along an obscure path, which led across stubble-fields, to a wood. the path continued through the wood, but he quickly struck out of it, and made his way, seemingly at random, through a most perplexing undergrowth of bushes and briers. i was, at first, fearful that the noise which i made behind him, in trampling down the thicket, would alarm him; but he regarded it not. the way that he had selected was always difficult: sometimes considerable force was requisite to beat down obstacles; sometimes it led into a deep glen, the sides of which were so steep as scarcely to afford a footing; sometimes into fens, from which some exertions were necessary to extricate the feet, and sometimes through rivulets, of which the water rose to the middle. for some time i felt no abatement of my speed or my resolution. i thought i might proceed, without fear, through brakes and dells which my guide was able to penetrate. he was perpetually changing his direction. i could form no just opinion as to my situation or distance from the place at which we had set out. i began at length to be weary. a suspicion, likewise, suggested itself to my mind, whether my guide did not perceive that he was followed, and thus prolonged his journey in order to fatigue or elude his pursuer. i was determined, however, to baffle his design. though the air was frosty, my limbs were bedewed with sweat and my joints were relaxed with toil, but i was obstinately bent upon proceeding. at length a new idea occurred to me. on finding me indefatigable in pursuit, this person might resort to more atrocious methods of concealment. but what had i to fear? it was sufficient to be upon my guard. man to man, i needed not to dread his encounter. we at last arrived at the verge of a considerable precipice. he kept along the edge. from this height, a dreary vale was discoverable, embarrassed with the leafless stocks of bushes, and encumbered with rugged and pointed rocks. this scene reminded me of my situation. the desert tract called norwalk, which i have often mentioned to you, my curiosity had formerly induced me to traverse in various directions. it was in the highest degree rugged, picturesque, and wild. this vale, though i had never before viewed it by the glimpses of the moon, suggested the belief that i had visited it before. such a one i knew belonged to this uncultivated region. if this opinion were true, we were at no inconsiderable distance from inglefield's habitation. "where," said i, "is this singular career to terminate?" though occupied with these reflections, i did not slacken my pursuit. the stranger kept along the verge of the cliff, which gradually declined till it terminated in the valley. he then plunged into its deepest thickets. in a quarter of an hour he stopped under a projecture of the rock which formed the opposite side of the vale. he then proceeded to remove the stalks, which, as i immediately perceived, concealed the mouth of a cavern. he plunged into the darkness, and in a few moments his steps were heard no more. hitherto my courage had supported me, but here it failed. was this person an assassin, who was acquainted with the windings of the grotto, and who would take advantage of the dark to execute his vengeance upon me, who had dared to pursue him to these forlorn retreats? or was he maniac, or walker in his sleep? whichever supposition were true, it would be rash in me to follow him. besides, he could not long remain in these darksome recesses, unless some fatal accident should overtake him. i seated myself at the mouth of the cave, determined patiently to wait till he should think proper to emerge. this opportunity of rest was exceedingly acceptable after so toilsome a pilgrimage. my pulse began to beat more slowly, and the moisture that incommoded me ceased to flow. the coolness, which for a little time was delicious, presently increased to shivering, and i found it necessary to change my posture, in order to preserve my blood from congealing. after i had formed a path before the cavern's mouth, by the removal of obstructions, i employed myself in walking to and fro. in this situation i saw the moon gradually decline to the horizon, and, at length, disappear. i marked the deepenings of the shade, and the mutations which every object successively underwent. the vale was narrow, and hemmed in on all sides by lofty and precipitous cliffs. the gloom deepened as the moon declined, and the faintness of starlight was all that preserved my senses from being useless to my own guidance. i drew nearer the cleft at which this mysterious personage had entered. i stretched my hands before it, determined that he should not emerge from his den without my notice. his steps would, necessarily, communicate the tidings of his approach. he could not move without a noise which would be echoed to, on all sides, by the abruptness by which this valley was surrounded. here, then, i continued till the day began to dawn, in momentary expectation of the stranger's reappearance. my attention was at length excited by a sound that seemed to issue from the cave. i imagined that the sleeper was returning, and prepared therefore to seize him. i blamed myself for neglecting the opportunities that had already been afforded, and was determined that another should not escape. my eyes were fixed upon the entrance. the rustling increased, and presently an animal leaped forth, of what kind i was unable to discover. heart-struck by this disappointment, but not discouraged, i continued to watch, but in vain. the day was advancing apace. at length the sun arose, and its beams glistened on the edges of the cliffs above, whose sapless stalks and rugged masses were covered with hoarfrost. i began to despair of success, but was unwilling to depart until it was no longer possible to hope for the return of this extraordinary personage. whether he had been swallowed up by some of the abysses of this grotto, or lurked near the entrance, waiting my departure, or had made his exit at another and distant aperture, was unknown to me. exhausted and discouraged, i prepared, at length, to return. it was easy to find my way out of this wilderness by going forward in one direction, regardless of impediments and cross-paths. my absence i believed to have occasioned no alarm to my family, since they knew not of my intention to spend the night abroad. thus unsatisfactorily terminated this night's adventures. chapter iii. the ensuing day was spent partly in sleep, and partly in languor and disquietude. i incessantly ruminated on the incidents of the last night. the scheme that i had formed was defeated. was it likely that this unknown person would repeat his midnight visits to the elm? if he did, and could again be discovered, should i resolve to undertake a new pursuit, which might terminate abortively, or in some signal disaster? but what proof had i that the same route would be taken, and that he would again inter himself alive in the same spot? or, if he did, since his reappearance would sufficiently prove that the cavern was not dangerous, and that he who should adventure in might hope to come out again in safety, why not enter it after him? what could be the inducements of this person to betake himself to subterranean retreats? the basis of all this region is _limestone_; a substance that eminently abounds in rifts and cavities. these, by the gradual decay of their cementing parts, frequently make their appearance in spots where they might have been least expected. my attention has often been excited by the hollow sound which was produced by my casual footsteps, and which showed me that i trod upon the roof of caverns. a mountain-cave and the rumbling of an unseen torrent are appendages of this scene, dear to my youthful imagination. many of romantic structure were found within the precincts of norwalk. these i had industriously sought out; but this had hitherto escaped my observation, and i formed the resolution of some time exploring it. at present i determined to revisit the elm, and dig in the spot where this person had been employed in a similar way. it might be that something was here deposited which might exhibit this transaction in a new light. at the suitable hour, on the ensuing night, i took my former stand. the person again appeared. my intention to dig was to be carried into effect on condition of his absence, and was, consequently, frustrated. instead of rushing on him, and breaking at once the spell by which his senses were bound, i concluded, contrary to my first design, to wait his departure, and allow myself to be conducted whithersoever he pleased. the track into which he now led me was different from the former one. it was a maze, oblique, circuitous, upward and downward, in a degree which only could take place in a region so remarkably irregular in surface, so abounding with hillocks and steeps and pits and brooks, as _solesbury_. it seemed to be the sole end of his labours to bewilder or fatigue his pursuer, to pierce into the deepest thickets, to plunge into the darkest cavities, to ascend the most difficult heights, and approach the slippery and tremulous verge of the dizziest precipices. i disdained to be outstripped in this career. all dangers were overlooked, and all difficulties defied. i plunged into obscurities, and clambered over obstacles, from which, in a different state of mind, and with a different object of pursuit, i should have recoiled with invincible timidity. when the scene had passed, i could not review the perils i had undergone without shuddering. at length my conductor struck into a path which, compared with the ruggedness of that which we had lately trodden, was easy and smooth. this track led us to the skirt of the wilderness, and at no long time we reached an open field, when a dwelling appeared, at a small distance, which i speedily recognised to be that belonging to inglefield. i now anticipated the fulfilment of my predictions. my conductor directed his steps towards the barn, into which he entered by a small door. how were my doubts removed! this was no other than clithero edny. there was nothing in his appearance incompatible with this conclusion. he and his fellow-servant occupied an apartment in the barn as a lodging-room. this arduous purpose was accomplished, and i retired to the shelter of a neighbouring shed, not so much to repose myself after the fatigues of my extraordinary journey, as to devise further expedients. nothing now remained but to take clithero to task; to repeat to him the observations of the two last nights; to unfold to him my conjectures and suspicions; to convince him of the rectitude of my intentions; and to extort from him a disclosure of all the circumstances connected with the death of waldegrave which it was in his power to communicate. in order to obtain a conference, i resolved to invite him to my uncle's to perform a certain piece of work for me under my own eyes. he would, of course, spend the night with us, and in the evening i would take an opportunity of entering into conversation with him. a period of the deepest deliberation was necessary to qualify myself for performing suitably my part in this projected interview. i attended to the feelings that were suggested in this new state of my knowledge. i found reason to confide in my newly-acquired equanimity. "remorse," said i, "is an ample and proper expiation for all offences. what does vengeance desire but to inflict misery? if misery come, its desires are accomplished. it is only the obdurate and exulting criminal that is worthy of our indignation. it is common for pity to succeed the bitterest suggestions of resentment. if the vengeful mind be delighted with the spectacle of woes of its own contriving, at least its canine hunger is appeased, and thenceforth its hands are inactive." on the evening of the next day, i paid a visit to inglefield. i wished to impart to him the discoveries that i had made, and to listen to his reflections on the subject. i likewise desired to obtain all possible information from the family respecting the conduct of clithero. my friend received me with his usual kindness. thou art no stranger to his character; thou knowest with what paternal affection i have ever been regarded by this old man; with what solicitude the wanderings of my reason and my freaks of passion have been noted and corrected by him. thou knowest his activity to save the life of thy brother, and the hours that have been spent by him in aiding my conjectures as to the cause of his death, and inculcating the lessons of penitence and duty. the topics which could not but occur at such a meeting were quickly discussed, and i hastily proceeded to that subject which was nearest my heart. i related the adventures of the two preceding nights, and mentioned the inference to which they irresistibly led. he said that this inference coincided with suspicions he had formed, since our last interview, in consequence of certain communications from his housekeeper. it seems the character of clithero had, from the first, exercised the inquisitiveness of this old lady. she had carefully marked his musing and melancholy deportment. she had tried innumerable expedients for obtaining a knowledge of his past life, and particularly of his motives for coming to america. these expedients, however profound and addressful, had failed. he took no pains to elude them. he contented himself with turning a deaf ear to all indirect allusions and hints, and, when more explicitly questioned, with simply declaring that he had nothing to communicate worthy of her notice. during the day he was a sober and diligent workman. his evenings he spent in incommunicative silence. on sundays, he always rambled away, no one knew whither, and without a companion. i have already observed that he and his fellow-servant occupied the same apartment in the barn. this circumstance was not unattended to by miss inglefield. the name of clithero's companion was ambrose. this man was copiously interrogated by his mistress, and she found him by no means so refractory as the other. ambrose, in his tedious and confused way, related that, soon after clithero and he had become bedfellows, the former was considerably disturbed by restlessness and talking in his sleep. his discourse was incoherent. it was generally in the tone of expostulation, and appeared to be entreating to be saved from some great injury. such phrases as these,--"have pity;" "have mercy," were frequently intermingled with groans, and accompanied with weeping. sometimes he seemed to be holding conferences with some one who was making him considerable offers on condition of his performing some dangerous service. what he said in his own person, and in answer to his imaginary tempter, testified the utmost reluctance. ambrose had no curiosity on the subject. as this interruption prevented him at first from sleeping, it was his custom to put an end to the dialogue, by awakening his companion, who betrayed tokens of great alarm and dejection on discovering how he had been employed. he would solicitously inquire what were the words that he had uttered; but ambrose's report was seldom satisfactory, because he had attended to them but little, and because he grudged every moment in which he was deprived of his accustomed repose. whether clithero had ceased from this practice, or habit had reconciled his companion to the sounds, they no longer occasioned any interruption to his slumber. no one appeared more shocked than he at the death of waldegrave. after this event his dejection suddenly increased. this symptom was observed by the family, but none but the housekeeper took the trouble to notice it to him, or build conjectures on the incident. during nights, however, ambrose experienced a renewal of his ancient disturbances. he remarked that clithero, one night, had disappeared from his side. ambrose's range of reflection was extremely narrow. quickly falling asleep, and finding his companion beside him when he awoke, he dismissed it from his mind. on several ensuing nights he awakened in like manner, and always found his companion's place empty. the repetition of so strange an incident at length incited him to mention it to clithero. the latter was confounded at this intelligence. he questioned ambrose with great anxiety as to the particulars of this event, but he could gain no satisfaction from the stupid inattention of the other. from this time there was a visible augmentation of his sadness. his fits of taciturnity became more obstinate, and a deeper gloom sat upon his brow. there was one other circumstance, of particular importance, mentioned by the housekeeper. one evening some one on horseback stopped at this gate. he rattled at the gate, with an air of authority, in token of his desire that some one would come from the house. miss inglefield was employed in the kitchen, from a window of which she perceived who it was that made the signal. clithero happened, at the same moment, to be employed near her. she, therefore, desired him to go and see whom the stranger wanted. he laid aside his work and went. the conference lasted above five minutes. the length of it excited in her a faint degree of surprise, inducing her to leave her employment and pay an unintermitted attention to the scene. there was nothing, however, but its duration that rendered it remarkable. clithero at length entered, and the traveller proceeded. the countenance of the former betrayed a degree of perturbation which she had never witnessed before. the muscles of his face were distorted and tremulous. he immediately sat down to his work, but he seemed, for some time, to have lost all power over his limbs. he struggled to avoid the sight of the lady, and his gestures, irresolute or misdirected, betokened the deepest dismay. after some time, he recovered, in some degree, his self-possession; but, while the object was viewed through a new medium, and the change existed only in the imagination of the observer, a change was certainly discovered. these circumstances were related to me by inglefield and corroborated by his housekeeper. one consequence inevitably flowed from them. the sleep-walker, he who had led me through so devious a tract, was no other than clithero. there was, likewise, a strong relation between this person and him who stopped at the gate. what was the subject of discourse between them? in answer to miss inglefield's interrogatories, he merely said that the traveller inquired whither the road led which, at a small distance forward, struck out of the principal one. considering the length of the interview, it was not likely that this was the only topic. my determination to confer with him in private acquired new force from these reflections. inglefield assented to my proposal. his own affairs would permit the absence of his servant for one day. i saw no necessity for delay, and immediately made my request to clithero. i was fashioning an implement, i told him, with respect to which i could not wholly depend upon my own skill. i was acquainted with the dexterity of his contrivances, and the neatness of his workmanship. he readily consented to assist me on this occasion. next day he came. contrary to my expectation, he prepared to return home in the evening. i urged him to spend the night with us: but no; it was equally convenient, and more agreeable to him, to return. i was not aware of this resolution. i might, indeed, have foreseen that, being conscious of his infirmity, he would desire to avoid the scrutiny of strangers. i was painfully disconcerted; but it occurred to me, that the best that could be done was to bear him company, and seize some opportunity, during this interval, of effecting my purpose. i told him, that, since he would not remain, i cared not if, for the sake of recreation, and of a much more momentous purpose, i went along with him. he tacitly, and without apparent reluctance, consented to my scheme, and, accordingly, we set off together. this was an awful crisis. the time had now come that was to dissipate my uncertainty. by what means should i introduce a topic so momentous and singular? i had been qualified by no experience for rightly conducting myself on so critical an emergency. my companion preserved a mournful and inviolable silence. he afforded me no opening by which i might reach the point in view. his demeanour was sedate, while i was almost disabled, by the confusion of my thoughts, to utter a word. it was a dreadful charge that i was about to insinuate. i was to accuse my companion of nothing less than murder. i was to call upon him for an avowal of his guilt. i was to state the ground of my suspicions, and desire him to confute or confirm them. in doing this, i was principally stimulated by an ungovernable curiosity; yet, if i intended not the conferring of a benefit, i did not, at least, purpose the infliction of evil. i persuaded myself that i was able to exclude from my bosom all sanguinary or vengeful impulses; and that, whatever should be the issue of this conversation, my equanimity would be unsubdued. i revolved various modes of introducing the topic by which my mind was engaged. i passed rapidly from one to another. none of them were sufficiently free from objection to allow me to adopt it. my perplexity became, every moment, more painful, and my ability to extricate myself, less. in this state of uncertainty, so much time elapsed, that the elm at length appeared in sight. this object had somewhat of a mechanical influence upon me. i stopped short, and seized the arm of my companion. till this moment, he appeared to have been engrossed by his own reflections, and not to have heeded those emotions which must have been sufficiently conspicuous in my looks. this action recalled him from his reverie. the first idea that occurred to him, when he had noticed my behaviour, was, that i was assailed by some sudden indisposition. "what is the matter?" said he, in a tone of anxiety: "are you not well?" "yes," replied i,--"perfectly well. but stop a moment; i have something to say to you." "to me?" answered he, with surprise. "yes," said i. "let us turn down this path," (pointing, at the same time, to that along which i had followed him the preceding night.) he now partook, in some degree, of my embarrassment. "is there any thing particular?" said he, in a doubting accent. there he stopped. "something," i answered, "of the highest moment. go with me down this path. we shall be in less danger of interruption." he was irresolute and silent, but, seeing me remove the bars and pass through them, he followed me. nothing more was said till we entered the wood. i trusted to the suggestions of the moment. i had now gone too far to recede, and the necessity that pressed upon me supplied me with words. i continued:-"this is a remarkable spot. you may wonder why i have led you to it. i ought not to keep you in suspense. there is a tale connected with it, which i am desirous of telling you. for this purpose i have brought you hither. listen to me." i then recapitulated the adventures of the two preceding nights. i added nothing, nor retrenched any thing. he listened in the deepest silence. from every incident, he gathered new cause of alarm. repeatedly he wiped his face with his handkerchief, and sighed deeply. i took no verbal notice of these symptoms. i deemed it incumbent on me to repress nothing. when i came to the concluding circumstance, by which his person was identified, he heard me without any new surprise. to this narrative i subjoined the inquiries that i had made at inglefield's, and the result of those inquiries. i then continued in these words:-"you may ask why i subjected myself to all this trouble. the mysteriousness of these transactions would have naturally suggested curiosity in any one. a transient passenger would probably have acted as i have done. but i had motives peculiar to myself. need i remind you of a late disaster? that it happened beneath the shade of this tree? am i not justified in drawing certain inferences from your behaviour? what they are, i leave you to judge. be it your task to confute or confirm them. for this end i have conducted you hither. "my suspicions are vehement. how can they be otherwise? i call upon you to say whether they be just." the spot where we stood was illuminated by the moon, that had now risen, though all around was dark. hence his features and person were easily distinguished. his hands hung at his side. his eyes were downcast, and he was motionless as a statue. my last words seemed scarcely to have made any impression on his sense. i had no need to provide against the possible suggestions of revenge. i felt nothing but the tenderness of compassion. i continued, for some time, to observe him in silence, and could discover no tokens of a change of mood. i could not forbear, at last, to express my uneasiness at the fixedness of his features and attitude. "recollect yourself. i mean not to urge you too closely. this topic is solemn, but it need not divest you of the fortitude becoming a man." the sound of my voice startled him. he broke from me, looked up, and fixed his eyes upon me with an expression of affright. he shuddered and recoiled as from a spectre. i began to repent of my experiment. i could say nothing suitable to this occasion. i was obliged to stand a silent and powerless spectator, and to suffer this paroxysm to subside of itself. when its violence appeared to be somewhat abated, i resumed:-"i can feel for you. i act not thus in compliance with a temper that delights in the misery of others. the explanation that i have solicited is no less necessary for your sake than for mine. you are no stranger to the light in which i viewed this man. you have witnessed the grief which his fate occasioned, and the efforts that i made to discover and drag to punishment his murderer. you heard the execrations that i heaped upon him, and my vows of eternal revenge. you expect that, having detected the offender, i will hunt him to infamy and death. you are mistaken. i consider the deed as sufficiently expiated. "i am no stranger to your gnawing cares; to the deep and incurable despair that haunts you, to which your waking thoughts are a prey, and from which sleep cannot secure you. i know the enormity of your crime, but i know not your inducements. whatever they were, i see the consequences with regard to yourself. i see proofs of that remorse which must ever be attendant on guilt. "this is enough. why should the effects of our misdeeds be inexhaustible? why should we be debarred from a comforter? an opportunity of repairing our errors may, at least, be demanded from the rulers of our destiny. "i once imagined that he who killed waldegrave inflicted the greatest possible injury on me. that was an error, which reflection has cured. were futurity laid open to my view, and events, with their consequences, unfolded, i might see reason to embrace the assassin as my best friend. be comforted." he was still incapable of speaking; but tears came to his relief. without attending to my remonstrances, he betrayed a disposition to return. i had, hitherto, hoped for some disclosure, but now feared that it was designed to be withheld. he stopped not till we reached inglefield's piazza. he then spoke, for the first time, but in a hollow and tremulous voice:-"you demand of me a confession of crimes. you shall have it. some time you shall have it. when it will be, i cannot tell. something must be done, and shortly." he hurried from me into the house, and, after a pause, i turned my steps home wards. my reflections, as i proceeded, perpetually revolved round a single point. these were scarcely more than a repetition, with slight variations, of a single idea. when i awoke in the morning, i hied, in fancy, to the wilderness. i saw nothing but the figure of the wanderer before me. i traced his footsteps anew, retold my narrative, and pondered on his gestures and words. my condition was not destitute of enjoyment. my stormy passions had subsided into a calm, portentous and awful. my soul was big with expectation. i seemed as if i were on the eve of being ushered into a world whose scenes were tremendous but sublime. the suggestions of sorrow and malice had, for a time, taken their flight, and yielded place to a generous sympathy, which filled my eyes with tears, but had more in it of pleasure than of pain. that clithero was instrumental to the death of waldegrave, that he could furnish the clue explanatory of every bloody and mysterious event that had hitherto occurred, there was no longer the possibility of doubting. "he, indeed," said i, "is the murderer of excellence; and yet it shall be my province to emulate a father's clemency, and restore this unhappy man to purity and to peace." day after day passed, without hearing any thing of clithero. i began to grow uneasy and impatient. i had gained so much, and by means so unexpected, that i could more easily endure uncertainty with respect to what remained to be known. but my patience had its limits. i should, doubtless, have made use of new means to accelerate this discovery, had not his timely appearance made them superfluous. sunday being at length arrived, i resolved to go to inglefield's, seek an interview with his servant, and urge him, by new importunities, to confide to me the secret. on my way thither, clithero appeared in sight. his visage was pale and wan, and his form emaciated and shrunk. i was astonished at the alteration which the lapse of a week had made in his appearance. at a small distance i mistook him for a stranger. as soon as i perceived who it was, i greeted him with the utmost friendliness. my civilities made little impression on him, and he hastened to inform me, that he was coming to my uncle's, for the purpose of meeting and talking with me. if i thought proper, we would go into the wood together, and find some spot where we might discourse at our leisure and be exempt from interruption. you will easily conceive with what alacrity i accepted his invitation. we returned from the road into the first path, and proceeded in silence, till the wildness of the surrounding scenery informed us that we were in the heart of norwalk. we lighted on a recess, to which my companion appeared to be familiar, and which had all the advantages of solitude, and was suitable to rest. here we stopped. hitherto my companion had displayed a certain degree of composure. now his countenance betokened a violent internal struggle. it was a considerable time before he could command his speech. when he had so far effected the conquest of his feelings, he began. chapter iv. you call upon me for a confession of my offences. what a strange fortune is mine! that a human being, in the present circumstances, should make this demand, and that i should be driven, by an irresistible necessity, to comply with it! that here should terminate my calamitous series! that my destiny should call upon me to lie down and die, in a region so remote from the scene of my crime; at a distance so great from all that witnessed and endured their consequences! you believe me to be an assassin. you require me to explain the motives that induced me to murder the innocent. while this is your belief, and this the scope of your expectations, you may be sure of my compliance. i could resist every demand but this. for what purpose have i come hither? is it to relate my story? shall i calmly sit here, and rehearse the incidents of my life? will my strength be adequate to this rehearsal? let me recollect the motives that governed me, when i formed this design. perhaps a strenuousness may be imparted by them which, otherwise, i cannot hope to obtain. for the sake of those, i consent to conjure up the ghost of the past, and to begin a tale that, with a fortitude like mine, i am not sure that i shall live to finish. you are unacquainted with the man before you. the inferences which you have drawn, with regard to my designs and my conduct, are a tissue of destructive errors. you, like others, are blind to the most momentous consequences of your own actions. you talk of imparting consolation. you boast the beneficence of your intentions. you set yourself to do me a benefit. what are the effects of your misguided zeal and random efforts? they have brought my life to a miserable close. they have shrouded the last scene of it in blood. they have put the seal to my perdition. my misery has been greater than has fallen to the lot of mortals. yet it is but beginning. my present path, full as it is of asperities, is better than that into which i must enter when this is abandoned. perhaps, if my pilgrimage had been longer, i might, at some future day, have lighted upon hope. in consequence of your interference, i am forever debarred from it. my existence is henceforward to be invariable. the woes that are reserved for me are incapable alike of alleviation or intermission. but i came not hither to recriminate. i came not hither to accuse others, but myself. i know the retribution that is appointed for guilt like mine. it is just. i may shudder at the foresight of my punishment and shrink in the endurance of it; but i shall be indebted for part of my torment to the vigour of my understanding, which teaches me that my punishment is just. why should i procrastinate my doom and strive to render my burden more light? it is but just that it should crush me. its procrastination is impossible. the stroke is already felt. even now i drink of the cup of retribution. a change of being cannot aggravate my woe. till consciousness itself be extinct, the worm that gnaws me will never perish. fain would i be relieved from this task. gladly would i bury in oblivion the transactions of my life. but no! my fate is uniform. the demon that controlled me at first is still in the fruition of power. i am entangled in his fold, and every effort that i make to escape only involves me in deeper ruin. i need not conceal, for all the consequences of disclosure are already experienced. i cannot endure a groundless imputation, though to free me from it i must create and justify imputations still more atrocious. my story may at least be brief. if the agonies of remembrance must be awakened afresh, let me do all that in me lies to shorten them. i was born in the county of armagh. my parents were of the better sort of peasants, and were able to provide me with the rudiments of knowledge. i should doubtless have trodden in their footsteps, and have spent my life in the cultivation of their scanty fields, if an event had not happened, which, for a long time, i regarded as the most fortunate of my life, but which i now regard as the scheme of some infernal agent, and as the primary source of all my calamities. my father's farm was a portion of the demesne of one who resided wholly in the metropolis and consigned the management of his estates to his stewards and retainers. this person married a lady who brought him great accession of fortune. her wealth was her only recommendation in the eyes of her husband, (whose understanding was depraved by the prejudices of luxury and rank,) but was the least of her attractions in the estimate of reasonable beings. they passed some years together. if their union were not a source of misery to the lady, she was indebted for her tranquillity to the force of her mind. she was, indeed, governed, in every action of her life, by the precepts of duty, while her husband listened to no calls but those of pernicious dissipation. he was immersed in all the vices that grow out of opulence and a mistaken education. happily for his wife, his career was short. he was enraged at the infidelity of his mistress, to purchase whose attachment he had lavished two-thirds of his fortune. he called the paramour, by whom he had been supplanted, to the field. the contest was obstinate, and terminated in the death of the challenger. this event freed the lady from many distressful and humiliating obligations. she determined to profit by her newly-acquired independence, to live thenceforward conformably to her notions of right, to preserve and improve, by schemes of economy, the remains of her fortune, and to employ it in the diffusion of good. her plans made it necessary to visit her estates in the distant provinces. during her abode in the manor of which my father was a vassal, she visited his cottage. i was at that time a child. she was pleased with my vivacity and promptitude, and determined to take me under her own protection. my parents joyfully acceded to her proposal, and i returned with her to the capital. she had an only son of my own age. her design, in relation to me, was that i should be educated with her child, and that an affection, in this way, might be excited in me towards my young master, which might render me, when we should attain to manhood, one of his most faithful and intelligent dependants. i enjoyed, equally with him, all the essential benefits of education. there were certain accomplishments, from which i was excluded, from the belief that they were unsuitable to my rank and station. i was permitted to acquire others, which, had she been actuated by true discernment, she would, perhaps, have discovered to be far more incompatible with a servile station. in proportion as my views were refined and enlarged by history and science, i was likely to contract a thirst of independence, and an impatience of subjection and poverty. when the period of childhood and youth was past, it was thought proper to send her son to improve his knowledge and manners by a residence on the continent. this young man was endowed with splendid abilities. his errors were the growth of his condition. all the expedients that maternal solicitude and wisdom could suggest were employed to render him a useful citizen. perhaps this wisdom was attested by the large share of excellence which he really possessed; and that his character was not unblemished proved only that no exertions could preserve him from the vices that are inherent in wealth and rank, and which flow from the spectacle of universal depravity. as to me, it would be folly to deny that i had benefited by my opportunities of improvement. i fulfilled the expectation of my mistress, in one respect. i was deeply imbued with affection for her son, and reverence for herself. perhaps the force of education was evinced in those particulars, without reflecting any credit on the directors of it. those might merit the name of defects, which were regarded by them as accomplishments. my unfavourable qualities, like those of my master, were imputed to my condition, though, perhaps, the difference was advantageous to me, since the vices of servitude are less hateful than those of tyranny. it was resolved that i should accompany my master in his travels, in quality of favourite domestic. my principles, whatever might be their rectitude, were harmonious and flexible. i had devoted my life to the service of my patron. i had formed conceptions of what was really conducive to his interest, and was not to be misled by specious appearances. if my affection had not stimulated my diligence, i should have found sufficient motives in the behaviour of his mother. she condescended to express her reliance on my integrity and judgment. she was not ashamed to manifest, at parting, the tenderness of a mother, and to acknowledge that all her tears were not shed on her son's account. i had my part in the regrets that called them forth. during our absence, i was my master's constant attendant. i corresponded with his mother, and made the conduct of her son the principal theme of my letters. i deemed it my privilege, as well as duty, to sit in judgment on his actions, to form my opinions without regard to selfish considerations, and to avow them whenever the avowal tended to benefit. every letter which i wrote, particularly those in which his behaviour was freely criticized, i allowed him to peruse. i would, on no account, connive at or participate in the slightest irregularity. i knew the duty of my station, and assumed no other control than that which resulted from the avoiding of deceit, and the open expression of my sentiments. the youth was of a noble spirit, but his firmness was wavering. he yielded to temptations which a censor less rigorous than i would have regarded as venial, or, perhaps, laudable. my duty required me to set before him the consequences of his actions, and to give impartial and timely information to his mother. he could not brook a monitor. the more he needed reproof the less supportable it became. my company became every day less agreeable, till at length there appeared a necessity of parting. a separation took place, but not as enemies. i never lost his respect. in his representations to his mother, he was just to my character and services. my dismission was not allowed to injure my fortune, and his mother considered this event merely as a new proof of the inflexible consistency of my principles. on this change in my situation, she proposed to me to become a member of her own family. no proposal could be more acceptable. i was fully acquainted with the character of this lady, and had nothing to fear from injustice and caprice. i did not regard her with filial familiarity, but my attachment and reverence would have done honour to that relation. i performed for her the functions of a steward. her estates in the city were put under my direction. she placed boundless confidence in my discretion and integrity, and consigned to me the payment, and, in some degree, the selection and government, of her servants. my station was a servile one, yet most of the evils of servitude were unknown to me. my personal ease and independence were less infringed than that of those who are accounted the freest members of society. i derived a sort of authority and dignity from the receipt and disbursement of money. the tenants and debtors of the lady were, in some respects, mine. it was, for the most part, on my justice and lenity that they depended for their treatment. my lady's household-establishment was large and opulent. her servants were my inferiors and menials. my leisure was considerable, and my emoluments large enough to supply me with every valuable instrument of improvement or pleasure. these were reasons why i should be contented with my lot. these circumstances alone would have rendered it more eligible than any other, but it had additional and far more powerful recommendations, arising from the character of mrs. lorimer, and from the relation in which she allowed me to stand to her. how shall i enter upon this theme? how shall i expatiate upon excellencies which it was my fate to view in their genuine colours, to adore with an immeasurable and inextinguishable ardour, and which, nevertheless, it was my hateful task to blast and destroy? yet i will not be spared. i shall find, in the rehearsal, new incitements to sorrow. i deserve to be supreme in misery, and will not be denied the full measure of a bitter retribution. no one was better qualified to judge of her excellencies. a casual spectator might admire her beauty, and the dignity of her demeanour. from the contemplation of those, he might gather motives for loving or revering her. age was far from having withered her complexion, or destroyed the evenness of her skin; but no time could rob her of the sweetness and intelligence which animated her features. her habitual beneficence was bespoken in every look. always in search of occasions for doing good, always meditating scenes of happiness, of which she was the author, or of distress, for which she was preparing relief, the most torpid insensibility was, for a time, subdued, and the most depraved smitten by charms of which, in another person, they would not perhaps have been sensible. a casual visitant might enjoy her conversation, might applaud the rectitude of her sentiments, the richness of her elocution, and her skill in all the offices of politeness. but it was only for him who dwelt constantly under the same roof, to mark the inviolable consistency of her actions and opinions, the ceaseless flow of her candour, her cheerfulness, and her benevolence. it was only for one who witnessed her behaviour at all hours, in sickness and in health, her management of that great instrument of evil and good, money, her treatment of her son, her menials, and her kindred, rightly to estimate her merits. the intercourse between us was frequent, but of a peculiar kind. my office in her family required me often to see her, to submit schemes to her consideration, and receive her directions. at these times she treated me in a manner in some degree adapted to the difference of rank and the inferiority of my station, and yet widely dissimilar from that which a different person would have adopted in the same circumstances. the treatment was not that of an equal and a friend, but still more remote was it from that of a mistress. it was merely characterized by affability and condescension, but as such it had no limits. she made no scruple to ask my counsel in every pecuniary affair, to listen to my arguments, and decide conformably to what, after sufficient canvassings and discussions, should appear to be right. when the direct occasions of our interview were dismissed, i did not of course withdraw. to detain or dismiss me was indeed at her option; but, if no engagement interfered, she would enter into general conversation. there was none who could with more safety to herself have made the world her confessor; but the state of society in which she lived imposed certain limitations on her candour. in her intercourse with me there were fewer restraints than on any other occasion. my situation had made me more intimately acquainted with domestic transactions, with her views respecting her son, and with the terms on which she thought proper to stand with those whom old acquaintance or kindred gave some title to her good offices. in addition to all those motives to a candid treatment of me, there were others which owed their efficacy to her maternal regard for me, and to the artless and unsuspecting generosity of her character. her hours were distributed with the utmost regularity, and appropriated to the best purposes. she selected her society without regard to any qualities but probity and talents. her associates were numerous, and her evening conversations embellished with all that could charm the senses or instruct the understanding. this was a chosen field for the display of her magnificence; but her grandeur was unostentatious, and her gravity unmingled with haughtiness. from these my station excluded me; but i was compensated by the freedom of her communications in the intervals. she found pleasure in detailing to me the incidents that passed on those occasions, in rehearsing conversations and depicting characters. there was an uncommon portion of dramatic merit in her recitals, besides valuable and curious information. one uniform effect was produced in me by this behaviour. each day i thought it impossible for my attachment to receive any new accessions, yet the morrow was sure to produce some new emotion of respect or of gratitude, and to set the unrivalled accomplishments of this lady in a new and more favourable point of view. i contemplated no change in my condition. the necessity of change, whatever were the alternative, would have been a subject of piercing regret. i deemed my life a cheap sacrifice in her cause. no time would suffice to discharge the debt of gratitude that was due to her. yet it was continually accumulating. if an anxious thought ever invaded my bosom, it arose from this source. it was no difficult task faithfully to execute the functions assigned to me. no merit could accrue to me from this source. i was exposed to no temptation. i had passed the feverish period of youth. no contagious example had contaminated my principles. i had resisted, the allurements of sensuality and dissipation incident to my age. my dwelling was in pomp and splendour. i had amassed sufficient to secure me, in case of unforeseen accidents, in the enjoyment of competence. my mental resources were not despicable, and the external means of intellectual gratification were boundless. i enjoyed an unsullied reputation. my character was well known in that sphere which my lady occupied, not only by means of her favourable report, but in numberless ways in which it was my fortune to perform personal services to others. chapter v. mrs. lorimer had a twin-brother. nature had impressed the same image upon them, and had modelled them after the same pattern. the resemblance between them was exact to a degree almost incredible. in infancy and childhood they were perpetually liable to be mistaken for each other. as they grew up, nothing, to a superficial examination, appeared to distinguish them, but the sexual characteristics. a sagacious observer would, doubtless, have noted the most essential differences. in all those modifications of the features which are produced by habits and sentiments, no two persons were less alike. nature seemed to have intended them as examples of the futility of those theories which ascribe every thing to conformation and instinct and nothing to external circumstances; in what different modes the same materials may be fashioned, and to what different purposes the same materials may be applied. perhaps the rudiments of their intellectual character, as well as of their form, were the same; but the powers that in one case were exerted in the cause of virtue were, in the other, misapplied to sordid and flagitious purposes. arthur wiatte (that was his name) had ever been the object of his sister's affection. as long as he existed, she never ceased to labour in the promotion of his happiness. all her kindness was repaid by a stern and inexorable hatred. this man was an exception to all the rules which govern us in our judgments of human nature. he exceeded in depravity all that has been imputed to the arch-foe of mankind. his wickedness was without any of those remorseful intermissions from which it has been supposed that the deepest guilt is not entirely exempt. he seemed to relish no food but pure unadulterated evil. he rejoiced in proportion to the depth of that distress of which he was the author. his sister, by being placed most within the reach of his enmity, experienced its worst effects. she was the subject on which, by being acquainted with the means of influencing her happiness, he could try his malignant experiments with most hope of success. her parents being high in rank and wealth, the marriage of their daughter was, of course, an object of anxious attention. there is no event on which our felicity and usefulness more materially depends, and with regard to which, therefore, the freedom of choice and the exercise of our own understanding ought to be less infringed; but this maxim is commonly disregarded in proportion to the elevation of our rank and extent of our property. the lady made her own election; but she wras one of those who acted on a comprehensive plan, and would not admit her private inclination to dictate her decision. the happiness of others, though founded on mistaken views, she did not consider as unworthy of her regard. the choice was such as was not likely to obtain the parental sanction, to whom the moral qualities of their son-in-law, though not absolutely weightless in the balance, were greatly inferior to the considerations of wealth and dignity. the brother set no value on any thing but the means of luxury and power. he was astonished at that perverseness which entertained a different conception of happiness from himself. love and friendship he considered as groundless and chimerical, and believed that those delusions would, in people of sense, be rectified by experience; but he knew the obstinacy of his sister's attachment to these phantoms, and that to bereave her of the good they promised was the most effectual means of rendering her miserable. for this end he set himself to thwart her wishes. in the imbecility and false indulgence of his parents he found the most powerful auxiliaries. he prevailed upon them to forbid that union which wanted nothing but their concurrence, and their consent to endow her with a small portion of their patrimony, to render completely eligible. the cause was that of her happiness and the happiness of him on whom she had bestowed her heart. it behooved her, therefore, to call forth all her energies in defence of it, to weaken her brother's influence on the minds of her parents, or to win him to be her advocate. when i reflect upon her mental powers, and the advantages which should seem to flow from the circumstance of pleading in the character of daughter arid sister, i can scarcely believe that her attempts miscarried. i should have imagined that all obstacles would yield before her, and particularly in a case like this, in which she must have summoned all her forces, and never have believed that she had struggled sufficiently. certain it is that her lot was fixed. she was not only denied the husband of her choice, but another was imposed upon her, whose recommendations were irresistible in every one's apprehension but her own. the discarded lover was treated with every sort of contumely. deceit and violence were employed by her brother to bring his honour, his liberty, and even his life, into hazard. all these iniquities produced no inconsiderable effect on the mind of the lady. the machinations to which her love was exposed would have exasperated him into madness, had not her most strenuous exertions been directed to appease him. she prevailed on him at length to abandon his country, though she thereby merely turned her brother's depravity into a new channel. her parents died without consciousness of the evils they inflicted, but they experienced a bitter retribution in the conduct of their son. he was the darling and stay of an ancient and illustrious house, but his actions reflected nothing but disgrace upon his ancestry, and threatened to bring the honours of their line to a period in his person. at their death the bulk of their patrimony devolved upon him. this he speedily consumed in gaming and riot. from splendid he descended to meaner vices. the efforts of his sister to recall him to virtue were unintermitted and fruitless. her affection for him he converted into a means of prolonging his selfish gratifications. she decided for the best. it was no argument of weakness that she was so frequently deceived. if she had judged truly of her brother, she would have judged not only without example, but in opposition to the general experience of mankind. but she was not to be forever deceived. her tenderness was subservient to justice. and when his vices had led him from the gaming-table to the highway, when seized at length by the ministers of law, when convicted and sentenced to transportation, her intercession was solicited, when all the world knew that pardon would readily be granted to a suppliant of her rank, fortune, and character, when the criminal himself, his kindred, his friends, and even indifferent persons, implored her interference, her justice was inflexible. she knew full well the incurableness of his depravity; that banishment was the mildest destiny that would befall him; that estrangement from ancient haunts and associates was the condition from which his true friends had least to fear. finding entreaties unavailing, the wretch delivered himself to the suggestions of his malice, and he vowed to be bloodily revenged on her inflexibility. the sentence was executed. that character must indeed be monstrous from which the execution of such threats was to be dreaded. the event sufficiently showed that our fears on this head were well grounded. this event, however, was at a great distance. it was reported that the felons, of whom he was one, mutinied on board the ship in which they had been embarked. in the affray that succeeded, it was said that he was killed. among the nefarious deeds which he perpetrated was to be numbered the seduction of a young lady, whose heart was broken by the detection of his perfidy. the fruit of this unhappy union was a daughter. her mother died shortly after her birth. her father was careless of her destiny. she was consigned to the care of a hireling, who, happily for the innocent victim, performed the maternal offices for her own sake, and did not allow the want of a stipulated recompense to render hor cruel or neglectful. this orphan was sought out by the benevolence of mrs. lorimer and placed under her own protection. she received from her the treatment of a mother. the ties of kindred, corroborated by habit, was not the only thing that united them. that resemblance to herself which had been so deplorably defective in her brother was completely realized in his offspring. nature seemed to have precluded every difference between them but that of age. this darling object excited in her bosom more than maternal sympathies. her soul clung to the happiness of her _clarice_ with more ardour than to that of her own son. the latter was not only less worthy of affection, but their separation necessarily diminished their mutual confidence. it was natural for her to look forward to the future destiny of _clarice_. on these occasions she could not help contemplating the possibility of a union between her son and niece. considerable advantages belonged to this scheme, yet it was the subject of hope rather than the scope of a project. the contingencies were numerous and delicate on which the ultimate desirableness of this union depended. she was far from certain that her son would be worthy of this benefit, or that, if he were worthy, his propensities would not select for themselves a different object. it was equally dubious whether the young lady would not think proper otherwise to dispose of her affections. these uncertainties could be dissipated only by time. meanwhile she was chiefly solicitous to render them virtuous and wise. as they advanced in years, the hopes that she had formed were annihilated. the youth was not exempt from egregious errors. in addition to this, it was manifest that the young people were disposed to regard each other in no other light than that of brother and sister. i was not unapprized of her views. i saw that their union was impossible. i was near enough to judge of the character of clarice. my youth and intellectual constitution made me peculiarly susceptible to female charms. i was her playfellow in childhood, and her associate in studies and amusements at a maturer age. this situation might have been suspected of a dangerous tendency. this tendency, however, was obviated by motives of which i was, for a long time, scarcely conscious. i was habituated to consider the distinctions of rank as indelible. the obstructions that existed, to any wish that i might form, were like those of time and space, and, in their own nature, as insuperable. such was the state of things previous to our setting out upon our travels. clarice was indirectly included in our correspondence. my letters were open to her inspection, and i was sometimes honoured with a few complimentary lines under her own hand. on returning to my ancient abode, i was once more exposed to those sinister influences which absence had at least suspended. various suitors had, meanwhile, been rejected. their character, for the most part, had been such as to account for her refusal, without resorting to the supposition of a lurking or unavowed attachment. on our meeting she greeted me in a respectful but dignified manner. observers could discover in it nothing not corresponding to that difference of fortune which subsisted between us. if her joy, on that occasion, had in it some portion of tenderness, the softness of her temper, and the peculiar circumstances in which we had been placed, being considered, the most rigid censor could find no occasion for blame or suspicion. a year passed away, but not without my attention being solicited by something new and inexplicable in my own sensations. at first i was not aware of their true cause; but the gradual progress of my feelings left me not long in doubt as to their origin. i was alarmed at the discovery, but my courage did not suddenly desert me. my hopes seemed to be extinguished the moment that i distinctly perceived the point to which they led. my mind had undergone a change. the ideas with which it was fraught wrere varied. the sight or recollection of clarice was sure to occasion my mind to advert to the recent discovery, and to revolve the considerations naturally connected with it. some latent glows and secret trepidations were likewise experienced, when, by some accident, our meetings were abrupt or our interviews unwitnessed; yet my usual tranquillity was not as yet sensibly diminished. i could bear to think of her marriage with another without painful emotions, and was anxious only that her choice should be judicious and fortunate. my thoughts could not long continue in this state. they gradually became more ardent and museful. the image of clarice occurred with unseasonable frequency. its charms were enhanced by some nameless and indefinable additions. when it met me in the way i was irresistibly disposed to stop and survey it with particular attention. the pathetic cast of her features, the deep glow of her cheek, and some catch of melting music she had lately breathed, stole incessantly upon my fancy. on recovering from my thoughtful moods, i sometimes found my cheeks wet with tears that had fallen unperceived, and my bosom heaved with involuntary sighs. these images did not content themselves with invading my wakeful hours, but, likewise, encroached upon my sleep. i could no longer resign myself to slumber with the same ease as before. when i slept, my visions were of the same impassioned tenor. there was no difficulty in judging rightly of my situation. i knew what it was that duty exacted from me. to remain in my present situation was a chimerical project. that time and reflection would suffice to restore me to myself was a notion equally fallacious. yet i felt an insupportable reluctance to change it. this reluctance was owing, not wholly or chiefly to my growing passion, but to the attachment which bound me to the service of my lady. all my contemplations had hitherto been modelled on the belief of my remaining in my present situation during my life. my mildest anticipations had never fashioned an event like this. any misfortune was light in comparison with that which tore me from her presence and service. but, should i ultimately resolve to separate, how should i communicate my purpose? the pain of parting would scarcely be less on her side than on mine. could i consent to be the author of disquietude to her? i had consecrated all my faculties to her service. this was the recompense which it was in my power to make for the benefits that i had received. would not this procedure bear the appearance of the basest ingratitude? the shadow of an imputation like this was more excruciating than the rack. what motive could i assign for my conduct? the truth must not be told. this would be equivalent to supplicating for a new benefit. it would more become me to lessen than increase my obligations. among all my imaginations on this subject, the possibility of a mutual passion never occurred to me. i could not be blind to the essential distinctions that subsist among men. i could expatiate, like others, on the futility of ribbons and titles, and on the dignity that was annexed to skill and virtue; but these, for the most part, were the incoherences of speculation, and in no degree influenced the stream of my actions and practical sentiments. the barrier that existed in the present case i deemed insurmountable. this was not even the subject of doubt. in disclosing the truth, i should be conceived to be soliciting my lady's mercy and intercession; but this would be the madness of presumption. let me impress her with any other opinion than that i go in search of the happiness that i have lost under her roof. let me save her generous heart from the pangs which this persuasion would infallibly produce. i could form no stable resolutions. i seemed unalterably convinced of the necessity of separation, and yet could not execute my design. when i had wrought up my mind to the intention of explaining myself on the next interview, when the next interview took place my tongue was powerless. i admitted any excuse for postponing my design, and gladly admitted any topic, however foreign to my purpose. it must not be imagined that my health sustained no injury from this conflict of my passions. my patroness perceived this alteration. she inquired with the most affectionate solicitude into the cause. it could not be explained. i could safely make light of it, and represented it as something which would probably disappear of itself, as it originated without any adequate cause. she was obliged to acquiesce in my imperfect account. day after day passed in this state of fluctuation. i was conscious of the dangers of delay, and that procrastination, without rendering the task less necessary, augmented its difficulties. at length, summoning my resolution, i demanded an audience. she received me with her usual affability. common topics were started; but she saw the confusion and trepidation of my thoughts, and quickly relinquished them. she then noticed to me what she had observed, and mentioned the anxiety which these appearances had given her she reminded me of the maternal regard which she had always manifested towards me, and appealed to my own heart whether any thing could be said in vindication of that reserve with which i had lately treated her, and urged me, as i valued her good opinion, to explain the cause of a dejection _that was too visible_. to all this i could make but one answer:--"think me not, madam, perverse or ungrateful. i came just now to apprize you of a resolution that i had formed. i cannot explain the motives that induce me. in this case, to lie to you would be unpardonable, and, since i cannot assign my true motives, i will not mislead you by false representations. i came to inform you of my intention to leave your service, and to retire, with the fruits of your bounty, to my native village, where i shall spend my life, i hope, in peace." her surprise at this declaration was beyond measure. she could not believe her ears. she had not heard me rightly. she compelled me to repeat it. still i was jesting. i could not possibly mean what my words imported. i assured her, in terms still more explicit, that my resolution was taken and was unalterable, and again entreated her to spare me the task of assigning my motives. this was a strange determination. what could be the grounds of this new scheme? what could be the necessity of hiding them from her? this mystery was not to be endured. she could by no means away with it. she thought it hard that i should abandon her at this time, when she stood in particular need of my assistance and advice. she would refuse nothing to make my situation eligible. i had only to point out where she was deficient in her treatment of me, and she would endeavour to supply it. she was willing to augment my emoluments in any degree that i desired. she could not think of parting with me; but, at any rate, she must be informed of my motives. "it is a hard task," answered i, "that i have imposed upon myself. i foresaw its difficulties, and this foresight has hitherto prevented me from undertaking it; but the necessity by which i am impelled will no longer be withstood. i am determined to go; but to say why is impossible. i hope i shall not bring upon myself the imputation of ingratitude; but this imputation, more intolerable than any other, must be borne, if it cannot be avoided but by this disclosure. "keep your motives to yourself," said she. "i have too good an opinion of you to suppose that you would practise concealment without good reason. i merely desire you to remain where you are. since you will not tell me why you take up this new scheme, i can only say that it is impossible there should be any advantage in this scheme. i will not hear of it, i tell you. therefore, submit to my decree with a good grace." notwithstanding this prohibition, i persisted in declaring that my determination was fixed, and that the motives that governed me would allow of no alternative. "so, you will go, will you, whether i will or no? i have no power to detain you? you will regard nothing that i can say?" "believe me, madam, no resolution ever was formed after a more vehement struggle. if my motives were known, you would not only cease to oppose, but would hasten, my departure. honour me so far with your good opinion as to believe that, in saying this, i say nothing but the truth, and render my duty less burdensome by cheerfully acquiescing in its dictates." "i would," replied the lady, "i could find somebody that has more power over you than i have. whom shall i call in to aid me in this arduous task?" "nay, dear madam, if i can resist your entreaties, surely no other can hope to succeed." "i am not sure of that," said my friend, archly; "there is one person in the world whose supplications, i greatly suspect, you would not withstand." "whom do you mean?" said i, in some trepidation. "you will know presently. unless i can prevail upon you, i shall be obliged to call for assistance." "spare me the pain of repeating that no power on earth can change my resolution." "that's a fib," she rejoined, with increased archness. "you know it is. if a certain person entreat you to stay, you will easily comply. i see i cannot hope to prevail by my own strength. that is a mortifying consideration: but we must not part; that is a point settled. if nothing else will do, i must go and fetch my advocate. stay here a moment." i had scarcely time to breathe, before she returned, leading in clarice. i did not yet comprehend the meaning of this ceremony. the lady was overwhelmed with sweet confusion. averted eyes and reluctant steps might have explained to me the purpose of this meeting, if i had believed that purpose to be possible. i felt the necessity of new fortitude, and struggled to recollect the motives that had hitherto sustained me. "there!" said my patroness; "i have been endeavouring to persuade this young man to live with us a little longer. he is determined, it seems, to change his abode. he will not tell why, and i do not care to know, unless i could show his reasons to be groundless. i have merely remonstrated with him on the folly of his scheme, but he has proved refractory to all i can say. perhaps your efforts may meet with better success." clarice said not a word. my own embarrassment equally disabled me from speaking. regarding us both, for some time, with a benign aspect, mrs. lorimer resumed, taking a hand of each and joining them together:-"i very well know what it was that suggested this scheme. it is strange that you should suppose me so careless an observer as not to note, or not to understand, your situation. i am as well acquainted with what is passing in your heart as you yourself are: but why are you so anxious to conceal it? you know less of the adventurousness of love than i should have suspected. but i will not trifle with your feelings. "you, clithero, know the wishes that i once cherished. i had hoped that my son would have found, in this darling child, an object worthy of his choice, and that my girl would have preferred him to all others. but i have long since discovered that this could not be. they are nowise suited to each other. there is one thing in the next place desirable, and now my wishes are accomplished. i see that you love each other; and never, in my opinion, was a passion more rational and just. i should think myself the worst of beings if i did not contribute all in my power to your happiness. there is not the shadow of objection to your union. i know your scruples, clithero, and am sorry to see that you harbour them for a moment. nothing is more unworthy of your good sense. "i found out this girl long ago. take my word for it, young man, she does not fall short of you in the purity and tenderness of her attachment. what need is there of tedious preliminaries? i will leave you together, and hope you will not be long in coming to a mutual understanding. your union cannot be completed too soon for my wishes. clarice is my only and darling daughter. as to you, clithero, expect henceforth that treatment from me, not only to which your own merit entitles you, but which is due to the husband of my daughter."--with these words she retired, and left us together. great god! deliver me from the torments of this remembrance. that a being by whom i was snatched from penury and brutal ignorance, exalted to some rank in the intelligent creation, reared to affluence and honour, and thus, at last, spontaneously endowed with all that remained to complete the sum of my felicity, that a being like this-but such thoughts must not yet be: i must shut them out, or i shall never arrive at the end of my tale. my efforts have been thus far successful. i have hitherto been able to deliver a coherent narrative. let the last words that i shall speak afford some glimmering of my better days. let me execute without faltering the only task that remains for me. chapter vi. how propitious, how incredible, was this event! i could scarcely confide in the testimony of my senses. was it true that clarice was before me, that she was prepared to countenance my presumption, that she had slighted obstacles which i had deemed insurmountable, that i was fondly beloved by her, and should shortly be admitted to the possession of so inestimable a good? i will not repeat the terms in which i poured forth, at her feet, the raptures of my gratitude. my impetuosity soon extorted from clarice a confirmation of her mother's declaration. an unrestrained intercourse was thenceforth established between us. dejection and languor gave place, in my bosom, to the irradiations of joy and hope. my flowing fortunes seemed to have attained their utmost and immutable height. alas! they were destined to ebb with unspeakably-greater rapidity, and to leave me, in a moment, stranded and wrecked. our nuptials would have been solemnized without delay, had not a melancholy duty interfered. clarice had a friend in a distant part of the kingdom. her health had long been the prey of a consumption. she was now evidently tending to dissolution. in this extremity she entreated her friend to afford her the consolation of her presence. the only wish that remained was to die in her arms. this request could not but be willingly complied with. it became me patiently to endure the delay that would thence arise to the completion of my wishes. considering the urgency and mournfulness of the occasion, it was impossible for me to murmur, and the affectionate clarice would suffer nothing to interfere with the duty which she owed to her dying friend. i accompanied her on this journey, remained with her a few days, and then parted from her to return to the metropolis. it was not imagined that it would be necessary to prolong her absence beyond a month. when i bade her farewell, and informed her on what day i proposed to return for her, i felt no decay of my satisfaction. my thoughts were bright and full of exultation. why was not some intimation afforded me of the snares that lay in my path? in the train laid for my destruction, the agent had so skilfully contrived that my security was not molested by the faintest omen. i hasten to the crisis of my tale. i am almost dubious of my strength. the nearer i approach to it, the stronger is my aversion. my courage, instead of gathering force as i proceed, decays. i am willing to dwell still longer on preliminary circumstances. there are other incidents without which my story would be lame. i retail them because they afford me a kind of respite from horrors at the thought of which every joint in my frame trembles. they must be endured, but that infirmity may be forgiven which makes me inclined to procrastinate my suffering. i mentioned the lover whom my patroness was compelled, by the machinations of her brother, to discard. more than twenty years had passed since their separation. his birth was mean and he was without fortune. his profession was that of a surgeon. my lady not only prevailed upon him to abandon his country, but enabled him to do this by supplying his necessities from her own purse. his excellent understanding was, for a time, obscured by passion; but it was not difficult for my lady ultimately to obtain his concurrence to all her schemes. he saw and adored the rectitude of her motives, did not disdain to accept her gifts, and projected means for maintaining an epistolary intercourse during their separation. her interest procured him a post in the service of the east india company. she was, from time to time, informed of his motions. a war broke out between the company and some of the native powers. he was present at a great battle in which the english were defeated. she could trace him by his letters and by other circumstances thus far, but here the thread was discontinued, and no means which she employed could procure any tidings of him. whether he was captive, or dead, continued, for several years, to be merely matter of conjecture. on my return to dublin, i found my patroness engaged in conversation with a stranger. she introduced us to each other in a manner that indicated the respect which she entertained for us both. i surveyed and listened to him with considerable attention. his aspect was noble and ingenuous, but his sunburnt and rugged features bespoke a various and boisterous pilgrimage. the furrows of his brow were the products of vicissitude and hardship, rather than of age. his accents were fiery and energetic, and the impassioned boldness of his address, as well as the tenor of his discourse, full of allusions to the past, and regrets that the course of events had not been different, made me suspect something extraordinary in his character. as soon as he left us, my lady explained who he was. he was no other than the object of her youthful attachment, who had, a few days before, dropped among us as from the skies. he had a long and various story to tell. he had accounted for his silence by enumerating the incidents of his life. he had escaped from the prisons of hyder, had wandered on foot, and under various disguises, through the northern district of hindostan. he was sometimes a scholar of benares, and sometimes a disciple of the mosque. according to the exigencies of the times, he was a pilgrim to mecca or to juggernaut. by a long, circuitous, and perilous route, he at length arrived at the turkish capital. here he resided for several years, deriving a precarious subsistence from the profession of a surgeon. he was obliged to desert this post, in consequence of a duel between two scotsmen. one of them had embraced the greek religion, and was betrothed to the daughter of a wealthy trader of that nation. he perished in the conflict, and the family of the lady not only procured the execution of his antagonist, but threatened to involve all those who were known to be connected with him in the same ruin. his life being thus endangered, it became necessary for him to seek a new residence. he fled from constantinople with such precipitation as reduced him to the lowest poverty. he had traversed the indian conquests of alexander, as a mendicant. in the same character, he now wandered over the native country of philip and philopoemen. he passed safely through multiplied perils, and finally, embarking at salonica, he reached venice. he descended through the passes of the apennines into tuscany. in this journey he suffered a long detention from banditti, by whom he was waylaid. in consequence of his harmless deportment, and a seasonable display of his chirurgical skill, they granted him his life, though they, for a time, restrained him of his liberty, and compelled him to endure their society. the time was not misemployed which he spent immured in caverns and carousing with robbers. his details were eminently singular and curious, and evinced the acuteness of his penetration, as well as the steadfastness of his courage. after emerging from these wilds, he found his way along the banks of the arno to leghorn. thence he procured a passage to america, whence he had just returned, with many additions to his experience, but none to his fortune. this was a remarkable event. it did not at first appear how far its consequences would extend. the lady was, at present, disengaged and independent. though the passion which clouded her early prosperity was extinct, time had not diminished the worth of her friend, and they were far from having reached that age when love becomes chimerical and marriage folly. a confidential intercourse was immediately established between them. the bounty of mrs. lorimer soon divested her friend of all fear of poverty. "at any rate," said she, "he shall wander no farther, but shall be comfortably situated for the rest of his life." all his scruples were vanquished by the reasonableness of her remonstrances and the vehemence of her solicitations. a cordial intimacy grew between me and the newly-arrived. our interviews were frequent, and our communications without reserve. he detailed to me the result of his experience, and expatiated without end on the history of his actions and opinions. he related the adventures of his youth, and dwelt upon all the circumstances of his attachment to my patroness. on this subject i had heard only general details. i continually found cause, in the course of his narrative, to revere the illustrious qualities of my lady, and to weep at the calamities to which the infernal malice of her brother had subjected her. the tale of that man's misdeeds, amplified and dramatized by the indignant eloquence of this historian, oppressed me with astonishment. if a poet had drawn such a portrait, i should have been prone to suspect the soundness of his judgment. till now i had imagined that no character was uniform and unmixed, and my theory of the passions did not enable me to account for a propensity gratified merely by evil, and delighting in shrieks and agony for their own sake. it was natural to suggest to my friend, when expatiating on this theme, an inquiry as to how far subsequent events had obliterated the impressions that were then made, and as to the plausibility of reviving, at this more auspicious period, his claims on the heart of his friend. when he thought proper to notice these hints, he gave me to understand that time had made no essential alteration in his sentiments in this respect; that he still fostered a hope, to which every day added new vigour; that, whatever was the ultimate event, he trusted in his fortitude to sustain it, if adverse, and in his wisdom to extract from it the most valuable consequences, if it should prove prosperous. the progress of things was not unfavourable to his hopes. she treated his insinuations and professions with levity; but her arguments seemed to be urged with no other view than to afford an opportunity of confutation; and, since there was no abatement of familiarity and kindness, there was room to hope that the affair would terminate agreeably to his wishes. chapter vii. clarice, meanwhile, was absent. her friend seemed, at the end of a month, to be little less distant from the grave than at first. my impatience would not allow me to wait till her death. i visited her, but was once more obliged to return alone. i arrived late in the city, and, being greatly fatigued, i retired almost immediately to my chamber. on hearing of my arrival, sarsefield hastened to see me. he came to my bedside, and such, in his opinion, was the importance of the tidings which he had to communicate, that he did not scruple to rouse me from a deep sleep---at this period of his narrative, clithero stopped. his complexion varied from one degree of paleness to another. his brain appeared to suffer some severe constriction. he desired to be excused, for a few minutes, from proceeding. in a short time he was relieved from this paroxysm, and resumed his tale with an accent tremulous at first, but acquiring stability and force as he went on:-on waking, as i have said, i found my friend seated at my bedside. his countenance exhibited various tokens of alarm. as soon as i perceived who it was, i started, exclaiming, "what is the matter?" he sighed. "pardon," said he, "this unseasonable intrusion. a light matter would not have occasioned it. i have waited, for two days past, in an agony of impatience, for your return. happily you are, at last, come. i stand in the utmost need of your counsel and aid." "heaven defend!" cried i. "this is a terrible prelude. you may, of course, rely upon my assistance and advice. what is it that you have to propose?" "tuesday evening," he answered, "i spent here. it was late before i returned to my lodgings. i was in the act of lifting my hand to the bell, when my eye was caught by a person standing close to the wall, at the distance of ten paces. his attitude was that of one employed in watching my motions. his face was turned towards me, and happened, at that moment, to be fully illuminated by the rays of a globe-lamp that hung over the door. i instantly recognised his features. i was petrified. i had no power to execute my design, or even to move, but stood, for some seconds, gazing upon him. he was, in no degree, disconcerted by the eagerness of my scrutiny. he seemed perfectly indifferent to the consequences of being known. at length he slowly turned his eyes to another quarter, but without changing his posture, or the sternness of his looks. i cannot describe to you the shock which this encounter produced in me. at last i went into the house, and have ever since been excessively uneasy." "i do not see any ground for uneasiness." "you do not then suspect who this person is?" "no." "it is arthur wiatte." "good heaven! it is impossible. what! my lady's brother?" "the same." "it cannot be. were we not assured of his death? that he perished in a mutiny on board the vessel in which he was embarked for transportation?" "such was rumour, which is easily mistaken. my eyes cannot be deceived in this case. i should as easily fail to recognise his sister, when i first met her, as him. this is the man; whether once dead or not, he is at present alive, and in this city." "but has any thing since happened to confirm you in this opinion?" "yes, there has. as soon as i had recovered from my first surprise, i began to reflect upon the measures proper to be taken. this was the identical arthur wiatte. you know his character. no time was likely to change the principles of such a man, but his appearance sufficiently betrayed the incurableness of his habits. the same sullen and atrocious passions were written in his visage. you recollect the vengeance which wiatte denounced against his sister. there is every thing to dread from his malignity. how to obviate the danger, i know not. i thought, however, of one expedient. it might serve a present purpose, and something better might suggest itself on your return. "i came hither early the next day. old gowan, the porter, is well acquainted with wiatte's story. i mentioned to him that i had reason to think that he had returned. i charged him to have a watchful eye upon every one that knocked at the gate, and that, if this person should come, by no means to admit him. the old man promised faithfully to abide by my directions. his terrors, indeed, were greater than mine, and he knew the importance of excluding wiatte from these walls." "did you not inform my lady of this?" "no. in what way could i tell it to her? what end could it answer? why should i make her miserable? but i have not done. yesterday morning gowan took me aside, and informed me that wiatte had made his appearance, the day before, at the gate. he knew him, he said, in a moment. he demanded to see the lady, but the old man told him she was engaged, and could not be seen. he assumed peremptory and haughty airs, and asserted that his business was of such importance as not to endure a moment's delay. gowan persisted in his first refusal. he retired with great reluctance, but said he should return to-morrow, when he should insist upon admission to the presence of the lady. i have inquired, and find that he has not repeated his visit. what is to be done?" i was equally at a loss with my friend. this incident was so unlooked-for. what might not be dreaded from the monstrous depravity of wiatte? his menaces of vengeance against his sister still rung in my ears. some means of eluding them were indispensable. could law be resorted to? against an evil like this, no legal provision had been made. nine years had elapsed since his transportation. seven years was the period of his exile. in returning, therefore, he had committed no crime. his person could not be lawfully molested. we were justified merely in repelling an attack. but suppose we should appeal to law: could this be done without the knowledge and concurrence of the lady? she would never permit it. her heart was incapable of fear from this quarter. she would spurn at the mention of precautions against the hatred of her brother. her inquietude would merely be awakened on his own account. i was overwhelmed with perplexity. perhaps if he were sought out, and some judgment formed of the kind of danger to be dreaded from him, by a knowledge of his situation and views, some expedient might be thence suggested. but how should his haunts be discovered? this was easy. he had intimated the design of applying again for admission to his sister. let a person be stationed near at hand, who, being furnished with an adequate description of his person and dress, shall mark him when he comes, and follow him when he retires, and shall forthwith impart to us the information on that head which he shall be able to collect. my friend concurred in this scheme. no better could, for the present, be suggested. here ended our conference. i was thus supplied with a new subject of reflection. it was calculated to fill my mind with dreary forebodings. the future was no longer a scene of security and pleasure. it would be hard for those to partake of our fears who did not partake of our experience. the existence of wiatte was the canker that had blasted the felicity of my patroness. in his reappearance on the stage there was something portentous. it seemed to include in it consequences of the utmost moment, without my being able to discover what these consequences were. that sarsefield should be so quickly followed by his arch-foe; that they started anew into existence, without any previous intimation, in a manner wholly unexpected, and at the same period,--it seemed as if there lurked, under those appearances, a tremendous significance, which human sagacity could not uncover. my heart sunk within me when i reflected that this was the father of my clarice. he by whose cruelty her mother was torn from the enjoyment of untarnished honour, and consigned to infamy and an untimely grave. he by whom herself was abandoned in the helplessness of infancy, and left to be the prey of obdurate avarice, and the victim of wretches who traffic in virgin innocence. who had done all that in him lay to devote her youth to guilt and misery. what were the limits of his power? how may he exert the parental prerogatives? to sleep, while these images were haunting me, was impossible. i passed the night in continual motion. i strode, without ceasing, across the floor of my apartment. my mind was wrought to a higher pitch than i had ever before experienced. the occasion, accurately considered, was far from justifying the ominous inquietudes which i then felt. how, then, should i account for them? sarsefield probably enjoyed his usual slumber. his repose might not be perfectly serene, but when he ruminated on impending or possible calamities his tongue did not cleave to his mouth, his throat was not parched with unquenchable thirst, he was not incessantly stimulated to employ his superfluous fertility of thought in motion. if i trembled for the safety of her whom i loved, and whose safety was endangered by being the daughter of this miscreant, had he not equal reason to fear for her whom he also loved, and who, as the sister of this ruffian, was encompassed by the most alarming perils? yet he probably was calm while i was harassed by anxieties. alas! the difference was easily explained. such was the beginning of a series ordained to hurry me to swift destruction. such were the primary tokens of the presence of that power by whose accursed machinations i was destined to fall. you are startled at this declaration. it is one to which you have been little accustomed. perhaps you regard it merely as an effusion of frenzy. i know what i am saying. i do not build upon conjectures and surmises. i care not, indeed, for your doubts. your conclusion may be fashioned at your pleasure. would to heaven that my belief were groundless, and that i had no reason to believe my intellects to have been perverted by diabolical instigations! i could procure no sleep that night. after sarsefield's departure i did not even lie down. it seemed to me that i could not obtain the benefits of repose otherwise than by placing my lady beyond the possibility of danger. i met sarsefield the next day. in pursuance of the scheme which had been adopted by us on the preceding evening, a person was selected and commissioned to watch the appearance of wiatte. the day passed as usual with respect to the lady. in the evening she was surrounded by a few friends. into this number i was now admitted. sarsefield and myself made a part of this company. various topics were discussed with ease and sprightliness. her societies were composed of both sexes, and seemed to have monopolized all the ingenuity and wit that existed in the metropolis. after a slight repast the company dispersed. this separation took place earlier than usual, on account of a slight indisposition in mrs. _lorimer_. sarsefield and i went out together. we took that opportunity of examining our agent, and, receiving no satisfaction from him, we dismissed him for that night, enjoining him to hold himself in readiness for repeating the experiment to-morrow. my friend directed his steps homeward, and i proceeded to execute a commission with which i had charged myself. a few days before, a large sum had been deposited in the hands of a banker, for the use of my lady. it was the amount of a debt which had lately been recovered. it was lodged here for the purpose of being paid on demand of her or her agents. it was my present business to receive this money. i had deferred the performance of this engagement to this late hour, on account of certain preliminaries which were necessary to be adjusted. having received this money, i prepared to return home. the inquietude which had been occasioned by sarsefield's intelligence had not incapacitated me from performing my usual daily occupations. it was a theme to which, at every interval of leisure from business or discourse, i did not fail to return. at those times i employed myself in examining the subject on all sides; in supposing particular emergencies, and delineating the conduct that was proper to be observed on each. my daily thoughts were, by no means, so fear-inspiring as the meditations of the night had been. as soon as i left the banker's door, my meditations fell into this channel. i again reviewed the recent occurrences, and imagined the consequences likely to flow from them. my deductions were not, on this occasion, peculiarly distressful. the return of darkness had added nothing to my apprehensions. i regarded wiatte merely as one against whose malice it was wise to employ the most vigilant precautions. in revolving these precautions nothing occurred that was new. the danger appeared without unusual aggravations, and the expedients that offered themselves to my choice were viewed with a temper not more sanguine or despondent than before. in this state of mind i began and continued my walk. the distance was considerable between my own habitation and that which i had left. my way lay chiefly through populous and well-frequented streets. in one part of the way, however, it was at the option of the passenger either to keep along the large streets, or considerably to shorten the journey by turning into a dark, crooked, and narrow lane. being familiar with every part of this metropolis, and deeming it advisable to take the shortest and obscurest road, i turned into the alley. i proceeded without interruption to the next turning. one night-officer, distinguished by his usual ensigns, was the only person who passed me. i had gone three steps beyond when i perceived a man by my side. i had scarcely time to notice this circumstance, when a hoarse voice exclaimed, "damn ye, villain, ye're a dead man!" at the same moment a pistol flashed at my ear, and a report followed. this, however, produced no other effect than, for a short space, to overpower my senses. i staggered back, but did not fall. the ball, as i afterwards discovered, had grazed my forehead, but without making any dangerous impression. the assassin, perceiving that his pistol had been ineffectual, muttered, in an enraged tone, "this shall do your business!" at the same time, he drew a knife forth from his bosom. i was able to distinguish this action by the rays of a distant lamp, which glistened on the blade. all this passed in an instant. the attack was so abrupt that my thoughts could not be suddenly recalled from the confusion into which they were thrown. my exertions were mechanical. my will might be said to be passive, and it was only by retrospect and a contemplation of consequences that i became fully informed of the nature of the scene. if my assailant had disappeared as soon as he had discharged the pistol, my state of extreme surprise might have slowly given place to resolution and activity. as it was, my sense was no sooner struck by the reflection from the blade, than my hand, as if by spontaneous energy, was thrust into my pocket. i drew forth a pistol. he lifted up his weapon to strike, but it dropped from his powerless fingers. he fell, and his groans informed me that i had managed my arms with more skill than my adversary. the noise of this encounter soon attracted spectators. lights were brought, and my antagonist discovered bleeding at my feet. i explained, as briefly as i was able, the scene which they witnessed. the prostrate person was raised by two men, and carried into a public house nigh at hand. i had not lost my presence of mind. i at once perceived the propriety of administering assistance to the wounded man. i despatched, therefore, one of the bystanders for a surgeon of considerable eminence, who lived at a small distance, and to whom i was well known. the man was carried into an inner apartment and laid upon the floor. it was not till now that i had a suitable opportunity of ascertaining who it was with whom i had been engaged. i now looked upon his face. the paleness of death could not conceal his well-known features. it was wiatte himself who was breathing his last groans at my feet! the surgeon, whom i had summoned, attended; but immediately perceived the condition of his patient to be hopeless. in a quarter of an hour he expired. during this interval, he was insensible to all around him. i was known to the surgeon, the landlord, and some of the witnesses. the case needed little explanation. the accident reflected no guilt upon me. the landlord was charged with the care of the corpse till the morning, and i was allowed to return home, without further impediment. chapter viii. till now my mind had been swayed by the urgencies of this occasion. these reflections were excluded, which rushed tumultuously upon me the moment i was at leisure to receive them. without foresight of a previous moment, an entire change had been wrought in my condition. i had been oppressed with a sense of the danger that flowed from the existence of this man. by what means the peril could be annihilated, and we be placed in security from his attempts, no efforts of mind could suggest. to devise these means, and employ them with success, demanded, as i conceived, the most powerful sagacity and the firmest courage. now the danger was no more. the intelligence in which plans of mischief might be generated was extinguished or flown. lifeless were the hands ready to execute the dictates of that intelligence. the contriver of enormous evil was, in one moment, bereft of the power and the will to injure. our past tranquillity had been owing to the belief of his death. fear and dismay had resumed their dominion when the mistake was discovered. but now we might regain possession of our wonted confidence. i had beheld with my own eyes the lifeless corpse of our implacable adversary. thus, in a moment, had terminated his long and flagitious career. his restless indignation, his malignant projects, that had so long occupied the stage and been so fertile of calamity, were now at an end! in the course of my meditations, the idea of the death of this man had occurred, and it bore the appearance of a desirable event. yet it was little qualified to tranquillize my fears. in the long catalogue of contingencies, this, indeed, was to be found; but it was as little likely to happen as any other. it could not happen without a series of anterior events paving the way for it. if his death came from us, it must be the theme of design. it must spring from laborious circumvention and deep-laid stratagems. no. he was dead. i had killed him. what had i done? i had meditated nothing. i was impelled by an unconscious necessity. had the assailant been my father, the consequence would have been the same. my understanding had been neutral. could it be? in a space so short, was it possible that so tremendous a deed had been executed? was i not deceived by some portentous vision? i had witnessed the convulsions and last agonies of wiatte. he was no more, and i was his destroyer! such was the state of my mind for some time after this dreadful event. previously to it i was calm, considerate, and self-collected. i marked the way that i was going. passing objects were observed. if i adverted to the series of my own reflections, my attention was not seized and fastened by them. i could disengage myself at pleasure, and could pass, without difficulty, from attention to the world within, to the contemplation of that without. now my liberty, in this respect, was at an end. i was fettered, confounded, smitten with excess of thought, and laid prostrate with wonder! i no longer attended to my steps. when i emerged from my stupor, i found that i had trodden back the way which i had lately come, and had arrived within sight of the banker's door. i checked myself, and once more turned my steps homeward. this seemed to be a hint for entering into new reflections. "the deed," said i, "is irretrievable. i have killed the brother of my patroness, the father of my love." this suggestion was new. it instantly involved me in terror and perplexity. how shall i communicate the tidings? what effect will they produce? my lady's sagacity is obscured by the benevolence of her temper. her brother was sordidly wicked,--a hoary ruffian, to whom the language of pity was as unintelligible as the gabble of monkeys. his heart was fortified against compunction, by the atrocious habits of forty years; he lived only to interrupt her peace, to confute the promises of virtue, and convert to rancour and reproach the fair dame of fidelity. he was her brother still. as a human being, his depravity was never beyond the health-restoring power of repentance. his heart, so long as it beat, was accessible to remorse. the singularity of his birth had made her regard this being as more intimately her brother, than would have happened in different circumstances. it was her obstinate persuasion that their fates were blended. the rumour of his death she had never credited. it was a topic of congratulation to her friends, but of mourning and distress to her. that he would one day reappear upon the stage, and assume the dignity of virtue, was a source of consolation with which she would never consent to part. her character was now known. when the doom of exile was pronounced upon him, she deemed it incumbent on her to vindicate herself from aspersions founded on misconceptions of her motives in refusing her interference. the manuscript, though unpublished, was widely circulated. none could resist her simple and touching eloquence, nor rise from the perusal without resigning his heart to the most impetuous impulses of admiration, and enlisting himself among the eulogists of her justice and her fortitude. this was the only monument, in a written form, of her genius. as such it was engraven on my memory. the picture that it described was the perpetual companion of my thoughts. alas! it had, perhaps, been well for me if it had been buried in eternal oblivion. i read in it the condemnation of my deed, the agonies she was preparing to suffer, and the indignation that would overflow upon the author of so signal a calamity. i had rescued my life by the sacrifice of his. whereas i should have died. wretched and precipitate coward! what had become of my boasted gratitude? such was the zeal that i had vowed to her. such the services which it was the business of my life to perform. i had snatched her brother from existence. i had torn from her the hope which she so ardently and indefatigably cherished. from a contemptible and dastardly regard to my own safety i had failed in the moment of trial and when called upon by heaven to evince the sincerity of my professions. she had treated my professions lightly. my vows of eternal devotion she had rejected with lofty disinterestedness. she had arraigned my impatience of obligation as criminal, and condemned every scheme i had projected for freeing myself from the burden which her beneficence had laid upon me. the impassioned and vehement anxiety with which, in former days, she had deprecated the vengeance of her lover against wiatte, rung in my ears. my senses were shocked anew by the dreadful sounds, "touch not my brother. wherever you meet with him, of whatever outrage he be guilty, suffer him to pass in safety. despise me; abandon me; kill me. all this i can bear even from you; but spare, i implore you, my unhappy brother. the stroke that deprives him of life will not only have the same effect upon me, but will set my portion in everlasting misery." to these supplications i had been deaf. it is true i had not rushed upon him unarmed, intending no injury nor expecting any. of that degree of wickedness i was, perhaps, incapable. alas! i have immersed myself sufficiently deep in crimes. i have trampled under foot every motive dear to the heart of honour. i have shown myself unworthy the society of men. such were the turbulent suggestions of that moment. my pace slackened. i stopped, and was obliged to support myself against a wall. the sickness that had seized my heart penetrated every part of my frame. there was but one thing wanting to complete my distraction.--"my lady," said i, "believed her fate to be blended with that of wiatte. who shall affirm that the persuasion is a groundless one? she had lived and prospered, notwithstanding the general belief that her brother was dead. she would not hearken to the rumour. why? because nothing less than indubitable evidence would suffice to convince her? because the counter-intimation flowed from an infallible source? how can the latter supposition be confuted? has she not predicted the event? "the period of terrible fulfilment has arrived. the same blow that bereaved _him_ of life has likewise ratified her doom. "she has been deceived. it is nothing more, perhaps, than a fond imagination. it matters not. who knows not the cogency of faith? that the pulses of life are at the command of the will? the bearer of these tidings will be the messenger of death. a fatal sympathy will seize her. she will shrink, and swoon, and perish, at the news! "fond and short-sighted wretch! this is the price thou hast given for security. in the rashness of thy thought, thou saidst, 'nothing is wanting but his death to restore us to confidence and safety.' lo! the purchase is made. havoc and despair, that were restrained during his life, were let loose by his last sigh. now only is destruction made sure. thy lady, thy clarice, thy friend, and thyself, are, by this act, involved in irretrievable and common ruin!" i started from my attitude. i was scarcely conscious of any transition. the interval was fraught with stupor, and amazement. it seemed as if my senses had been hushed in sleep, while the powers of locomotion were unconsciously exerted to bear me to my chamber. by whatever means the change was effected, there i was. i have been able to proceed thus far. i can scarcely believe the testimony of my memory that assures me of this. my task is almost executed; but whence shall i obtain strength enough to finish it? what i have told is light as gossamer, compared with the insupportable and crushing horrors of that which is to come. heaven, in token of its vengeance, will enable me to proceed. it is fitting that my scene should thus close. my fancy began to be infected with the errors of my understanding. the mood into which my mind was plunged was incapable of any propitious intermission. all within me was tempestuous and dark. my ears were accessible to no sounds but those of shrieks and lamentations. it was deepest midnight, and all the noises of a great metropolis were hushed. yet i listened as if to catch some strain of the dirge that was begun. sable robes, sobs, and a dreary solemnity encompassed me on all sides, i was haunted to despair by images of death, imaginary clamours, and the train of funeral pageantry. i seemed to have passed forward to a distant era of my life. the effects which were come were already realized. the foresight of misery created it, and set me in the midst of that hell which i feared. from a paroxysm like this the worst might reasonably be dreaded, yet the next step to destruction was not suddenly taken. i paused on the brink of the precipice, as if to survey the depth of that frenzy that invaded me; was able to ponder on the scene, and deliberate, in a state that partook of calm, on the circumstances of my situation. my mind was harassed by the repetition of one idea. conjecture deepened into certainty. i could place the object in no light which did not corroborate the persuasion that, in the act committed, i had insured the destruction of my lady. at length my mind, somewhat relieved from the tempest of my fears, began to trace and analyze the consequences which i dreaded. the fate of wiatte would inevitably draw along with it that of his sister. in what way would this effect be produced? were they linked together by a sympathy whose influence was independent of sensible communication? could she arrive at a knowledge of his miserable and by other than verbal means? i had heard of such extraordinary copartnerships in being and modes of instantaneous intercourse among beings locally distant. was this a new instance of the subtlety of mind? had she already endured his agonies, and like him already ceased to breathe? every hair bristled at this horrible suggestion. but the force of sympathy might be chimerical. buried in sleep, or engaged in careless meditation, the instrument by which her destiny might be accomplished was the steel of an assassin. a series of events, equally beyond the reach of foresight with those which had just happened, might introduce, with equal abruptness, a similar disaster. what, at that moment, was her condition? reposing in safety in her chamber, as her family imagined. but were they not deceived? was she not a mangled corpse? whatever were her situation, it could not be ascertained, except by extraordinary means, till the morning. was it wise to defer the scrutiny till then? why not instantly investigate the truth? these ideas passed rapidly through my mind. a considerable portion of time and amplification of phrase are necessary to exhibit, verbally, ideas contemplated in a space of incalculable brevity. with the same rapidity i conceived the resolution of determining the truth of my suspicions. all the family, but myself, were at rest. winding passages would conduct me, without danger of disturbing them, to the hall, from which double staircases ascended. one of these led to a saloon above, on the east side of which was a door that communicated with a suite of rooms occupied by the lady of the mansion. the first was an antechamber, in which a female servant usually lay. the second was the lady's own bedchamber. this was a sacred recess, with whose situation, relative to the other apartments of the building, i was well acquainted, but of which i knew nothing from my own examination, having never been admitted into it. thither i was now resolved to repair. i was not deterred by the sanctity of the place and hour. i was insensible to all consequences but the removal of my doubts. not that my hopes were balanced by my fears. that the same tragedy had been performed in her chamber and in the street, nothing hindered me from believing with as much cogency as if my own eyes had witnessed it, but the reluctance with which we admit a detestable truth. to terminate a state of intolerable suspense, i resolved to proceed forthwith to her chamber. i took the light and paced, with no interruption, along the galleries. i used no precaution. if i had met a servant or robber, i am not sure that i should have noticed him. my attention was too perfectly engrossed to allow me to spare any to a casual object. i cannot affirm that no one observed me. this, however, was probable from the distribution of the dwelling. it consisted of a central edifice and two wings, one of which was appropriated to domestics and the other, at the extremity of which my apartment was placed, comprehended a library, and rooms for formal and social and literary conferences. these, therefore, were deserted at night, and my way lay along these. hence it was not likely that my steps would be observed. i proceeded to the hall. the principal parlour was beneath her chamber. in the confusion of my thoughts, i mistook one for the other. i rectified, as soon as i detected, my mistake. i ascended, with a beating heart, the staircase. the door of the antechamber was unfastened. i entered, totally regardless of disturbing the girl who slept within. the bed which she occupied was concealed by curtains. whether she were there, i did not stop to examine. i cannot recollect that any tokens were given of wakefulness or alarm. it was not till i reached the door of her own apartment that my heart began to falter. it was now that the momentousness of the question i was about to decide rushed with its genuine force upon my apprehension. appalled and aghast, i had scarcely power to move the bolt. if the imagination of her death was not to be supported, how should i bear the spectacle of wounds and blood? yet this was reserved for me. a few paces would set me in the midst of a scene of which i was the abhorred contriver. was it right to proceed? there were still the remnants of doubt. my forebodings might possibly be groundless. all within might be safety and serenity. a respite might be gained from the execution of an irrevocable sentence. what could i do? was not any thing easy to endure in comparison with the agonies of suspense? if i could not obviate the evil i must bear it, but the torments of suspense were susceptible of remedy. i drew back the bolt, and entered with the reluctance of fear, rather than the cautiousness of guilt. i could not lift my eyes from the ground. i advanced to the middle of the room. not a sound like that of the dying saluted my-ear. at length, shaking off the fetters of hopelessness, i looked up. i saw nothing calculated to confirm my fears. everywhere there reigned quiet and order. my heart leaped with exultation. "can it be," said i, "that i have been betrayed with shadows?--but this is not sufficient." within an alcove was the bed that belonged to her. if her safety were inviolate, it was here that she reposed. what remained to convert tormenting doubt into ravishing certainty? i was insensible to the perils of my present situation. if she, indeed, were there, would not my intrusion awaken her? she would start and perceive me, at this hour, standing at her bedside. how should i account for an intrusion so unexampled and audacious? i could not communicate my fears. i could not tell her that the blood with which my hands were stained had flowed from the wounds of her brother. my mind was inaccessible to such considerations. they did not even modify my predominant idea. obstacles like these, had they existed, would have been trampled under foot. leaving the lamp, that i bore, on the table, i approached the bed. i slowly drew aside the curtain, and beheld her tranquilly slumbering. i listened, but so profound was her sleep, that not even her breathings could be overheard. i dropped the curtain and retired. how blissful and mild were the illuminations of my bosom at this discovery! a joy that surpassed all utterance succeeded the fierceness of desperation. i stood, for some moments, wrapped in delightful contemplation. alas! it was a luminous but transient interval. the madness to whose black suggestions it bore so strong a contrast began now to make sensible approaches on my understanding. "true," said i, "she lives. her slumber is serene and happy. she is blind to her approaching destiny. some hours will at least be rescued from anguish and death. when she wakes, the phantom that soothed her will vanish. the tidings cannot be withheld from her. the murderer of thy brother cannot hope to enjoy thy smiles. those ravishing accents, with which thou hast used to greet me, will be changed. scowling and reproaches, the invectives of thy anger and the maledictions of thy justice, will rest upon my head, "what is the blessing which i made the theme of my boastful arrogance? this interval of being and repose is momentary. she will awake, but only to perish at the spectacle of my ingratitude. she will awake only to the consciousness of instantly-impending death. when she again sleeps she will wake no more. i, her son,--i, whom the law of my birth doomed to poverty and hardship, but whom her unsolicited beneficence snatched from those evils, and endowed with the highest good known to intelligent beings, the consolations of science and the blandishments of affluence,--to whom the darling of her life, the offspring in whom are faithfully preserved the lineaments of its angelic mother, she has not denied! what is the recompense that i have made? how have i discharged the measureless debt of gratitude to which she is entitled? thus!-"cannot my guilt be extenuated? is there not a good that i can do thee? must i perpetrate unmingled evil? is the province assigned me that of an infernal emissary, whose efforts are concentred in a single purpose, and that purpose a malignant one? i am the author of thy calamities. whatever misery is reserved for thee, i am the source whence it flows. can i not set bounds to the stream? cannot i prevent thee from returning to a consciousness which, till it ceases to exist, will not cease to be rent and mangled? "yes. it is in my power to screen thee from the coming storm; to accelerate thy journey to rest. i will do it." the impulse was not to be resisted. i moved with the suddenness of lightning. armed with a pointed implement that lay----it was a dagger. as i set down the lamp, i struck the edge. yet i saw it not, or noticed it not till i needed its assistance. by what accident it came hither, to what deed of darkness it had already been subservient, i had no power to inquire. i stepped to the table and seized it. the time which this action required was insufficient to save me. my doom was ratified by powers which no human energies can counterwork.--need i go further? did you entertain any imagination of so frightful a catastrophe? i am overwhelmed by turns with dismay and with wonder. i am prompted by turns to tear my heart from my breast and deny faith to the verdict of my senses. was it i that hurried to the deed? no. it was the demon that possessed me. my limbs were guided to the bloody office by a power foreign and superior to mine. i had been defrauded, for a moment, of the empire of my muscles. a little moment for that sufficed. if my destruction had not been decreed, why was the image of clarice so long excluded? yet why do i say long? the fatal resolution was conceived, and i hastened to the execution, in a period too brief for more than itself to be viewed by the intellect. what then? were my hands imbrued in this precious blood? was it to this extremity of horror that my evil genius was determined to urge me? too surely this was his purpose; too surely i was qualified to be its minister. i lifted the weapon. its point was aimed at the bosom of the sleeper. the impulse was given. at the instant a piercing shriek was uttered behind me, and a stretched-out hand, grasping the blade, made it swerve widely from its aim. it descended, but without inflicting a wound. its force was spent upon the bed. oh for words to paint that stormy transition! i loosed my hold of the dagger. i started back, and fixed eyes of frantic curiosity on the author of my rescue. he that interposed to arrest my deed, that started into being and activity at a moment so pregnant with fate, without tokens of his purpose or his coming being previously imparted, could not, methought, be less than divinity. the first glance that i darted on this being corroborated my conjecture. it was the figure and lineaments of mrs. lorimer. negligently habited in flowing and brilliant white, with features bursting with terror and wonder, the likeness of that being who was stretched upon the bed now stood before me. all that i am able to conceive of angel was comprised in the moral constitution of this woman. that her genius had overleaped all bounds, and interposed to save her, was no audacious imagination. in the state in which my mind then was, no other belief than this could occupy the first place. my tongue was tied. i gazed by turns upon her who stood before me, and her who lay upon the bed, and who, awakened by the shriek that had been uttered, now opened her eyes. she started from her pillow, and, by assuming a new and more distinct attitude, permitted me to recognise _clarice herself_! three days before, i had left her, beside the bed of a dying friend, at a solitary mansion in the mountains of donegal. here it had been her resolution to remain till her friend should breathe her last. fraught with this persuasion, knowing this to be the place and hour of repose of my lady, hurried forward by the impetuosity of my own conceptions, deceived by the faint gleam which penetrated through the curtain and imperfectly-irradiated features which bore, at all times, a powerful resemblance to those of mrs. lorimer, i had rushed to the brink of this terrible precipice! why did i linger on the verge? why, thus perilously situated, did i not throw myself headlong? the steel was yet in my hand. a single blow would have pierced my heart, and shut out from my remembrance and foresight the past and the future. the moment of insanity had gone by, and i was once more myself. instead of regarding the act which i had meditated as the dictate of compassion or of justice, it only added to the sum of my ingratitude, and gave wings to the whirlwind that was sent to bear me to perdition. perhaps i was influenced by a sentiment which i had not leisure to distribute into parts. my understanding was, no doubt, bewildered in the maze of consequences which would spring from my act. how should i explain my coming hither in this murderous guise, my arm lifted to destroy the idol of my soul and the darling child of my patroness? in what words should i unfold the tale of wiatte, and enumerate the motives that terminated in the present scene? what penalty had not my infatuation and cruelty deserved? what could i less than turn the dagger's point against my own bosom? a second time, the blow was thwarted and diverted. once more this beneficent interposer held my arm from the perpetration of a new iniquity. once more frustrated the instigations of that demon, of whose malice a mysterious destiny had consigned me to be the sport and the prey. every new moment added to the sum of my inexpiable guilt. murder was succeeded, in an instant, by the more detestable enormity of suicide. she to whom my ingratitude was flagrant in proportion to the benefits of which she was the author, had now added to her former acts that of rescuing me from the last of mischiefs. i threw the weapon on the floor. the zeal which prompted her to seize my arm, this action occasioned to subside, and to yield place to those emotions which this spectacle was calculated to excite. she watched me in silence, and with an air of ineffable solicitude. clarice, governed by the instinct of modesty, wrapped her bosom and face in the bedclothes, and testified her horror by vehement but scarcely-articulate exclamations. i moved forward, but my steps were random and tottering. my thoughts were fettered by reverie, and my gesticulations destitute of meaning. my tongue faltered without speaking, and i felt as if life and death were struggling within me for the mastery. my will, indeed, was far from being neutral in this contest. to such as i, annihilation is the supreme good. to shake off the ills that fasten on us by shaking off existence, is a lot which the system of nature has denied to man. by escaping from life, i should be delivered from this scene, but should only rush into a world of retribution, and be immersed in new agonies. i was yet to live. no instrument of my deliverance was within reach. i was powerless. to rush from the presence of these women to hide me forever from their scrutiny and their upbraiding, to snatch from their minds all traces of the existence of clithero, was the scope of unutterable longings. urged to flight by every motive of which my nature was susceptible, i was yet rooted to the spot. had the pause been only to be interrupted by me, it would have lasted forever. at length, the lady, clasping her hands and lifting them, exclaimed, in a tone melting into pity and grief,-"clithero! what is this? how came you hither, and why?" i struggled for utterance:--"i came to murder you. your brother has perished by my hands. fresh from the commission of this deed, i have hastened hither to perpetrate the same crime upon you." "my brother!" replied the lady, with new vehemence. "oh, say not so! i have just heard of his return, from sarsefield, and that he lives." "he is dead," repeated i, with fierceness; "i know it. it was i that killed him." "dead!" she faintly articulated. "and by thee, clithero? oh! cursed chance that hindered thee from killing me also! dead! then is the omen fulfilled! then am i undone! lost forever!" her eyes now wandered from me, and her countenance sunk into a wild and rueful expression. hope was utterly extinguished in her heart, and life forsook her at the same moment. she sunk upon the floor pallid and breathless. how she came into possession of this knowledge i know not. it is possible that sarsefield had repented of concealment, and, in the interval that passed between our separation and my encounter with wiatte, had returned, and informed her of the reappearance of this miscreant. thus, then, was my fate consummated. i was rescued from destroying her by a dagger, only to behold her perish by the tidings which i brought. thus was every omen of mischief and misery fulfilled. thus was the enmity of wiatte rendered efficacious, and the instrument of his destruction changed into the executioner of his revenge. such is the tale of my crimes. it is not for me to hope that the curtain of oblivion will ever shut out the dismal spectacle. it will haunt me forever. the torments that grow out of it can terminate only with the thread of my existence, but that, i know full well, will never end. death is but a shifting of the scene; and the endless progress of eternity, which to the good is merely the perfection of felicity, is to the wicked an accumulation of woe. the self-destroyer is his own enemy: this has ever been my opinion. hitherto it has influenced my actions. now, though the belief continues, its influence on my conduct is annihilated. i am no stranger to the depth of that abyss into which i shall plunge. no matter. change is precious for its own sake. well, i was still to live. my abode must be somewhere fixed. my conduct was henceforth the result of a perverse and rebellious principle. i banished myself forever from my native soil. i vowed never more to behold the face of my clarice, to abandon my friends, my books, all my wonted labours and accustomed recreations. i was neither ashamed nor afraid. i considered not in what way the justice of the country would affect me. it merely made no part of my contemplations. i was not embarrassed by the choice of expedients for trammelling up the visible consequences and for eluding suspicion. the idea of abjuring my country and flying forever from the hateful scene partook, to my apprehension, of the vast, the boundless, and strange; of plunging from the height of fortune to obscurity and indigence, corresponded with my present state of mind. it was of a piece with the tremendous and wonderful events that had just happened. these were the images that haunted me, while i stood speechlessly gazing at the ruin before me. i heard a noise from without, or imagined that i heard it. my reverie was broken, and my muscular power restored. i descended into the street, through doors of which i possessed one set of keys, and hurried by the shortest way beyond the precincts of the city. i had laid no plan. my conceptions with regard to the future were shapeless and confused. successive incidents supplied me with a clue, and suggested, as they rose, the next step to be taken. i threw off the garb of affluence, and assumed a beggar's attire. that i had money about me for the accomplishment of my purposes was wholly accidental. i travelled along the coast, and, when i arrived at one town, knew not why i should go farther; but my restlessness was unabated, and change was some relief. i it length arrived at belfast. a vessel was preparing for america. i embraced eagerly the opportunity of passing into a new world. i arrived at philadelphia. as soon as i landed i wandered hither, and was content to wear out my few remaining days in the service of inglefield. i have no friends. why should i trust my story to mother? i have no solicitude about concealment; but who is there who will derive pleasure or benefit from my rehearsal? and why should i expatiate on so hateful a scheme? yet now have i consented to this. i have confided in you the history of my disasters. i am not fearful of the use that you may be disposed to make of it. i shall quickly set myself beyond the reach of human tribunals. i shall relieve the ministers of law from the trouble of punishing. the recent events which induced you to summon me to this conference have likewise determined me to make this disclosure. i was not aware, for some time, of my perturbed sleep. no wonder that sleep cannot soothe miseries like mine; that i am alike infested by memory in wakefulness and slumber. yet i was anew distressed by the discovery that my thoughts found their way to my lips, without my being conscious of it, and that my steps wandered forth unknowingly and without the guidance of my will. the story you have told is not incredible. the disaster to which you allude did not fail to excite my regret. i can still weep over the untimely fall of youth and worth. i can no otherwise account for my frequenting his shade than by the distant resemblance which the death of this man bore to that of which i was the perpetrator. this resemblance occurred to me at first. if he were able to weaken the impression which was produced by my crime, this similitude was adapted to revive and enforce them. the wilderness, and the cave to which you followed me, were familiar to my sunday rambles. often have i indulged in audible griefs on the cliffs of that valley. often have i brooded over my sorrows in the recesses of that cavern. this scene is adapted to my temper. its mountainous asperities supply me with images of desolation and seclusion, and its headlong streams lull me into temporary forgetfulness of mankind. i comprehend you. you suspect me of concern in the death of waldegrave. you could not do otherwise. the conduct that you have witnessed was that of a murderer. i will not upbraid you for your suspicions, though i have bought exemption from them at a high price. chapter ix. there ended his narrative. he started from the spot where he stood, and, without affording me any opportunity of replying or commenting, disappeared amidst the thickest of the wood. i had no time to exert myself for his detention. i could have used no arguments for this end, to which it is probable he would have listened. the story i had heard was too extraordinary, too completely the reverse of all my expectations, to allow me to attend to the intimations of self-murder which he dropped. the secret which i imagined was about to be disclosed was as inscrutable as ever. not a circumstance, from the moment when clithero's character became the subject of my meditations, till the conclusion of his talk, but served to confirm my suspicion. was this error to be imputed to credulity. would not any one, from similar appearances, have drawn similar conclusions? or is there a criterion by which truth can always be distinguished? was it owing to my imperfect education that the inquietudes of this man were not traced to a deed performed at the distance of a thousand leagues, to the murder of his patroness and friend? i had heard a tale which apparently related to scenes and persons far distant: but, though my suspicions have appeared to have been misplaced, what should hinder but that the death of my friend was, in like manner, an act of momentary insanity and originated in a like spirit of mistaken benevolence? but i did not consider this tale merely in relation to myself. my life had been limited and uniform. i had communed with romancers and historians, but the impression made upon me by this incident was unexampled in my experience. my reading had furnished me with no instance in any degree parallel to this, and i found that to be a distant and second-hand spectator of events was widely different from witnessing them myself and partaking in their consequences. my judgment was, for a time, sunk into imbecility and confusion. my mind was full of the images unavoidably suggested by this tale, but they existed in a kind of chaos, and not otherwise than gradually was i able to reduce them to distinct particulars, and subject them to a deliberate and methodical inspection. how was i to consider this act of clithero? what a deplorable infatuation! yet it was the necessary result of a series of ideas mutually linked and connected. his conduct was dictated by a motive allied to virtue. it was the fruit of an ardent and grateful spirit. the death of wiatte could not be censured. the life of clithero was unspeakably more valuable than that of his antagonist. it was the instinct of self-preservation that swayed him. he knew not his adversary in time enough to govern himself by that knowledge. had the assailant been an unknown ruffian, his death would have been followed by no remorse. the spectacle of his dying agonies would have dwelt upon the memory of his assassin like any other mournful sight, in the production of which he bore no part. it must at least be said that his will was not concerned in this transaction. he acted in obedience to an impulse which he could not control nor resist. shall we impute guilt where there is no design? shall a man extract food for self-reproach from an action to which it is not enough to say that he was actuated by no culpable intention, but that he was swayed by no intention whatever? if consequences arise that cannot be foreseen, shall we find no refuge in the persuasion of our rectitude and of human frailty? shall we deem ourselves criminal because we do not enjoy the attributes of deity? because our power and our knowledge are confined by impassable boundaries? but whence arose the subsequent intention? it was the fruit of a dreadful mistake. his intents were noble and compassionate. but this is of no avail to free him from the imputation of guilt. no remembrance of past beneficence can compensate for this crime. the scale loaded with the recriminations of his conscience, is immovable by any counter-weight. but what are the conclusions to be drawn by dispassionate observers? is it possible to regard this person with disdain or with enmity? the crime originated in those limitations which nature has imposed upon human faculties. proofs of a just intention are all that are requisite to exempt us from blame; he is thus, in consequence of a double mistake. the light in which he views this event is erroneous. he judges wrong, and is therefore miserable. how imperfect are the grounds of all our decisions was it of no use to superintend his childhood, to select his instructors and examples, to mark the operations of his principles, to see him emerging into youth, to follow him through various scenes and trying vicissitudes, and mark the uniformity of his integrity? who would have predicted his future conduct? who would not have affirmed the impossibility of an action like this? how mysterious was the connection between the fate of wiatte and his sister! by such circuitous and yet infallible means were the prediction of the lady and the vengeance of the brother accomplished! in how many cases may it be said, as in this, that the prediction was the cause of its own fulfilment! that the very act which considerate observers, and even himself, for a time, imagined to have utterly precluded the execution of wiatte's menaces, should be that inevitably leading to it! that the execution should be assigned to him who, abounding in abhorrence, and in the act of self-defence, was the slayer of the menacer! as the obstructer of his designs, wiatte waylaid and assaulted clithero. he perished in the attempt. were his designs frustrated? no. it was thus that he secured the gratification of his vengeance. his sister was cut off in the bloom of life and prosperity. by a refinement of good fortune, the voluntary minister of his malice had entailed upon himself exile without reprieve and misery without end. but what chiefly excited my wonder was the connection of this tale with the destiny of sarsefield. this was he whom i have frequently mentioned to you as my preceptor. about four years previous to this era, he appeared in this district without fortune or friend. he desired, one evening, to be accommodated at my uncle's house. the conversation turning on the objects of his journey and his present situation, he professed himself in search of lucrative employment. my uncle proposed to him to become a teacher, there being a sufficient number of young people in this neighbourhood to afford him occupation and subsistence. he found it his interest to embrace this proposal. i, of course, became his pupil, and demeaned myself in such a manner as speedily to grow into a favourite. he communicated to us no part of his early history, but informed us sufficiently of his adventures in asia and italy to make it plain that this was the same person alluded to by clithero. during his abode among us his conduct was irreproachable. when he left us, he manifested the most poignant regret, but this originated chiefly in his regard to me. he promised to maintain with me an epistolary intercourse. since his departure, however, i had heard nothing respecting him. it was with unspeakable regret that i now heard of the disappointment of his hopes, and was inquisitive respecting the measures which he would adopt in his new situation. perhaps he would' once more return to america, and i should again be admitted to the enjoyment of his society. this event i anticipated with the highest satisfaction. at present, the fate of the unhappy clithero was the subject of abundant anxiety. on his suddenly leaving me, at the conclusion of his tale, i supposed that he had gone upon one of his usual rambles, and that it would terminate only with the day. next morning a message was received from inglefield, inquiring if any one knew what had become of his servant. i could not listen to this message with tranquillity, i recollected the hints that he had given of some design upon his life, and admitted the most dreary forebodings. i speeded to inglefield's. clithero had not returned, they told me, the preceding evening. he had not apprized them of any intention to change his abode. his boxes, and all that composed his slender property, were found in their ordinary state. he had expressed no dissatisfaction with his present condition. several days passed, and no tidings could be procured of him. his absence was a topic of general speculation, but was a source of particular anxiety to no one but myself. my apprehensions were surely built upon sufficient grounds. from the moment that we parted, no one had seen or heard of him. what mode of suicide he had selected, he had disabled us from discovering, by the impenetrable secrecy in which he had involved it. in the midst of my reflections upon this subject, the idea of the wilderness occurred. could he have executed his design in the deepest of its recesses? these were unvisited by human footsteps, and his bones might lie for ages in this solitude without attracting observation. to seek them where they lay, to gather them together and provide for them a grave, was a duty which appeared incumbent on me, and of which the performance was connected with a thousand habitual sentiments and mixed pleasures. thou knowest my devotion to the spirit that breathes its inspiration in the gloom of forests and on the verge of streams. i love to immerse myself in shades and dells, and hold converse with the solemnities and secrecies of nature in the rude retreats of norwalk. the disappearance of clithero had furnished new incitements to ascend its cliffs and pervade its thickets, as i cherished the hope of meeting in my rambles with some traces of this man. but might he not still live? his words had imparted the belief that he intended to destroy himself. this catastrophe, however, was far from certain. was it not in my power to avert it? could i not restore a mind thus vigorous, to tranquil and wholesome existence? could i not subdue his perverse disdain and immeasurable abhorrence of himself? his upbraiding and his scorn were unmerited and misplaced. perhaps they argued frenzy rather than prejudice; but frenzy, like prejudice, was curable. reason was no less an antidote to the illusions of insanity like his, than to the illusions of error. i did not immediately recollect that to subsist in this desert was impossible. nuts were the only fruits it produced, and these were inadequate to sustain human life. if it were haunted by clithero, he must occasionally pass its limits and beg or purloin victuals. this deportment was too humiliating and flagitious to be imputed to him. there was reason to suppose him smitten with the charms of solitude, of a lonely abode in the midst of mountainous and rugged nature; but this could not be uninterruptedly enjoyed. life could be supported only by occasionally visiting the haunts of men, in the guise of a thief or a mendicant. hence, since clithero was not known to have reappeared at any farm-house in the neighbourhood, i was compelled to conclude either that he had retired far from this district, or that he was dead. though i designed that my leisure should chiefly be consumed in the bosom of norwalk, i almost dismissed the hope of meeting with the fugitive. there were indeed two sources of my hopelessness on this occasion. not only it was probable that clithero had fled far away, but, should he have concealed himself in some nook or cavern within these precincts, his concealment was not to be traced. this arose from the nature of that sterile region. it would not be easy to describe the face of this district, in a few words. half of solesbury, thou knowest, admits neither of plough nor spade. the cultivable space lies along the river, and the desert, lying on the north, has gained, by some means, the appellation of norwalk. canst thou imagine a space, somewhat circular, about six miles in diameter, and exhibiting a perpetual and intricate variety of craggy eminences and deep dells? the hollows are single, and walled around by cliffs, ever varying in shape and height, and have seldom any perceptible communication with each other. these hollows are of all dimensions, from the narrowness and depth of a well, to the amplitude of one hundred yards. winter's snow is frequently found in these cavities at midsummer. the streams that burst forth from every crevice are thrown, by the irregularities of the surface, into numberless cascades, often disappear in mists or in chasms, and emerge from subterranean channels, and, finally, either subside into lakes, or quietly meander through the lower and more level grounds. wherever nature left a flat it is made rugged and scarcely passable by enormous and fallen trunks, accumulated by the storms of ages, and forming, by their slow decay, a moss-covered soil, the haunt of rabbits and lizards. these spots are obscured by the melancholy umbrage of pines, whose eternal murmurs are in unison with vacancy and solitude, with the reverberations of the torrents and the whistling of the blasts. hickory and poplar, which abound in the lowlands, find here no fostering elements. a sort of continued vale, winding and abrupt, leads into the midst of this region and through it. this vale serves the purpose of a road. it is a tedious maze and perpetual declivity, and requires, from the passenger, a cautious and sure foot. openings and ascents occasionally present themselves on each side, which seem to promise you access to the interior region, but always terminate, sooner or later, in insuperable difficulties, at the verge of a precipice or the bottom of a steep. perhaps no one was more acquainted with this wilderness than i, but my knowledge was extremely imperfect. i had traversed parts of it, at an early age, in pursuit of berries and nuts, or led by a roaming disposition. afterwards the sphere of my rambles was enlarged and their purpose changed. when sarsefield came among us, i became his favourite scholar and the companion of all his pedestrian excursions. he was fond of penetrating into these recesses, partly from the love of picturesque scenes, partly to investigate its botanical and mineral productions, and partly to carry on more effectually that species of instruction which he had adopted with regard to me, and which chiefly consisted in moralizing narratives or synthetical reasonings. these excursions had familiarized me with its outlines and most accessible parts; but there was much which, perhaps, could never be reached without wings, and much the only paths to which i might forever overlook. every new excursion, indeed, added somewhat to my knowledge. new tracks were pursued, new prospects detected, and new summits were gained. my rambles were productive of incessant novelty, though they always terminated in the prospect of limits that could not be overleaped. but none of these had led me wider from my customary paths than that which had taken place when in pursuit of clithero. i had a faint remembrance of the valley into which i had descended after him; but till then i had viewed it at a distance, and supposed it impossible to reach the bottom but by leaping from a precipice some hundred feet in height. the opposite steep seemed no less inaccessible, and the cavern at the bottom was impervious to any views which my former positions had enabled me to take of it. my intention to re-examine this cave and ascertain whither it led had, for a time, been suspended by different considerations. it was now revived with more energy than ever. i reflected that this had formerly been haunted by clithero, and might possibly have been the scene of the desperate act which he had meditated. it might at least conceal some token of his past existence. it might lead into spaces hitherto unvisited, and to summits from which wider landscapes might be seen. one morning i set out to explore this scene. the road which clithero had taken was laboriously circuitous. on my return from the first pursuit of him, i ascended the cliff in my former footsteps, but soon lighted on the beaten track which i have already described. this enabled me to shun a thousand obstacles which had lately risen before me, and opened an easy passage to the cavern. i once more traversed this way. the brow of the hill was gained. the ledges of which it consisted afforded sufficient footing, when the attempt was made, though viewed at a distance they seemed to be too narrow for that purpose. as i descended the rugged stair, i could not but wonder at the temerity and precipitation with which this descent had formerly been made. it seemed as if the noonday light and the tardiest circumspection would scarcely enable me to accomplish it; yet then it had been done with headlong speed, and with no guidance but the moon's uncertain rays. i reached the mouth of the cave. till now i had forgotten that a lamp or a torch might be necessary to direct my subterranean footsteps. i was unwilling to defer the attempt. light might possibly be requisite, if the cave had no other outlet. somewhat might present itself within to the eyes, which might forever elude the hands, but i was more inclined to consider it merely as an avenue terminating in an opening on the summit of the steep, or on the opposite side of the ridge. caution might supply the place of light, or, having explored the cave as far as possible at present, i might hereafter return, better furnished for the scrutiny. chapter x. with these determinations, i proceeded. the entrance was low, and compelled me to resort to hands as well as feet. at a few yards from the mouth the light disappeared, and i found myself immersed in the dunnest obscurity. had i not been persuaded that another had gone before me, i should have relinquished the attempt. i proceeded with the utmost caution, always ascertaining, by outstretched arms, the height and breadth of the cavity before me. in a short time the dimensions expanded on all sides, and permitted me to resume my feet. i walked upon a smooth and gentle declivity. presently the wall on one side, and the ceiling, receded beyond my reach. i began to fear that i should be involved in a maze, and should be disabled from returning. to obviate this danger it was requisite to adhere to the nearest wall, and conform to the direction which it should take, without straying through the palpable obscurity. whether the ceiling was lofty or low, whether the opposite wall of the passage was distant or near, this i deemed no proper opportunity to investigate. in a short time, my progress was stopped by an abrupt descent. i set down the advancing foot with caution, being aware that i might at the next step encounter a bottomless pit. to the brink of such a one i seemed now to have arrived. i stooped, and stretched my hand forward and downward, but all was vacuity. here it was needful to pause. i had reached the brink of a cavity whose depth it avas impossible to ascertain. it might be a few inches beyond my reach, or hundreds of feet. by leaping down i might incur no injury, or might plunge into a lake or dash myself to pieces on the points of rocks. i now saw with new force the propriety of being furnished with a light. the first suggestion was to return upon my footsteps, and resume my undertaking on the morrow. yet, having advanced thus far, i felt reluctance to recede without accomplishing my purposes. i reflected likewise that clithero had boldly entered this recess, and had certainly come forth at a different avenue from that at which he entered. at length it occurred to me that, though i could not go forward, yet i might proceed along the edge of this cavity. this edge would be as safe a guidance, and would serve as well for a clue by which i might return, as the wall which it was now necessary to forsake. intense dark is always the parent of fears. impending injuries cannot in this state be descried, nor shunned, nor repelled. i began to feel some faltering of my courage, and seated myself, for a few minutes, on a stony mass which arose before me. my situation was new. the caverns i had hitherto met with in this desert were chiefly formed of low-browed rocks. they were chambers, more or less spacious, into which twilight was at least admitted; but here it seemed as if i were surrounded by barriers that would forever cut off my return to air and to light. presently i resumed my courage and proceeded. my road appeared now to ascend. on one side i seemed still upon the verge of a precipice, and on the other all was empty and waste. i had gone no inconsiderable distance, and persuaded myself that my career would speedily terminate. in a short time, the space on the left hand was again occupied, and i cautiously proceeded between the edge of the gulf and a rugged wall. as the space between them widened i adhered to the wall. i was not insensible that my path became more intricate and more difficult to retread in proportion as i advanced. i endeavoured to preserve a vivid conception of the way which i had already passed, and to keep the images of the left and right-hand wall, and the gulf, in due succession in my memory. the path, which had hitherto been considerably smooth, now became rugged and steep. chilling damps, the secret trepidation which attended me, the length and difficulties of my way, enhanced by the ceaseless caution and the numerous expedients which the utter darkness obliged me to employ, began to overpower my strength. i was frequently compelled to stop and recruit myself by rest. these respites from toil were of use, but they could not enable me to prosecute an endless journey, and to return was scarcely a less arduous task than to proceed. i looked anxiously forward, in the hope of being comforted by some dim ray, which might assure me that my labours were approaching an end. at last this propitious token appeared, and i issued forth into a kind of chamber, one side of which was open to the air and allowed me to catch a portion of the checkered sky. this spectacle never before excited such exquisite sensations in my bosom. the air, likewise, breathed into the cavern, was unspeakably delicious. i now found myself on the projecture of a rock. above and below, the hill-side was nearly perpendicular. opposite, and at the distance of fifteen or twenty yards, was a similar ascent. at the bottom was a glen, cold, narrow, and obscure. this projecture, which served as a kind of vestibule to the cave, was connected with a ledge, by which, though not without peril and toil, i was conducted to the summit. this summit was higher than any of those which were interposed between itself and the river. a large part of this chaos of rocks and precipices was subjected, at one view, to the eye. the fertile lawns and vales which lay beyond this, the winding course of the river, and the slopes which rose on its farther side, were parts of this extensive scene. these objects were at any time fitted to inspire rapture. now my delight was enhanced by the contrast which this lightsome and serene element bore to the glooms from which i had lately emerged. my station, also, was higher, and the limits of my view, consequently, more ample than any which i had hitherto enjoyed. i advanced to the outer verge of the hill, which i found to overlook a steep no less inaccessible, and a glen equally profound. i changed frequently my station in order to diversify the scenery. at length it became necessary to inquire by what means i should return. i traversed the edge of the hill, but on every side it was equally steep and always too lofty to permit me to leap from it. as i kept along the verge, i perceived that it tended in a circular direction, and brought me back, at last, to the spot from which i had set out. from this inspection, it seemed as if return was impossible by any other way than that through the cavern. i now turned my attention to the interior space. if you imagine a cylindrical mass, with a cavity dug in the centre, whose edge conforms to the exterior edge; and if you place in this cavity another cylinder, higher than that which surrounds it, but so small as to leave between its sides and those of the cavity a hollow space, you will gain as distinct an image of this hill as words can convey. the summit of the inner rock was rugged and covered with trees of unequal growth. to reach this summit would not render my return easier; but its greater elevation would extend my view, and perhaps furnish a spot from which the whole horizon was conspicuous. as i had traversed the outer, i now explored the inner, edge of this hill. at length i reached a spot where the chasm, separating the two rocks, was narrower than at any other part. at first view, it seemed as if it were possible to leap over it, but a nearer examination showed me that the passage was impracticable. so far as my eye could estimate it, the breadth was thirty or forty feet. i could scarcely venture to look beneath. the height was dizzy, and the walls, which approached each other at top, receded at the bottom, so as to form the resemblance of an immense hall, lighted from a rift which some convulsion of nature had made in the roof. where i stood there ascended a perpetual mist, occasioned by a torrent that dashed along the rugged pavement below. from these objects i willingly turned my eye upon those before and above me, on the opposite ascent. a stream, rushing from above, fell into a cavity, which its own force seemed gradually to have made. the noise and the motion equally attracted my attention. there was a desolate and solitary grandeur in the scene, enhanced by the circumstances in which it was beheld, and by the perils through which i had recently passed, that had never before been witnessed by me. a sort of sanctity and awe environed it, owing to the consciousness of absolute and utter loneliness. it was probable that human feet had never before gained this recess, that human eyes had never been fixed upon these gushing waters. the aboriginal inhabitants had no motives to lead them into caves like this and ponder on the verge of such a precipice. their successors were still less likely to have wandered hither. since the birth of this continent, i was probably the first who had deviated thus remotely from the customary paths of men. while musing upon these ideas, my eye was fixed upon the foaming current. at length i looked upon the rocks which confined and embarrassed its course. i admired their fantastic shapes and endless irregularities. passing from one to the other of these, my attention lighted, at length, as if by some magical transition, on--a human countenance! my surprise was so abrupt, and my sensations so tumultuous, that i forgot for a moment the perilous nature of my situation. i loosened my hold of a pine-branch, which had been hitherto one of my supports, and almost started from my seat. had my station been in a slight degree nearer the brink than it was, i should have fallen headlong into the abyss. to meet a human creature, even on that side of the chasm which i occupied, would have been wholly adverse to my expectation. my station was accessible by no other road than that through which i had passed, and no motives were imaginable by which others could be prompted to explore this road. but he whom i now beheld was seated where it seemed impossible for human efforts to have placed him. but this affected me but little in comparison with other incidents. not only the countenance was human, but, in spite of shaggy and tangled locks, and an air of melancholy wildness, i speedily recognised the features of the fugitive clithero! one glance was not sufficient to make me acquainted with this scene. i had come hither partly in pursuit of this man, but some casual appendage of his person, something which should indicate his past rather than his present existence, was all that i hoped to find. that he should be found alive in this desert, that he should have gained this summit, access to which was apparently impossible, were scarcely within the boundaries of belief. his scanty and coarse garb had been nearly rent away by brambles and thorns; his arms, bosom, and cheeks were overgrown and half concealed by hair. there was somewhat in his attitude and looks denoting more than anarchy of thoughts and passions. his rueful, ghastly, and immovable eyes testified not only that his mind was ravaged by despair, but that he was pinched with famine. these proofs of his misery thrilled to my inmost heart. horror and shuddering invaded me as i stood gazing upon him, and, for a time, i was without the power of deliberating on the measures which it was my duty to adopt for his relief. the first suggestion was, by calling, to inform him of my presence. i knew not what counsel or comfort to offer. by what words to bespeak his attention, or by what topics to mollify his direful passions, i knew not. though so near, the gulf by which we were separated was impassable. all that i could do was to speak. my surprise and my horror were still strong enough to give a shrill and piercing tone to my voice. the chasm and the rocks loudened and reverberated my accents while i exclaimed,--"_man! clithero!_" my summons was effectual. he shook off his trance in a moment. he had been stretched upon his back, with his eyes fixed upon a craggy projecture above, as if he were in momentary expectation of its fall and crushing him to atoms. now he started on his feet. he was conscious of the voice, but not of the quarter whence it came. he was looking anxiously around when i again spoke:--"look hither. it is i who called." he looked. astonishment was now mingled with every other dreadful meaning in his visage. he clasped his hands together and bent forward, as if to satisfy himself that his summoner was real. at the next moment he drew back, placed his hands upon his breast, and fixed his eyes on the ground. this pause was not likely to be broken but by me. i was preparing again to speak. to be more distinctly heard, i advanced closer to the brink. during this action, my eye was necessarily withdrawn from him. having gained a somewhat nearer station, i looked again, but--he was gone! the seat which he so lately occupied was empty. i was not forewarned of his disappearance or directed to the course of his flight by any rustling among leaves. these, indeed, would have been overpowered by the noise of the cataract. the place where he sat was the bottom of a cavity, one side of which terminated in the verge of the abyss, but the other sides were perpendicular or overhanging. surely he had not leaped into this gulf; and yet that he had so speedily scaled the steep was impossible. i looked into the gulf, but the depth and the gloom allowed me to see nothing with distinctness. his cries or groans could not be overheard amidst the uproar of the waters. his fall must have instantly destroyed him, and that he had fallen was the only conclusion i could draw. my sensations on this incident cannot be easily described. the image of this man's despair, and of the sudden catastrophe to which my inauspicious interference had led, filled me with compunction and terror. some of my fears were relieved by the new conjecture, that, behind the rock on which he had lain, there might be some aperture or pit into which he had descended, or in which he might be concealed. i derived consolation from this conjecture. not only the evil which i dreaded might not have happened, but some alleviation of his misery was possible. could i arrest his footsteps and win his attention, i might be able to insinuate the lessons of fortitude; but if words were impotent, and arguments were nugatory, yet to sit by him in silence, to moisten his hand with tears, to sigh in unison, to offer him the spectacle of sympathy, the solace of believing that his demerits were not estimated by so rigid a standard by others as by himself, that one at least among his fellow-men regarded him with love and pity, could not fail to be of benign influence. these thoughts inspired me with new zeal. to effect my purpose it was requisite to reach the opposite steep. i was now convinced that this was not an impracticable undertaking, since clithero had already performed it. i once more made the circuit of the hill. every side was steep and of enormous height, and the gulf was nowhere so narrow as at this spot. i therefore returned hither, and once more pondered on the means of passing this tremendous chasm in safety. casting my eyes upward, i noted the tree at the root of which i was standing. i compared the breadth of the gulf with the length of the trunk of this tree, and it appeared very suitable for a bridge. happily it grew obliquely, and, if felled by an axe, would probably fall of itself, in such a manner as to be suspended across the chasm. the stock was thick enough to afford me footing, and would enable me to reach the opposite declivity without danger or delay. a more careful examination of the spot, the site of the tree, its dimensions, and the direction of its growth, convinced me fully of the practicability of this expedient, and i determined to carry it into immediate execution. for this end i must hasten home, procure an axe, and return with all expedition hither. i took my former way, once more entered the subterranean avenue, and slowly re-emerged into day. before i reached home, the evening was at hand, and my tired limbs and jaded spirits obliged me to defer my undertaking till the morrow. though my limbs were at rest, my thoughts were active through the night. i carefully reviewed the situation of this hill, and was unable to conjecture by what means clithero could place himself upon it. unless he occasionally returned to the habitable grounds, it was impossible for him to escape perishing by famine. he might intend to destroy himself by this means, and my first efforts were to be employed to overcome this fatal resolution. to persuade him to leave his desolate haunts might be a laborious and tedious task; meanwhile, all my benevolent intentions would be frustrated by his want of sustenance. it was proper, therefore, to carry bread with me, and to place it before him. the sight of food, the urgencies of hunger, and my vehement entreaties, might prevail on him to eat, though no expostulations might suffice to make him seek food at a distance. chapter xi. next morning i stored a small bag with meat and bread, and, throwing an axe on my shoulder, set out, without informing any one of my intentions, for the hill. my passage was rendered more difficult by these encumbrances, but my perseverance surmounted every impediment, and i gained, in a few hours, the foot of the tree whose trunk was to serve me for a bridge. in this journey i saw no traces of the fugitive. a new survey of the tree confirmed my former conclusions, and i began my work with diligence. my strokes were repeated by a thousand echoes, and i paused at first, somewhat startled by reverberations which made it appear as if not one but a score of axes were employed at the same time on both sides of the gulf. quickly the tree fell, and exactly in the manner which i expected arid desired. the wide-spread limbs occupied and choked up the channel of the torrent, and compelled it to seek a new outlet and multiplied its murmurs. i dared not trust myself to cross it in an upright posture, but clung, with hands and feet, to its rugged bark. having reached the opposite cliff, i proceeded to examine the spot where clithero had disappeared. my fondest hopes were realized, for a considerable cavity appeared, which, on a former day, had been concealed from my distant view by the rock. it was obvious to conclude that this was his present habitation, or that an avenue, conducting hither and terminating in the unexplored sides of this pit, was that by which he had come hither, and by which he had retired. i could not hesitate long to slide into the pit. i found an entrance through which i fearlessly penetrated. i was prepared to encounter obstacles and perils similar to those which i have already described, but was rescued from them by ascending, in a few minutes, into a kind of passage, open above, but walled by a continued rock on both sides. the sides of this passage conformed with the utmost exactness to each other. nature, at some former period, had occasioned the solid mass to dispart at this place, and had thus afforded access to the summit of the hill. loose stones and ragged points formed the flooring of this passage, which rapidly and circuitously ascended. i was now within a few yards of the surface of the rock. the passage opened into a kind of chamber or pit, the sides of which were not difficult to climb. i rejoiced at the prospect of this termination of my journey. here i paused, and, throwing my weary limbs on the ground, began to examine the objects around me, and to meditate on the steps that were next to be taken. my first glance lighted on the very being of whom i was in search. stretched upon a bed of moss, at the distance of a few feet from my station, i beheld clithero. he had not been roused by my approach, though my footsteps were perpetually stumbling and sliding. this reflection gave birth to the fear that he was dead. a nearer inspection dispelled my apprehensions, and showed me that he was merely buried in profound slumber. those vigils must indeed have been long which were at last succeeded by a sleep so oblivious. this meeting was, in the highest degree, propitious. it not only assured me of his existence, but proved that his miseries were capable of being suspended. his slumber enabled me to pause, to ruminate on the manner by which his understanding might be most successfully addressed; to collect and arrange the topics fitted to rectify his gloomy and disastrous perceptions. thou knowest that i am qualified for such tasks neither by my education nor my genius. the headlong and ferocious energies of this man could not be repelled or diverted into better paths by efforts so undisciplined as mine. a despair so stormy and impetuous would drown my feeble accents. how should i attempt to reason with him? how should i outroot prepossessions so inveterate,--the fruits of his earliest education, fostered and matured by the observation and experience of his whole life? how should i convince him that, since the death of wiatte was not intended, the deed was without crime? that, if it had been deliberately concerted, it was still a virtue, since his own life could by no other means be preserved? that when he pointed a dagger at the bosom of his mistress he was actuated, not by avarice, or ambition, or revenge, or malice? he desired to confer on her the highest and the only benefit of which he believed her capable. he sought to rescue her from tormenting regrets and lingering agonies. these positions were sufficiently just to my own view, but i was not called upon to reduce them to practice. i had not to struggle with the consciousness of having been rescued, by some miraculous contingency, from imbruing my hands in the blood of her whom i adored; of having drawn upon myself suspicions of ingratitude and murder too deep to be ever effaced; of having bereft myself of love, and honour, and friends, and spotless reputation; of having doomed myself to infamy and detestation, to hopeless exile, penury, and servile toil. these were the evils which his malignant destiny had made the unalterable portion of clithero, and how should my imperfect eloquence annihilate these evils? every man, not himself the victim of irretrievable disasters, perceives the folly of ruminating on the past, and of fostering a grief which cannot reverse or recall the decrees of an immutable necessity; but every man who suffers is unavoidably shackled by the errors which he censures in his neighbour, and his efforts to relieve himself are as fruitless as those with which he attempted the relief of others. no topic, therefore, could be properly employed by me on the present occasion. all that i could do was to offer him food, and, by pathetic supplications, to prevail on him to eat. famine, however obstinate, would scarcely refrain when bread was placed within sight and reach. when made to swerve from his resolution in one instance, it would be less difficult to conquer it a second time. the magic of sympathy, the perseverance of benevolence, though silent, might work a gradual and secret revolution, and better thoughts might insensibly displace those desperate suggestions which now governed him. having revolved these ideas, i placed the food which i had brought at his right hand, and, seating myself at his feet, attentively surveyed his countenance. the emotions which were visible during wakefulness had vanished during this cessation of remembrance and remorse, or were faintly discernible. they served to dignify and solemnize his features, and to embellish those immutable lines which betokened the spirit of his better days. lineaments were now observed which could never coexist with folly or associate with obdurate guilt. i had no inclination to awaken him. this respite was too sweet to be needlessly abridged. i determined to await the operation of nature, and to prolong, by silence and by keeping interruption at a distance, this salutary period of forgetfulness. this interval permitted new ideas to succeed in my mind. clithero believed his solitude to be unapproachable. what new expedients to escape inquiry and intrusion might not my presence suggest! might he not vanish, as he had done on the former day, and afford me no time to assail his constancy and tempt his hunger? if, however, i withdrew during his sleep, he would awake without disturbance, and be unconscious, for a time, that his secrecy had been violated. he would quickly perceive the victuals, and would need no foreign inducements to eat. a provision so unexpected and extraordinary might suggest new thoughts, and be construed into a kind of heavenly condemnation of his purpose. he would not readily suspect the motives or person of his visitant, would take no precaution against the repetition of my visit, and, at the same time, our interview would not be attended with so much surprise. the more i revolved these reflections, the greater force they acquired. at length, i determined to withdraw, and, leaving the food where it could scarcely fail of attracting his notice, i returned by the way that i had come. i had scarcely reached home, when a messenger from inglefield arrived, requesting me to spend the succeeding night at his house, as some engagement had occurred to draw him to the city. i readily complied with this request. it was not necessary, however, to be early in my visit. i deferred going till the evening was far advanced. my way led under the branches of the elm which recent events had rendered so memorable. hence my reflections reverted to the circumstances which had lately occurred in connection with this tree. i paused, for some time, under its shade. i marked the spot where clithero had been discovered digging. it showed marks of being unsettled; but the sod which had formerly covered it, and which had lately been removed, was now carefully replaced. this had not been done by him on that occasion in which i was a witness of his behaviour. the earth was then hastily removed, and as hastily thrown again into the hole from which it had been taken. some curiosity was naturally excited by this appearance. either some other person, or clithero, on a subsequent occasion, had been here. i was now likewise led to reflect on the possible motives that prompted the maniac to turn up this earth. there is always some significance in the actions of a sleeper. somewhat was, perhaps, buried in this spot, connected with the history of mrs. lorimer or of clarice. was it not possible to ascertain the truth in this respect? there was but one method. by carefully uncovering this hole, and digging as deep as clithero had already dug, it would quickly appear whether any thing was hidden. to do this publicly by daylight was evidently indiscreet. besides, a moment's delay was superfluous. the night had now fallen, and before it was past this new undertaking might be finished. an interview was, if possible, to be gained with clithero on the morrow, and for this interview the discoveries made on this spot might eminently qualify me. influenced by these considerations, i resolved to dig. i was first, however, to converse an hour with the housekeeper, and then to withdraw to my chamber. when the family were all retired, and there was no fear of observation or interruption, i proposed to rise and hasten, with a proper implement, hither. one chamber in inglefield's house was usually reserved for visitants. in this chamber thy unfortunate brother died, and here it was that i was to sleep. the image of its last inhabitant could not fail of being called up, and of banishing repose; but the scheme which i had meditated was an additional incitement to watchfulness. hither i repaired at the due season, having previously furnished myself with candles, since i knew not what might occur to make a light necessary. i did not go to bed, but either sat musing by a table or walked across the room. the bed before me was that on which my friend breathed his last. to rest my head upon the same pillow, to lie on that pallet which sustained his cold and motionless limbs, were provocations to remembrance and grief that i desired to shun. i endeavoured to fill my mind with more recent incidents, with the disasters of clithero, my subterranean adventures, and the probable issue of the schemes which i now contemplated. i recalled the conversation which had just ended with the housekeeper. clithero had been our theme, but she had dealt chiefly in repetitions of what had formerly been related by her or by inglefield. i inquired what this man had left behind, and found that it consisted of a square box, put together by himself with uncommon strength, but of rugged workmanship. she proceeded to mention that she had advised her brother, mr. inglefield, to break open this box and ascertain its contents; but this he did not think himself justified in doing. clithero was guilty of no known crime, was responsible to no one for his actions, and might some time return to claim his property. this box contained nothing with which others had a right to meddle. somewhat might be found in it, throwing light upon his past or present situation; but curiosity was not to be gratified by these means. what clithero thought proper to conceal, it was criminal for us to extort from him. the housekeeper was by no means convinced by these arguments, and at length obtained her brother's permission to try whether any of her own keys would unlock this chest. the keys were produced, but no lock nor keyhole were discoverable. the lid was fast, but by what means it was fastened the most accurate inspection could not detect. hence she was compelled to lay aside her project. this chest had always stood in the chamber which i now occupied. these incidents were now remembered, and i felt disposed to profit by this opportunity of examining this box. it stood in a corner, and was easily distinguished by its form. i lifted it and found its weight by no means extraordinary. its structure was remarkable. it consisted of six sides, square and of similar dimensions. these were joined, not by mortise and tennon, not by nails, not by hinges, but the junction was accurate. the means by which they were made to cohere were invisible. appearances on every side were uniform, nor were there any marks by which the lid was distinguishable from its other surfaces. during his residence with inglefield, many specimens of mechanical ingenuity were given by his servant. this was the workmanship of his own hands. i looked at it for some time, till the desire insensibly arose of opening it and examining its contents. i had no more right to do this than the inglefields; perhaps, indeed, this curiosity was more absurd, and the gratification more culpable, in me than in them. i was acquainted with the history of clithero's past life, and with his present condition. respecting these, i had no new intelligence to gain, and no doubts to solve. what excuse could i make to the proprietor, should he ever reappear to claim his own, or to inglefield for breaking open a receptacle which all the maxims of society combine to render sacred? but could not my end be gained without violence? the means of opening might present themselves on a patient scrutiny. the lid might be raised and shut down again without any tokens of my act; its contents might be examined, and all things restored to their former condition, in a few minutes. i intended not a theft. i intended to benefit myself without inflicting injury on others. nay, might not the discoveries i should make throw light upon the conduct of this extraordinary man which his own narrative had withheld? was there reason to confide implicitly on the tale which i had heard? in spite of the testimony of my own feelings, the miseries of clithero appeared in some degree fantastic and groundless. a thousand conceivable motives might induce him to pervert or conceal the truth. if he were thoroughly known, his character might assume a new appearance; and what is now so difficult to reconcile to common maxims might prove perfectly consistent with them. i desire to restore him to peace; but a thorough knowledge of his actions is necessary, both to show that he is worthy of compassion, and to suggest the best means of extirpating his errors. it was possible that this box contained the means of this knowledge. there were likewise other motives, which, as they possessed some influence, however small, deserve to be mentioned. thou knowest that i also am a mechanist. i had constructed a writing-desk and cabinet, in which i had endeavoured to combine the properties of secrecy, security, and strength, in the highest possible degree. i looked upon this, therefore, with the eye of an artist, and was solicitous to know the principles on which it was formed. i determined to examine, and, if possible, to open it. chapter xii. i surveyed it with the utmost attention. all its parts appeared equally solid and smooth. it could not be doubted that one of its sides served the purpose of a lid, and was possible to be raised. mere strength could not be applied to raise it, because there was no projecture which might be firmly held by the hand, and by which force could be exerted. some spring, therefore, secretly existed, which might forever elude the senses, but on which the hand, by being moved over it in all directions, might accidentally light. this process was effectual. a touch, casually applied at an angle, drove back a bolt, and a spring, at the same time, was set in action, by which the lid was raised above half an inch. no event could be supposed more fortuitous than this. a hundred hands might have sought in vain for this spring. the spot in which a certain degree of pressure was sufficient to produce this effect was, of all, the least likely to attract notice or awaken suspicion. i opened the trunk with eagerness. the space within was divided into numerous compartments, none of which contained any thing of moment. tools of different and curious constructions, and remnants of minute machinery, were all that offered themselves to my notice. my expectations being thus frustrated, i proceeded to restore things to their former state. i attempted to close the lid; but the spring which had raised it refused to bend. no measure that i could adopt enabled me to place the lid in the same situation in which i had found it. in my efforts to press down the lid, which were augmented in proportion to the resistance that i met with, the spring was broken. this obstacle being removed, the lid resumed its proper place; but no means, within the reach of my ingenuity to discover, enabled me to push forward the bolt, and thus to restore the fastening. i now perceived that clithero had provided not only against the opening of his cabinet, but likewise against the possibility of concealing that it had been opened. this discovery threw me into some confusion. i had been tempted thus far by the belief that my action was without witnesses, and might be forever concealed. this opinion was now confuted. if clithero should ever reclaim his property, he would not fail to detect the violence of which i had been guilty. inglefield would disapprove in another what he had not permitted to himself, and the unauthorized and clandestine manner in which i had behaved would aggravate, in his eyes, the heinousness of my offence. but now there was no remedy. all that remained was to hinder suspicion from lighting on the innocent, and to confess, to my friend, the offence which i had committed. meanwhile my first project was resumed, and, the family being now wrapped in profound sleep, i left my chamber, and proceeded to the elm. the moon was extremely brilliant, but i hoped that this unfrequented road and unseasonable hour would hinder me from being observed. my chamber was above the kitchen, with which it communicated by a small staircase, and the building to which it belonged was connected with the dwelling by a gallery. i extinguished the light, and left it in the kitchen, intending to relight it, by the embers that still glowed on the hearth, on my return. i began to remove the sod and cast out the earth, with little confidence in the success of my project. the issue of my examination of the box humbled and disheartened me. for some time i found nothing that tended to invigorate my hopes. i determined, however, to descend, as long as the unsettled condition of the earth showed me that some one had preceded me. small masses of stone were occasionally met with, which served only to perplex me with groundless expectations. at length my spade struck upon something which emitted a very different sound. i quickly drew it forth, and found it to be wood. its regular form, and the crevices which were faintly discernible, persuaded me that it was human workmanship, and that there was a cavity within. the place in which it was found easily suggested some connection between this and the destiny of clithero. covering up the hole with speed, i hastened with my prize to the house. the door by which the kitchen was entered was not to be seen from the road. it opened on a field, the farther limit of which was a ledge of rocks, which formed, on this side, the boundary of inglefield's estate and the westernmost barrier of norwalk. as i turned the angle of the house, and came in view of this door, methought i saw a figure issue from it. i was startled at this incident, and, stopping, crouched close to the wall, that i might not be discovered. as soon as the figure passed beyond the verge of the shade, it was easily distinguished to be that of clithero! he crossed the field with a rapid pace, and quickly passed beyond the reach of my eye. this appearance was mysterious. for what end he should visit this habitation could not be guessed. was the contingency to be lamented in consequence of which an interview had been avoided? would it have compelled me to explain the broken condition of his trunk? i knew not whether to rejoice at having avoided this interview, or to deplore it. these thoughts did not divert me from examining the nature of the prize which i had gained. i relighted my candle and hied once more to the chamber. the first object which, on entering it, attracted my attention, was the cabinet broken into twenty fragments, on the hearth. i had left it on a low table, at a distant corner of the room. no conclusion could be formed but that clithero had been here, had discovered the violence which had been committed on his property, and, in the first transport of his indignation, had shattered it to pieces. i shuddered on reflecting how near i had been to being detected by him in the very act, and by how small an interval i had escaped that resentment which, in that case, would have probably been wreaked upon me. my attention was withdrawn, at length, from this object, and fixed upon the contents of the box which i had dug up. this was equally inaccessible with the other. i had not the same motives for caution and forbearance. i was somewhat desperate, as the consequences of my indiscretion could not be aggravated, and my curiosity was more impetuous with regard to the smaller than to the larger cabinet. i placed it on the ground and crushed it to pieces with my heel. something was within. i brought it to the light, and, after loosing numerous folds, at length drew forth a volume. no object in the circle of nature was more adapted than this to rouse up all my faculties. my feelings were anew excited on observing that it was a manuscript. i bolted the door, and, drawing near the light, opened and began to read. a few pages were sufficient to explain the nature of the work. clithero had mentioned that his lady had composed a vindication of her conduct towards her brother when her intercession in his favour was solicited and refused. this performance had never been published, but had been read by many, and was preserved by her friends as a precious monument of her genius and her virtue. this manuscript was now before me. that clithero should preserve this manuscript, amidst the wreck of his hopes and fortunes, was apparently conformable to his temper. that, having formed the resolution to die, he should seek to hide this volume from the profane curiosity of survivors, was a natural proceeding. to bury it rather than to burn, or disperse it into fragments, would be suggested by the wish to conceal, without committing what his heated fancy would regard as sacrilege. to bury it beneath the elm was dictated by no fortuitous or inexplicable caprice. this event could scarcely fail of exercising some influence on the perturbations of his sleep, and thus, in addition to other causes, might his hovering near this trunk, and throwing up this earth, in the intervals of slumber, be accounted for. clithero, indeed, had not mentioned this proceeding in the course of his narrative; but that would have contravened the end for which he had provided a grave for this book. i read this copious tale with unspeakable eagerness. it essentially agreed with that which had been told by clithero. by drawing forth events into all their circumstances, more distinct impressions were produced on the mind, and proofs of fortitude and equanimity were here given to which i had hitherto known no parallel. no wonder that a soul like clithero's, pervaded by these proofs of inimitable excellence, and thrillingly alive to the passion of virtuous fame, and the value of that existence which he had destroyed, should be overborne by horror at the view of the past. the instability of life and happiness was forcibly illustrated, as well as the perniciousness of error. exempt as this lady was from almost every defect, she was indebted for her ruin to absurd opinions of the sacredness of consanguinity, to her anxiety for the preservation of a ruffian because that ruffian was her brother. the spirit of clithero was enlightened and erect, but he weakly suffered the dictates of eternal justice to be swallowed up by gratitude. the dread of unjust upbraiding hurried him to murder and to suicide, and the imputation of imaginary guilt impelled him to the perpetration of genuine and enormous crimes. the perusal of this volume ended not but with the night. contrary to my hopes, the next day was stormy and wet. this did not deter me from visiting the mountain. slippery paths and muddy torrents were no obstacles to the purposes which i had adopted. i wrapped myself, and a bag of provisions, in a cloak of painted canvas, and speeded to the dwelling of clithero. i passed through the cave and reached the bridge which my own ingenuity had formed. at that moment, torrents of rain poured from above, and stronger blasts thundered amidst these desolate recesses and profound chasms. instead of lamenting the prevalence of this tempest, i now began to regard it with pleasure. it conferred new forms of sublimity and grandeur on this scene. as i crept with hands and feet along my imperfect bridge, a sudden gust had nearly whirled me into the frightful abyss below. to preserve myself, i was obliged to loose my hold of my burden, and it fell into the gulf. this incident disconcerted and distressed me. as soon as i had effected my dangerous passage, i screened myself behind a cliff and gave myself up to reflection. the purpose of this arduous journey was defeated by the loss of the provisions i had brought. i despaired of winning the attention of the fugitive to supplications, or arguments tending to smother remorse or revive his fortitude. the scope of my efforts was to consist in vanquishing his aversion to food; but these efforts would now be useless, since i had no power to supply his cravings. this deficiency, however, was easily supplied. i had only to return home and supply myself anew. no time was to be lost in doing this; but i was willing to remain under this shelter till the fury of the tempest had subsided. besides, i was not certain that clithero had again retreated hither. it was requisite to explore the summit of this hill, and ascertain whether it had any inhabitant. i might likewise discover what had been the success of my former experiment, and whether the food, which had been left here on the former day, was consumed or neglected. while occupied with these reflections, my eyes were fixed upon the opposite steeps. the tops of the trees, waving to and fro in the wildest commotion, and their trunks, occasionally bending to the blast, which, in these lofty regions, blew with a violence unknown in the tracts below, exhibited an awful spectacle. at length, my attention was attracted by the trunk which lay across the gulf, and which i had converted into a bridge. i perceived that it had already somewhat swerved from its original position, that every blast broke or loosened some of the fibres by which its roots were connected with the opposite bank, and that, if the storm did not speedily abate, there was imminent danger of its being torn from the rock and precipitated into the chasm. thus my retreat would be cut off, and the evils from which i was endeavouring to rescue another would be experienced by myself. i did not just then reflect that clithero had found access to this hill by other means, and that the avenue by which he came would be equally commodious to me. i believed my destiny to hang upon the expedition with which i should recross this gulf. the moments that were spent in these deliberations were critical, and i shuddered to observe that the trunk was held in its place by one or two fibres which were already stretched almost to breaking. to pass along the trunk, rendered slippery by the wet and unsteadfast by the wind, was imminently dangerous. to maintain my hold, in passing, in defiance of the whirlwind, required the most vigorous exertions. for this end it was necessary to discommode myself of my cloak, and of the volume which i carried in the pocket of my cloak. i believed there was no reason to dread their being destroyed or purloined, if left, for a few hours or a day, in this recess. if laid beside a stone, under shelter of this cliff, they would, no doubt, remain unmolested till the disappearance of the storm should permit me to revisit this spot in the afternoon or on the morrow. just as i had disposed of these encumbrances and had risen from my seat, my attention was again called to the opposite steep, by the most unwelcome object that, at this time, could possibly occur. something was perceived moving among the bushes and rocks, which, for a time, i hoped was no more than a raccoon or opossum, but which presently appeared to be a panther. his gray coat, extended claws, fiery eyes, and a cry which he at that moment uttered, and which, by its resemblance to the human voice, is peculiarly terrific, denoted him to be the most ferocious and untamable of that detested race. [footnote: the gray cougar. this animal has all the essential characteristics of a tiger. though somewhat inferior in size and strength, these are such as to make him equally formidable to man.] the industry of our hunters has nearly banished animals of prey from these precincts. the fastnesses of norwalk, however, could not but afford refuge to some of them. of late i had met them so rarely, that my fears were seldom alive, and i trod, without caution, the ruggedest and most solitary haunts. still, however, i had seldom been unfurnished in my rambles with the means of defence. my temper never delighted in carnage and blood. i found no pleasure in plunging into bogs, wading through rivulets, and penetrating thickets, for the sake of dispatching woodcocks and squirrels. to watch their gambols and flittings, and invite them to my hand, was my darling amusement when loitering among the woods and the rocks. it was much otherwise, however, with regard to rattlesnakes and panthers. these i thought it no breach of duty to exterminate wherever they could be found. these judicious and sanguinary spoilers were equally the enemies of man and of the harmless race that sported in the trees, and many of their skins are still preserved by me as trophies of my juvenile prowess. as hunting was never my trade or my sport, i never loaded myself with fowling-piece or rifle. assiduous exercise had made me master of a weapon of much easier carriage, and, within a moderate distance, more destructive and unerring. this was the tomahawk. with this i have often severed an oak-branch, and cut the sinews of a catamount, at the distance of sixty feet. the unfrequency with which i had lately encountered this foe, and the encumbrance of provision, made me neglect, on this occasion, to bring with me my usual arms. the beast that was now before me, when stimulated by hunger, was accustomed to assail whatever could provide him with a banquet of blood. he would set upon the man and the deer with equal and irresistible ferocity. his sagacity was equal to his strength, and he seemed able to discover when his antagonist was armed and prepared for defence. my past experience enabled me to estimate the full extent of my danger. he sat on the brow of the steep, eyeing the bridge, and apparently deliberating whether he should cross it. it was probable that he had scented my footsteps thus far, and, should he pass over, his vigilance could scarcely fail of detecting my asylum. the pit into which clithero had sunk from my view was at some distance. to reach it was the first impulse of my fear, but this could not be done without exciting the observation and pursuit of this enemy. i deeply regretted the untoward chance that had led me, when i first came over, to a different shelter. should he retain his present station, my danger was scarcely lessened. to pass over in the face of a famished tiger was only to rush upon my fate. the falling of the trunk, which had lately been so anxiously deprecated, was now, with no less solicitude, desired. every new gust, i hoped, would tear asunder its remaining bands, and, by cutting off all communication between the opposite steeps, place me in security. my hopes, however, were destined to be frustrated. the fibres of the prostrate tree were obstinately tenacious of their hold, and presently the animal scrambled down the rock and proceeded to cross it. of all kinds of death, that which now menaced me was the most abhorred. to die by disease, or by the hand of a fellow-creature, was propitious and lenient in comparison with being rent to pieces by the fangs of this savage. to perish in this obscure retreat, by means so impervious to the anxious curiosity of my friends, to lose my portion of existence by so untoward and ignoble a destiny, was insupportable. i bitterly deplored my rashness in coming hither unprovided for an encounter like this. the evil of my present circumstances consisted chiefly in suspense. my death was unavoidable, but my imagination had leisure to torment itself by anticipations. one foot of the savage was slowly and cautiously moved after the other. he struck his claws so deeply into the bark that they were with difficulty withdrawn. at length he leaped upon the ground. we were now separated by an interval of scarcely eight feet. to leave the spot where i crouched was impossible. behind and beside me, the cliff rose perpendicularly, and before me was this grim and terrific visage. i shrunk still closer to the ground and closed my eyes. from this pause of horror i was aroused by the noise occasioned by a second spring of the animal. he leaped into the pit, in which i had so deeply regretted that i had not taken refuge, and disappeared. my rescue was so sudden, and so much beyond my belief or my hope, that i doubted, for a moment, whether my senses did not deceive me. this opportunity of escape was not to be neglected. i left my place, and scrambled over the trunk with a precipitation which had liked to have proved fatal. the tree groaned and shook under me, the wind blew with unexampled violence, and i had scarcely reached the opposite steep when the roots were severed from the rock and the whole fell thundering to the bottom of the chasm. my trepidations were not speedily quieted. i looked back with wonder on my hairbreadth escape, and on that singular concurrence of events which had placed me, in so short a period, in absolute security. had the trunk fallen a moment earlier, i should have been imprisoned on the hill or thrown headlong. had its fall been delayed another moment, i should have been pursued; for the beast now issued from his den, and testified his surprise and disappointment by tokens the sight of which made my blood run cold. he saw me, and hastened to the verge of the chasm. he squatted on his hind-legs and assumed the attitude of one preparing to leap. my consternation was excited afresh by these appearances. it seemed at first as if the rift was too wide for any power of muscles to carry him in safety over; but i knew the unparalleled agility of this animal, and that his experience had made him a better judge of the practicability of this exploit than i was. still there was hope that he would relinquish this design as desperate. this hope was quickly at an end. he sprung, and his fore-legs touched the verge of the rock on which i stood. in spite of vehement exertions, however, the surface was too smooth and too hard to allow him to make good his hold. he fell, and a piercing cry, uttered below, showed that nothing had obstructed his descent to the bottom. thus was i again rescued from death. nothing but the pressure of famine could have prompted this savage to so audacious and hazardous an effort; but, by yielding to this impulse, he had made my future visits to this spot exempt from peril. clithero was, likewise, relieved from a danger that was imminent and unforeseen. prowling over these grounds, the panther could scarcely have failed to meet with this solitary fugitive. had the animal lived, my first duty would have been to have sought him out and assailed him with my tomahawk; but no undertaking would have been more hazardous. lurking in the grass, or in the branches of a tree, his eye might have descried my approach, he might leap upon me unperceived, and my weapon would be useless. with a heart beating with unwonted rapidity, i once more descended the cliff, entered the cavern, and arrived at huntly farm, drenched with rain, and exhausted by fatigue. by night the storm was dispelled; but my exhausted strength would not allow me to return to the mountain. at the customary hour i retired to my chamber. i incessantly ruminated on the adventures of the last day, and inquired into the conduct which i was next to pursue. the bridge being destroyed, my customary access was cut off. there was no possibility of restoring this bridge. my strength would not suffice to drag a fallen tree from a distance, and there was none whose position would abridge or supersede that labour. some other expedient must, therefore, be discovered to pass this chasm. i reviewed the circumstances of my subterranean journey. the cavern was imperfectly explored. its branches might be numerous. that which i had hitherto pursued terminated in an opening at a considerable distance from the bottom. other branches might exist, some of which might lead to the foot of the precipice, and thence a communication might be found with the summit of the interior hill. the danger of wandering into dark and untried paths, and the commodiousness of that road which had at first been taken, were sufficient reasons for having hitherto suspended my examination of the different branches of this labyrinth. now my customary road was no longer practicable, and another was to be carefully explored. for this end, on my next journey to the mountain, i determined to take with me a lamp, and unravel this darksome maze: this project i resolved to execute the next day. i now recollected what, if it had more seasonably occurred, would have taught me caution. some months before this a farmer, living in the skirts of norwalk, discovered two marauders in his field, whom he imagined to be a male and female panther. they had destroyed some sheep, and had been hunted by the farmer with long and fruitless diligence. sheep had likewise been destroyed in different quarters; but the owners had fixed the imputation of the crime upon dogs, many of whom had atoned for their supposed offences by their death. he who had mentioned his discovery of panthers received little credit from his neighbours; because a long time had elapsed since these animals were supposed to have been exiled from this district, and because no other person had seen them. the truth of this seemed now to be confirmed by the testimony of my own senses; but, if the rumour were true, there still existed another of these animals, who might harbour in the obscurities of this desert, and against whom it was necessary to employ some precaution. henceforth i resolved never to traverse the wilderness unfurnished with my tomahawk. these images, mingled with those which the contemplation of futurity suggested, floated, for a time, in my brain, but at length gave place to sleep. chapter xiii. since my return home, my mind had been fully occupied by schemes and reflections relative to clithero. the project suggested by thee, and to which i had determined to devote my leisure, was forgotten, or remembered for a moment and at wide intervals. what, however, was nearly banished from my waking thoughts, occurred in an incongruous and half-seen form, to my dreams. during my sleep, the image of waldegrave flitted before me. methought the sentiment that impelled him to visit me was not affection or complacency, but inquietude and anger. some service or duty remained to be performed by me, which i had culpably neglected: to inspirit my zeal, to awaken my remembrance, and incite me to the performance of this duty, did this glimmering messenger, this half-indignant apparition, come. i commonly awake soon enough to mark the youngest dawn of the morning. now, in consequence perhaps of my perturbed sleep, i opened my eyes before the stars had lost any of their lustre. this circumstance produced some surprise, until the images that lately hovered in my fancy were recalled, and furnished somewhat like a solution of the problem. connected with the image of my dead friend was that of his sister. the discourse that took place at our last interview; the scheme of transcribing, for thy use, all the letters which, during his short but busy life, i received from him; the nature of this correspondence, and the opportunity which this employment would afford me of contemplating these ample and precious monuments of the intellectual existence and moral pre-eminence of my friend, occurred to my thoughts. the resolution to prosecute the task was revived. the obligation of benevolence, with regard to clithero, was not discharged. this, neither duty nor curiosity would permit to be overlooked or delayed; but why should my whole attention and activity be devoted to this man? the hours which were spent at home and in my chamber could not be more usefully employed than in making my intended copy. in a few hours after sunrise i purposed to resume my way to the mountain. could this interval be appropriated to a better purpose than in counting over my friend's letters, setting them apart from my own, and preparing them for that transcription from which i expected so high and yet so mournful a gratification? this purpose, by no violent union, was blended with the recollection of my dream. this recollection infused some degree of wavering and dejection into my mind. in transcribing these letters i should violate pathetic and solemn injunctions frequently repeated by the writer. was there some connection between this purpose and the incidents of my vision? was the latter sent to enforce the interdictions which had been formerly imposed? thou art not fully acquainted with the intellectual history of thy brother. some information on that head will be necessary to explain the nature of that reluctance which i now feel to comply with thy request, and which had formerly so much excited thy surprise. waldegrave, like other men early devoted to meditation and books, had adopted, at different periods, different systems of opinion on topics connected with religion and morals. his earliest creeds tended to efface the impressions of his education; to deify necessity and universalize matter; to destroy the popular distinctions between soul and body, and to dissolve the supposed connection between the moral condition of man anterior and subsequent to death. this creed he adopted with all the fulness of conviction, and propagated with the utmost zeal. soon after our friendship commenced, fortune placed us at a distance from each other, and no intercourse was allowed but by the pen. our letters, however, were punctual and copious. those of waldegrave were too frequently devoted to the defence of his favourite tenets. thou art acquainted with the revolution that afterwards took place in his mind. placed within the sphere of religious influence, and listening daily to the reasonings and exhortations of mr. s----, whose benign temper and blameless deportment was a visible and constant lesson, he insensibly resumed the faith which he had relinquished, and became the vehement opponent of all that he had formerly defended. the chief object of his labours, in this new state of his mind, was to counteract the effect of his former reasonings on my opinions. at this time, other changes took place in his situation, in consequence of which we were once more permitted to reside under the same roof. the intercourse now ceased to be by letter, and the subtle and laborious argumentations which he had formerly produced against religion, and which were contained in a permanent form, were combated in transient conversation. he was not only eager to subvert those opinions which he had contributed to instil into me, but was anxious that the letters and manuscripts which had been employed in their support should be destroyed. he did not fear wholly or chiefly on my own account. he believed that the influence of former reasonings on my faith would be sufficiently eradicated by the new; but he dreaded lest these manuscripts might fall into other hands, and thus produce mischiefs which it would not be in his power to repair. with regard to me, the poison had been followed by its antidote; but with respect to others, these letters would communicate the poison when the antidote could not be administered. i would not consent to this sacrifice. i did not entirely abjure the creed which had, with great copiousness and eloquence, been defended in these letters. besides, mixed up with abstract reasonings were numberless passages which elucidated the character and history of my friend. these were too precious to be consigned to oblivion; and to take them out of their present connection and arrangement would be to mutilate and deform them. his entreaties and remonstrances were earnest and frequent, but always ineffectual. he had too much purity of motives to be angry at my stubbornness; but his sense of the mischievous tendency of these letters was so great, that my intractability cost him many a pang. he was now gone, and i had not only determined to preserve these monuments, but had consented to copy them for the use of another; for the use of one whose present and eternal welfare had been the chief object of his cares and efforts. thou, like others of thy sex, art unaccustomed to metaphysical refinements. thy religion is the growth of sensibility and not of argument. thou art not fortified and prepossessed against the subtleties with which the being and attributes of the deity have been assailed. would it be just to expose thee to pollution and depravity from this source? to make thy brother the instrument of thy apostasy, the author of thy fall? that brother whose latter days were so ardently devoted to cherishing the spirit of devotion in thy heart? these ideas now occurred with more force than formerly. i had promised, not without reluctance, to give thee the entire copy of his letters; but i now receded from this promise. i resolved merely to select for thy perusal such as were narrative or descriptive. this could not be done with too much expedition. it was still dark, but my sleep was at an end, and, by a common apparatus, that lay beside my bed, i could instantly produce a light. the light was produced, and i proceeded to the cabinet where all my papers and books are deposited. this was my own contrivance and workmanship, undertaken by the advice of sarsefield, who took infinite pains to foster that mechanical genius which displayed itself so early and so forcibly in thy friend. the key belonging to this was, like the cabinet itself, of singular structure. for greater safety, it was constantly placed in a closet, which was likewise locked. the key was found as usual, and the cabinet opened. the letters were bound together in a compact form, lodged in a parchment case, and placed in a secret drawer. this drawer would not have been detected by common eyes, and it opened by the motion of a spring, of whose existence none but the maker was conscious. this drawer i had opened before i went to sleep, and the letters were then safe. thou canst not imagine my confusion and astonishment, when, on opening the drawer, i perceived that the packet was gone. i looked with more attention, and put my hand within it; but the space was empty. whither had it gone, and by whom was it purloined? i was not conscious of having taken it away, yet no hands but mine could have done it. on the last evening i had doubtless removed it to some other corner, but had forgotten it. i tasked my understanding and my memory. i could not conceive the possibility of any motives inducing me to alter my arrangements in this respect, and was unable to recollect that i had made this change. what remained? this invaluable relic had disappeared. every thought and every effort must be devoted to the single purpose of regaining it. as yet i did not despair. until i had opened and ransacked every part of the cabinet in vain, i did not admit the belief that i had lost it. even then this persuasion was tumultuous and fluctuating. it had vanished to my senses, but these senses were abused and depraved. to have passed, of its own accord, through the pores of this wood, was impossible; but, if it were gone, thus did it escape. i was lost in horror and amazement. i explored every nook a second and a third time, but still it eluded my eye and my touch. i opened my closets and cases. i pried everywhere, unfolded every article of clothing, turned and scrutinized every instrument and tool, but nothing availed. my thoughts were not speedily collected or calmed. i threw myself on the bed and resigned myself to musing. that my loss was irretrievable was a supposition not to be endured. yet ominous terrors haunted me,--a whispering intimation that a relic which i valued more than life was torn forever away by some malignant and inscrutable destiny. the same power that had taken it from this receptacle was able to waft it over the ocean or the mountains, and condemn me to a fruitless and eternal search. but what was he that committed the theft? thou only, of the beings who live, wast acquainted with the existence of these manuscripts. thou art many miles distant, and art utterly a stranger to the mode or place of their concealment. not only access to the cabinet, but access to the room, without my knowledge and permission, was impossible. both were locked during this night. not five hours had elapsed since the cabinet and drawer had been opened, and since the letters had been seen and touched, being in their ordinary position. during this interval, the thief had entered, and despoiled me of my treasure. this event, so inexplicable and so dreadful, threw my soul into a kind of stupor or distraction, from which i was suddenly roused by a footstep softly moving in the entry near my door. i started from my bed, as if i had gained a glimpse of the robber. before i could run to the door, some one knocked. i did not think upon the propriety of answering the signal, but hastened with tremulous fingers and throbbing heart to open the door. my uncle, in his night-dress, and apparently just risen from his bed, stood before me! he marked the eagerness and perturbation of my looks, and inquired into the cause. i did not answer his inquiries. his appearance in my chamber and in this guise added to my surprise. my mind was full of the late discovery, and instantly conceived some connection between this unseasonable visit and my lost manuscript. i interrogated him in my turn as to the cause of his coming. "why," said he, "i came to ascertain whether it was you or not who amused himself so strangely at this time of night. what is the matter with you? why are you up so early?" i told him that i had been roused by my dreams, and, finding no inclination to court my slumber back again, i had risen, though earlier by some hours than the usual period of my rising. "but why did you go up-stairs? you might easily imagine that the sound of your steps would alarm those below, who would be puzzled to guess who it was that had thought proper to amuse himself in this manner." "up-stairs? i have not left my room this night. it is not ten minutes since i awoke, and my door has not since been opened." "indeed! that is strange. nay, it is impossible! it was your feet surely that i heard pacing so solemnly and indefatigably across the _long room_ for near an hour. i could not for my life conjecture, for a time, who it was, but finally concluded that it was you. there was still, however, some doubt, and i came hither to satisfy myself." these tidings were adapted to raise all my emotions to a still higher pitch. i questioned him with eagerness as to the circumstances he had noticed. he said he had been roused by a sound, whose power of disturbing him arose, not from its loudness, but from its uncommonness. he distinctly heard some one pacing to and fro with bare feet, in the long room: this sound continued, with little intermission, for an hour. he then noticed a cessation of the walking, and a sound as if some one were lifting the lid of the large cedar chest that stood in the corner of this room. the walking was not resumed, and all was silent. he listened for a quarter of an hour, and busied himself in conjecturing the cause of this disturbance. the most probable conclusion was, that the walker was his nephew, and his curiosity had led him to my chamber to ascertain the truth. this dwelling has three stories. the two lower stories are divided into numerous apartments. the upper story constitutes a single room whose sides are the four walls of the house, and whose ceiling is the roof. this room is unoccupied, except by lumber, and imperfectly lighted by a small casement at one end. in this room were footsteps heard by my uncle. the staircase leading to it terminated in a passage near my door. i snatched the candle, and, desiring him to follow me, added that i would ascertain the truth in a moment. he followed, but observed that the walking had ceased long enough for the person to escape. i ascended to the room, and looked behind and among the tables, and chairs, and casks, which were confusedly scattered through it, but found nothing in the shape of man. the cedar chest, spoken of by mr. huntly, contained old books, and remnants of maps and charts, whose worthlessness unfitted them for accomodation elsewhere. the lid was without hinges or lock. i examined this repository, but there was nothing which attracted my attention. the way between the kitchen-door and the door of the long room had no impediments. both were usually unfastened; but the motives by which any stranger to the dwelling, or indeed any one within it, could be prompted to choose this place and hour for an employment of this kind, were wholly incomprehensible. when the family rose, inquiries were made; but no satisfaction was obtained. the family consisted only of four persons,--my uncle, my two sisters, and myself. i mentioned to them the loss i had sustained, but their conjectures were no less unsatisfactory on this than on the former incident. there was no end to my restless meditations. waldegrave was the only being, besides myself, acquainted with the secrets of my cabinet. during his life these manuscripts had been the objects of perpetual solicitude; to gain possession, to destroy or secrete them, was the strongest of his wishes. had he retained his sensibility on the approach of death, no doubt he would have renewed, with irresistible solemnity, his injunctions to destroy them. now, however, they had vanished. there were no materials of conjecture; no probabilities to be weighed, or suspicions to revolve. human artifice or power was unequal to this exploit. means less than preternatural would not furnish a conveyance for this treasure. it was otherwise with regard to this unseasonable walker. his inducements indeed were beyond my power to conceive; but to enter these doors and ascend these stairs demanded not the faculties of any being more than human. this intrusion, and the pillage of my cabinet, were contemporary events. was there no more connection between them than that which results from time? was not the purloiner of my treasure and the wanderer the same person? i could not reconcile the former incident with the attributes of man; and yet a secret faith, not to be outrooted or suspended, swayed me, and compelled me to imagine that the detection of this visitant would unveil the thief. these thoughts were pregnant with dejection and reverie. clithero, during the day, was forgotten. on the succeeding night, my intentions, with regard to this man, returned. i derived some slender consolation from reflecting, that time, in its long lapse and ceaseless revolutions, might dissipate the gloom that environed me. meanwhile, i struggled to dismiss the images connected with my loss and to think only of clithero. my impatience was as strong as ever to obtain another interview with this man. i longed with vehemence for the return of day. i believed that every moment added to his sufferings, intellectual and physical, and confided in the efficacy of my presence to alleviate or suspend them. the provisions i had left would be speedily consumed, and the abstinence of three days was sufficient to undermine the vital energies. i sometimes hesitated whether i ought not instantly to depart. it was night indeed, but the late storm had purified the air, and the radiance of a full moon was universal and dazzling. from this attempt i was deterred by reflecting that my own frame needed the repairs of sleep. toil and watchfulness, if prolonged another day, would deeply injure a constitution by no means distinguished for its force. i must, therefore, compel, if it were possible, some hours of repose. i prepared to retire to bed, when a new incident occurred to divert my attention for a time from these designs. chapter xiv. while sitting alone by the parlour-fire, marking the effects of moonlight, i noted one on horseback coming towards the gate. at first sight, methought his shape and guise were not wholly new to me; but all that i could discern was merely a resemblance to some one whom i had before seen. presently he stopped, and, looking towards the house, made inquiries of a passenger who chanced to be near. being apparently satisfied with the answers he received, he rode with a quick pace into the court and alighted at the door. i started from my seat, and, going forth, waited with some impatience to hear his purpose explained. he accosted me with the formality of a stranger, and asked if a young man, by name edgar huntly, resided here. being answered in the affirmative, and being requested to come in, he entered, and seated himself, without hesitation, by the fire. some doubt and anxiety were visible in his looks. he seemed desirous of information upon some topic, and yet betrayed terror lest the answers he might receive should subvert some hope or confirm some foreboding. meanwhile i scrutinized his features with much solicitude. a nearer and more deliberate view convinced me that the first impression was just; but still i was unable to call up his name or the circumstances of our former meeting. the pause was at length ended by his saying, in a faltering voice,-"my name is weymouth. i came hither to obtain information on a subject in which my happiness is deeply concerned." at the mention of his name, i started. it was a name too closely connected with the image of thy brother, not to call up affecting and vivid recollections. weymouth, thou knowest, was thy brother's friend. it is three years since this man left america, during which time no tidings had been heard of him,--at least, by thy brother. he had now returned, and was probably unacquainted with the fate of his friend. after an anxious pause, he continued:--"since my arrival i have heard of an event which has, on many accounts, given me the deepest sorrow. i loved waldegrave, and know not any person in the world whose life was dearer to me than his. there were considerations, however, which made it more precious to me than the life of one whose merits might be greater. with his life, my own existence and property were, i have reason to think, inseparably united. "on my return to my country, after a long absence, i made immediate inquiries after him. i was informed of his untimely death. i had questions, of infinite moment to my happiness, to decide with regard to the state and disposition of his property. i sought out those of his friends who had maintained with him the most frequent and confidential intercourse, but they could not afford me any satisfaction. at length, i was informed that a young man of your name, and living in this district, had enjoyed more of his affection and society than any other, had regulated the property which he left behind, and was best qualified to afford the intelligence which i sought. you, it seems, are this person, and of you i must make inquiries to which i conjure you to return sincere and explicit answers." "that," said i, "i shall find no difficulty in doing. whatever questions you shall think proper to ask, i will answer with readiness and truth." "what kind of property, and to what amount, was your friend possessed of at his death?" "it was money, and consisted of deposits at the bank of north america. the amount was little short of eight thousand dollars." "on whom has this property devolved?" "his sister was his only kindred, and she is now in possession of it." "did he leave any will by which he directed the disposition of his property?" while thus speaking, weymouth fixed his eyes upon my countenance, and seemed anxious to pierce into my inmost soul. i was somewhat surprised at his questions, but much more at the manner in which they were put. i answered him, however, without delay:--"he left no will, nor was any paper discovered by which we could guess at his intentions. no doubt, indeed, had he made a will, his sister would have been placed precisely in the same condition in which she now is. he was not only bound to her by the strongest ties of kindred, but by affection and gratitude." weymouth now withdrew his eyes from my face, and sunk into a mournful reverie. he sighed often and deeply. this deportment and the strain of his inquiries excited much surprise. his interest in the fate of waldegrave ought to have made the information he had received a source of satisfaction rather than of regret. the property which waldegrave left was much greater than his mode of life and his own professions had given us reason to expect, but it was no more than sufficient to insure to thee an adequate subsistence. it ascertained the happiness of those who were dearest to waldegrave, and placed them forever beyond the reach of that poverty which had hitherto beset them. i made no attempt to interrupt the silence, but prepared to answer any new interrogatory. at length, weymouth resumed:-"waldegrave was a fortunate man to amass so considerable a sum in so short a time. i remember, when we parted, he was poor. he used to lament that his scrupulous integrity precluded him from all the common roads to wealth. he did not contemn riches, but he set the highest value upon competence, and imagined that he was doomed forever to poverty. his religious duty compelled him to seek his livelihood by teaching a school of blacks. the labour was disproportioned to his feeble constitution, and the profit was greatly disproportioned to the labour. it scarcely supplied the necessities of nature, and was reduced sometimes even below that standard by his frequent indisposition. i rejoice to find that his scruples had somewhat relaxed their force, and that he had betaken himself to some more profitable occupation. pray, what was his new way of business?" "nay," said i, "his scruples continued as rigid, in this respect, as ever. he was teacher of the negro freeschool when he died." "indeed! how, then, came he to amass so much money? could he blend any more lucrative pursuit with his duty as a schoolmaster?" "so it seems." "what was his pursuit?" "that question, i believe, none of his friends are qualified to answer. i thought myself acquainted with the most secret transactions of his life, but this had been carefully concealed from me. i was not only unapprized of any other employment of his time, but had not the slightest suspicion of his possessing any property besides his clothes and books. ransacking his papers, with a different view, i lighted on his bank-book, in which was a regular receipt for seven thousand five hundred dollars. by what means he acquired this money, and even the acquisition of it, till his death put us in possession of his papers, was wholly unknown to us." "possibly he might have held it in trust for another. in this case some memorandums or letters would be found explaining this affair." "true. this supposition could not fail to occur, in consequence of which the most diligent search was made among his papers, but no shred or scrap was to be found which countenanced our conjecture." "you may reasonably be surprised, and perhaps offended," said weymouth, "at these inquiries; but it is time to explain my motives for making them. three years ago i was, like waldegrave, indigent, and earned my bread by daily labour. during seven years' service in a public office, i saved, from the expenses of subsistence, a few hundred dollars. i determined to strike into a new path, and, with this sum, to lay the foundation of better fortune. i turned it into a bulky commodity, freighted and loaded a small vessel, and went with it to barcelona in spain. i was not unsuccessful in my projects, and, changing my abode to england, france, and germany, according as my interest required, i became finally possessed of sufficient for the supply of all my wants. i then resolved to return to my native country, and, laying out my money in land, to spend the rest of my days in the luxury and quiet of an opulent farmer. for this end i invested the greatest part of my property in a cargo of wine from madeira. the remainder i turned into a bill of exchange for seven thousand five hundred dollars. i had maintained a friendly correspondence with waldegrave during my absence. there was no one with whom i had lived on terms of so much intimacy, and had boundless confidence in his integrity. to him therefore i determined to transmit this bill, requesting him to take the money into safe-keeping until my return. in this manner i endeavoured to provide against the accidents that might befall my person or my cargo in crossing the ocean. "it was my fate to encounter the worst of these disasters. we were overtaken by a storm, my vessel was driven ashore on the coast of portugal, my cargo was utterly lost, and the greater part of the crew and passengers were drowned. i was rescued from the same fate by some fishermen. in consequence of the hardships to which i had been exposed, having laboured for several days at the pumps, and spent the greater part of a winter night hanging from the rigging of the ship and perpetually beaten by the waves, i contracted a severe disease, which bereaved me of the use of my limbs. the fishermen who rescued me carried me to their huts, and there i remained three weeks helpless and miserable. "that part of the coast on which i was thrown was, in the highest degree, sterile and rude. its few inhabitants subsisted precariously on the produce of the ocean. their dwellings were of mud,--low, filthy, dark, and comfortless. their fuel was the stalks of shrubs sparingly scattered over a sandy desert. their poverty scarcely allowed them salt and black bread with their fish, which was obtained in unequal and sometimes insufficient quantities, and which they ate with all its impurities, and half cooked. "my former habits, as well as my present indisposition, required very different treatment from what the ignorance and penury of these people obliged them to bestow. i lay upon the moist earth, imperfectly sheltered from the sky, and with neither raiment nor fire to keep me warm. my hosts had little attention or compassion to spare to the wants of others. they could not remove me to a more hospitable district; and here, without doubt, i should have perished, had not a monk chanced to visit their hovels. he belonged to a convent of st. jago, some leagues farther from the shore, which used to send one of its members annually to inspect the religious concerns of those outcasts. happily, this was the period of their visitations. "my abode in spain had made me somewhat conversant with its language. the dialect of this monk did not so much differ from castilian but that, with the assistance of latin, we were able to converse. the jargon of the fishermen was unintelligible, and they had vainly endeavoured to keep up my spirits by informing me of this expected visit. "this monk was touched with compassion at my calamity, and speedily provided the means of my removal to his convent. here i was charitably entertained, and the aid of a physician was procured for me. he was but poorly skilled in his profession, and rather confirmed than alleviated my disease. the portuguese of his trade, especially in remoter districts, are little more than dealers in talismans and nostrums. for a long time i was unable to leave my pallet, and had no prospect before me but that of consuming my days in the gloom of this cloister. "all the members of this convent but he who had been my first benefactor, and whose name was chaledro, were bigoted and sordid. their chief motive for treating me with kindness was the hope of obtaining a convert from heresy. they spared no pains to subdue my errors, and were willing to prolong my imprisonment, in the hope of finally gaining their end. had my fate been governed by those, i should have been immured in this convent, and compelled either to adopt their fanatical creed or to put an end to my own life, in order to escape their well-meant persecutions. chaledro, however, though no less sincere in his faith and urgent in his entreaties, yet finding me invincible, exerted his influence to obtain my liberty. "after many delays, and strenuous exertions of my friend, they consented to remove me to oporto. the journey was to be performed in an open cart, over a mountainous country, in the heats of summer. the monks endeavoured to dissuade me from the enterprise, for my own sake, it being scarcely possible that one in my feeble state should survive a journey like this; but i despaired of improving my condition by other means. i preferred death to the imprisonment of a portuguese monastery, and knew that i could hope for no alleviation of my disease but from the skill of scottish or french physicians, whom i expected to meet with in that city. i adhered to my purpose with so much vehemence and obstinacy, that they finally yielded to my wishes. "my road lay through the wildest and most rugged districts. it did not exceed ninety miles, but seven days were consumed on the way. the motion of the vehicle racked me with the keenest pangs, and my attendants concluded that every stage would be my last. they had been selected without due regard to their characters. they were knavish and inhuman, and omitted nothing but actual violence to hasten my death. they purposely retarded the journey, and protracted to seven what might have been readily performed in four days. they neglected to execute the orders which they had received respecting my lodging and provisions; and from them, as well as from the peasants, who were sure to be informed that i was a heretic, i suffered every species of insult and injury. my constitution, as well as my frame, possessed a fund of strength of which i had no previous conception. in spite of hardship, and exposure, and abstinence, i at last arrived at oporto. "instead of being carried, agreeably to chaledro's direction, to a convent of st. jago, i was left, late in the evening, in the porch of a common hospital. my attendants, having laid me on the pavement and loaded me with imprecations, left me to obtain admission by my own efforts. i passed the livelong night in this spot, and in the morning was received into the house in a state which left it uncertain whether i was alive or dead. "after recovering my sensibility, i made various efforts to procure a visit from some english merchant. this was no easy undertaking for one in my deplorable condition. i was too weak to articulate my words distinctly, and these words were rendered, by my foreign accent, scarcely intelligible. the likelihood of my speedy death made the people about me more indifferent to my wants and petitions. "i will not dwell upon my repeated disappointments, but content myself with mentioning that i gained the attention of a french gentleman whose curiosity brought him to view the hospital. through him i obtained a visit from an english merchant, and finally gained the notice of a person who formerly resided in america, and of whom i had imperfect knowledge. by their kindness i was removed from the hospital to a private house. a scottish surgeon was summoned to my assistance, and in seven months i was restored to my present state of health. "at oporto, i embarked, in an american ship, for new york. i was destitute of all property, and relied, for the payment of the debts which i was obliged to contract, as well as for my future subsistence, on my remittance to waldegrave. i hastened to philadelphia, and was soon informed that my friend was dead. his death had taken place a long time since my remittance to him: hence this disaster was a subject of regret chiefly on his own account. i entertained no doubt but that my property had been secured, and that either some testamentary directions or some papers had been left behind respecting this affair. "i sought out those who were formerly our mutual acquaintance. i found that they were wholly strangers to his affairs. they could merely relate some particulars of his singular death, and point out the lodgings which he formerly occupied. hither i forthwith repaired, and discovered that he lived in this house with his sister, disconnected with its other inhabitants. they described his mode of life in terms that showed them to be very imperfectly acquainted with it. it was easy indeed to infer, from their aspect and manners, that little sympathy or union could have subsisted between them and their co-tenants; and this inference was confirmed by their insinuations, the growth of prejudice and envy. they told me that waldegrave's sister had gone to live in the country, but whither, or for how long, she had not condescended to inform them, and they did not care to ask. she was a topping dame, whose notions were much too high for her station; who was more nice than wise, and yet was one who could stoop when it most became her to stand upright. it was no business of theirs; but they could not but mention their suspicions that she had good reasons for leaving the city and for concealing the place of her retreat. some things were hard to be disguised. they spoke for themselves, and the only way to hinder disagreeable discoveries was to keep out of sight. "i was wholly a stranger to waldegrave's sister. i knew merely that he had such a relation. there was nothing, therefore, to outbalance this unfavourable report, but the apparent malignity and grossness of those who gave it. it was not, however, her character about which i was solicitous, but merely the place where she might be found and the suitable inquiries respecting her deceased brother be answered. on this head, these people professed utter ignorance, and were either unable or unwilling to direct me to any person in the city who knew more than themselves. after much discourse, they, at length, let fall an intimation that, if any one knew her place of retreat, it was probably a country-lad, by name huntly, who lived near the _forks_ of delaware. after waldegrave's death this lad had paid his sister a visit, and seemed to be admitted on a very confidential footing. she left the house, for the last time, in his company, and he, therefore, was most likely to know what had become of her. "the name of huntly was not totally unknown to me. i myself was born and brought up in the neighbouring township of chetasco. i had some knowledge of your family, and your name used often to be mentioned by waldegrave as that of one who, at a maturer age, would prove himself useful to his country. i determined, therefore, to apply to you for what information you could give. i designed to visit my father, who lives in chetasco, and relieve him from that disquiet which his ignorance of my fate could not fail to have inspired, and both these ends could be thus, at the same time, accomplished. "before i left the city, i thought it proper to apply to the merchant on whom my bill had been drawn. if this bill had been presented and paid, he had doubtless preserved some record of it, and hence a clue might be afforded, though every other expedient should fail. my usual ill fortune pursued me upon this occasion; for the merchant had lately become insolvent, and, to avoid the rage of his creditors, had fled, without leaving any vestige of this or similar transactions behind him. he had, some years since, been an adventurer from holland, and was suspected to have returned thither." chapter xv. "i came hither with a heart desponding of success. adversity had weakened my faith in the promises of the future, and i was prepared to receive just such tidings as you have communicated. unacquainted with the secret motives of waldegrave and his sister, it is impossible for me to weigh the probabilities of their rectitude. i have only my own assertion to produce in support of my claim. all other evidence, all vouchers and papers, which might attest my veracity or sanction my claim in a court of law, are buried in the ocean. the bill was transmitted just before my departure from madeira, and the letters by which it was accompanied informed waldegrave of my design to follow it immediately. hence he did not, it is probable, acknowledge the receipt of my letters. the vessels in which they were sent arrived in due season. i was assured that all letters were duly deposited in the post-office, where, at present, mine are not to be found. "you assure me that nothing has been found among his papers, hinting at any pecuniary transaction between him and me. some correspondence passed between us previous to that event. have no letters, with my signature, been found? are you qualified, by your knowledge of his papers, to answer me explicitly? is it not possible for some letters to have been mislaid?" "i am qualified," said i, "to answer your inquiries beyond any other person in the world. waldegrave maintained only general intercourse with the rest of mankind. with me his correspondence was copious, and his confidence, as i imagined, without bounds. his books and papers were contained in a single chest at his lodgings, the keys of which he had about him when he died. these keys i carried to his sister, and was authorized by her to open and examine the contents of this chest. this was done with the utmost care. these papers are now in my possession. among them no paper, of the tenor you mention, was found, and no letter with your signature. neither mary waldegrave nor i are capable of disguising the truth or committing an injustice. the moment she receives conviction of your right, she will restore this money to you. the moment i imbibe this conviction, i will exert all my influence (and it is not small) to induce her to restore it. permit me, however, to question you in your turn. who was the merchant on whom your bill was drawn, what was the date of it, and when did the bill and its counterparts arrive?" "i do not exactly remember the date of the bills. they were made out, however, six days before i myself embarked, which happened on the 10th of august, 1784. they were sent by three vessels, one of which was bound to charleston and the others to new york. the last arrived within two days of each other, and about the middle of november in the same year. the name of the payer was monteith." after a pause of recollection, i answered, "i will not hesitate to apprize you of every thing which may throw light upon this transaction, and whether favourable or otherwise to your claim. i have told you, among my friend's papers your name is not to be found. i must likewise repeat that the possession of this money by waldegrave was wholly unknown to us till his death. we are likewise unacquainted with any means by which he could get possession of so large a sum in his own right. he spent no more than his scanty stipend as a teacher, though this stipend was insufficient to supply his wants. this bank-receipt is dated in december, 1784, a fortnight, perhaps, after the date that you have mentioned. you will perceive how much this coincidence, which could scarcely have taken place by chance, is favourable to your claim. "mary waldegrave resides, at present, at abingdon. she will rejoice, as i do, to see one who, as her brother's friend, is entitled to her affection. doubt not but that she will listen with impartiality and candour to all that you can urge in defence of your title to this money. her decision will not be precipitate, but it will be generous and just, and founded on such reasons that, even if it be adverse to your wishes, you will be compelled to approve it?" "i can entertain no doubt," he answered, "as to the equity of my claim. the coincidences you mention are sufficient to convince me that this sum was received upon my bill; but this conviction must necessarily be confined to myself. no one but i can be conscious to the truth of my own story. the evidence on which i build my faith, in this case, is that of my own memory and senses; but this evidence cannot make itself conspicuous to you. you have nothing but my bare assertion, in addition to some probabilities flowing from the conduct of waldegrave. what facts may exist to corroborate my claim, which you have forgotten, or which you may think proper to conceal, i cannot judge. i know not what is passing in the secret of your hearts; i am unacquainted with the character of this lady and with yours. i have nothing on which to build surmises and suspicions of your integrity, and nothing to generate unusual confidence. the frailty of your virtue and the strength of your temptations i know not. however she decides in this case, and whatever opinion i shall form as to the reasonableness of her decision, it will not become me either to upbraid her, or to nourish discontentment and repinings. "i know that my claim has no legal support; that, if this money be resigned to me, it will be the impulse of spontaneous justice, and not the coercion of law, to which i am indebted for it. since, therefore, the justice of my claim is to be measured not by law, but by simple equity, i will candidly acknowledge that, as yet, it is uncertain whether i ought to receive, even should miss waldegrave be willing to give it. i know my own necessities and schemes, and in what degree this money would be subservient to these; but i know not the views and wants of others, and cannot estimate the usefulness of this money to them. however i decide upon your conduct in withholding or retaining it, i shall make suitable allowance for my imperfect knowledge of your motives and wants, as well as for your unavoidable ignorance of mine. "i have related my sufferings from shipwreck and poverty, not to bias your judgment or engage your pity, but merely because the impulse to relate them chanced to awake; because my heart is softened by the remembrance of waldegrave, who has been my only friend, and by the sight of one whom he loved. "i told you that my father lived in chetasco. he is now aged, and i am his only child. i should have rejoiced in being able to relieve his gray hairs from labour to which his failing strength cannot be equal. this was one of my inducements in coming to america. another was, to prepare the way for a woman whom i married in europe and who is now awaiting intelligence from me in london. her poverty is not less than my own, and by marrying against the wishes of her kindred she has bereaved herself of all support but that of her husband. whether i shall be able to rescue her from indigence, whether i shall alleviate the poverty of my father, or increase it by burdening his scanty friends by my own maintenance as well as his, the future alone can determine. "i confess that my stock of patience and hope has never been large, and that my misfortunes have nearly exhausted it. the flower of my years has been consumed in struggling with adversity, and my constitution has received a shock, from sickness and mistreatment in portugal, which i cannot expect long to survive. but i make you sad," he continued. "i have said all that i meant to say in this interview. i am impatient to see my father, and night has already come. i have some miles yet to ride to his cottage, and over a rough road. i will shortly visit you again, and talk to you at greater leisure on these and other topics. at present i leave you." i was unwilling to part so abruptly with this guest, and entreated him to prolong his visit; but he would not be prevailed upon. repeating his promise of shortly seeing me again, he mounted his horse and disappeared. i looked after him with affecting and complex emotions. i reviewed the incidents of this unexpected and extraordinary interview, as if it had existed in a dream. an hour had passed, and this stranger had alighted among us as from the clouds, to draw the veil from those obscurities which had bewildered us so long, to make visible a new train of disastrous consequences flowing from the untimely death of thy brother, and to blast that scheme of happiness on which thou and i had so fondly meditated. but what wilt thou think of this new-born claim? the story, hadst thou observed the features and guise of the relater, would have won thy implicit credit. his countenance exhibited deep traces of the afflictions he had endured, and the fortitude which he had exercised. he was sallow and emaciated, but his countenance was full of seriousness and dignity. a sort of ruggedness of brow, the token of great mental exertion and varied experience, argued a premature old age. what a mournful tale! is such the lot of those who wander from their rustic homes in search of fortune? our countrymen are prone to enterprise, and are scattered over every sea and every land in pursuit of that wealth which will not screen them from disease and infirmity, which is missed much oftener than found, and which, when gained, by no means compensates them for the hardships and vicissitudes endured in the pursuit. but what if the truth of these pretensions be admitted? the money must be restored to its right owner. i know that, whatever inconveniences may follow the deed, thou wilt not hesitate to act justly. affluence and dignity, however valuable, may be purchased too dear. honesty will not take away its keenness from the winter blast, its ignominy and unwholesomeness from servile labour, or strip of its charms the life of elegance and leisure; but these, unaccompanied with self-reproach, are less deplorable than wealth and honour the possession of which is marred by our own disapprobation. i know the bitterness of this sacrifice. i know the impatience with which your poverty has formerly been borne; how much your early education is at war with that degradation and obscurity to which your youth has been condemned; how earnestly your wishes panted after a state which might exempt you from dependence upon daily labour and on the caprices of others, and might secure to you leisure to cultivate and indulge your love of knowledge and your social and beneficent affections. your motive for desiring a change of fortune has been greatly enforced since we have become known to each other. thou hast honoured me with thy affection; but that union, on which we rely for happiness, could not take place while both of us were poor. my habits, indeed, have made labour and rustic obscurity less painful than they would prove to my friend, but my present condition is wholly inconsistent with marriage. as long as my exertions are insufficient to maintain us both, it would be unjustifiable to burden you with new cares and duties. of this you are more thoroughly convinced than i am. the love of independence and ease, and impatience of drudgery, are woven into your constitution. perhaps they are carried to an erroneous extreme, and derogate from that uncommon excellence by which your character is, in other respects, distinguished; but they cannot be removed. this obstacle was unexpectedly removed by the death of your brother. however justly to be deplored was this catastrophe, yet, like every other event, some of its consequences were good. by giving you possession of the means of independence and leisure, by enabling us to complete a contract which poverty alone had thus long delayed, this event has been, at the same time, the most disastrous and propitious which could have happened. why thy brother should have concealed from us the possession of this money,--why, with such copious means of indulgence and leisure, he should still pursue his irksome trade, and live in so penurious a manner,--has been a topic of endless and unsatisfactory conjecture between us. it was not difficult to suppose that this money was held in trust for another; but in that case it was unavoidable that some document or memorandum, or at least some claimant, would appear. much time has since elapsed, and you have thought yourself at length justified in appropriating this money to your own use. our flattering prospects are now shut in. you must return to your original poverty, and once more depend for precarious subsistence on your needle. you cannot restore the whole, for unavoidable expenses and the change of your mode of living have consumed some part of it. for so much you must consider yourself as weymouth's debtor. repine not, my friend, at this unlooked-for reverse. think upon the merits and misfortunes of your brother's friend; think upon his aged father, whom we shall enable him to rescue from poverty; think upon his desolate wife, whose merits are, probably, at least equal to your own, and whose helplessness is likely to be greater. i am not insensible to the evils which have returned upon us with augmented force, after having, for a moment, taken their flight. i know the precariousness of my condition and that of my sisters; that our subsistence hangs upon the life of an old man. my uncle's death will transfer this property to his son, who is a stranger and an enemy to us, and the first act of whose authority will unquestionably be to turn us forth from these doors. marriage with thee was anticipated with joyous emotions, not merely on my own account or on thine, but likewise for the sake of those beloved girls to whom that event would enable me to furnish an asylum. but wedlock is now more distant than ever. mv heart bleeds to think of the sufferings which my beloved mary is again fated to endure; but regrets are only aggravations of calamity. they are pernicious, and it is our duty to shake them off. i can entertain no doubts as to the equity of weymouth's claim. so many coincidences could not have happened by chance. the non-appearance of any letters or papers connected with it is indeed a mysterious circumstance; but why should waldegrave be studious of preserving these? they were useless paper, and might, without impropriety, be cast away or made to serve any temporary purpose. perhaps, indeed, they still lurk in some unsuspected corner. to wish that time may explain this mystery in a different manner, and so as to permit our retention of this money, is, perhaps, the dictate of selfishness. the transfer to weymouth will not be productive of less benefit to him and to his family, than we should derive from the use of it. these considerations, however, will be weighed when we meet. meanwhile i will return to my narrative. chapter xvi. here, my friend, thou must permit me to pause. the following incidents are of a kind to which the most ardent invention has never conceived a parallel. fortune, in her most wayward mood, could scarcely be suspected of an influence like this. the scene was pregnant with astonishment and horror. i cannot, even now, recall it without reviving the dismay and confusion which i then experienced. possibly, the period will arrive when i shall look back without agony on the perils i have undergone. that period is still distant. solitude and sleep are now no more than the signals to summon up a tribe of ugly phantoms. famine, and blindness, and death, and savage enemies, never fail to be conjured up by the silence and darkness of the night. i cannot dissipate them by any efforts of reason. sly cowardice requires the perpetual consolation of light. my heart droops when i mark the decline of the sun, and i never sleep but with a candle burning at my pillow. if, by any chance, i should awake and find myself immersed in darkness, i know not what act of desperation i might be suddenly impelled to commit. i have delayed this narrative longer than my duty to my friend enjoined. now that i am able to hold a pen, i will hasten to terminate that uncertainty with regard to my fate in which my silence has involved thee. i will recall that series of unheard-of and disastrous vicissitudes which has constituted the latest portion of my life. i am not certain, however, that i shall relate them in an intelligible manner. one image runs into another; sensations succeed in so rapid a train, that i fear i shall be unable to distribute and express them with sufficient perspicuity. as i look back, my heart is sore, and aches within my bosom. i am conscious to a kind of complex sentiment of distress and forlornness that cannot be perfectly portrayed by words; but i must do as well as i can. in the utmost vigour of my faculties, no eloquence that i possess would do justice to the tale. now, in my languishing and feeble state, i shall furnish thee with little more than a glimpse of the truth. with these glimpses, transient and faint as they are, thou must be satisfied. i have said that i slept. my memory assures me of this; it informs me of the previous circumstances of my laying aside my clothes, of placing the light upon a chair within reach of my pillow, of throwing myself upon the bed, and of gazing on the rays of the moon reflected on the wall and almost obscured by those of the candle. i remember my occasional relapses into fits of incoherent fancies, the harbingers of sleep. i remember, as it were, the instant when my thoughts ceased to flow and my senses were arrested by the leaden wand of forgetfulness. my return to sensation and to consciousness took place in no such tranquil scene. i emerged from oblivion by degrees so slow and so faint, that their succession cannot be marked. when enabled at length to attend to the information which my senses afforded, i was conscious for a time of nothing but existence. it was unaccompanied with lassitude or pain, but i felt disinclined to stretch my limbs or raise my eyelids. my thoughts were wildering and mazy, and, though consciousness was present, it was disconnected with the locomotive or voluntary power. from this state a transition was speedily effected. i perceived that my posture was supine, and that i lay upon my back. i attempted to open my eyes. the weight that oppressed them was too great for a slight exertion to remove. the exertion which i made cost me a pang more acute than any which i ever experienced. my eyes, however, were opened; but the darkness that environed me was as intense as before. i attempted to rise, but my limbs were cold, and my joints had almost lost their flexibility. my efforts were repeated, and at length i attained a sitting posture. i was now sensible of pain in my shoulders and back. i was universally in that state to which the frame is reduced by blows of a club, mercilessly and endlessly repeated; my temples throbbed, and my face was covered with clammy and cold drops: but that which threw me into deepest consternation was my inability to see. i turned my head to different quarters; i stretched my eyelids, and exerted every visual energy, but in vain. i was wrapped in the murkiest and most impenetrable gloom. the first effort of reflection was to suggest the belief that i was blind: that disease is known to assail us in a moment and without previous warning. this, surely, was the misfortune that had now befallen me. some ray, however fleeting and uncertain, could not fail to be discerned, if the power of vision were not utterly extinguished. in what circumstances could i possibly be placed, from which every particle of light should, by other means, be excluded? this led my thoughts into a new train. i endeavoured to recall the past; but the past was too much in contradiction to the present, and my intellect was too much shattered by external violence, to allow me accurately to review it. since my sight availed nothing to the knowledge of my condition, i betook myself to other instruments. the element which i breathed was stagnant and cold. the spot where i lay was rugged and hard. i was neither naked nor clothed: a shirt and trousers composed my dress, and the shoes and stockings, which always accompanied these, were now wanting. what could i infer from this scanty garb, this chilling atmosphere, this stony bed? i had awakened as from sleep. what was my condition when i fell asleep? surely it was different from the present. then i inhabited a lightsome chamber and was stretched upon a down bed; now i was supine upon a rugged surface and immersed in palpable obscurity. then i was in perfect health; now my frame was covered with bruises and every joint was racked with pain. what dungeon or den had received me, and by whose command was i transported hither? after various efforts i stood upon my feet. at first i tottered and staggered. i stretched out my hands on all sides, but met only with vacuity. i advanced forward. at the third step my foot moved something which lay upon the ground: i stooped and took it up, and found, on examination, that it was an indian tomahawk. this incident afforded me no hint from which i might conjecture my state. proceeding irresolutely and slowly forward, my hands at length touched a wall. this, like the flooring, was of stone, and was rugged and impenetrable. i followed this wall. an advancing angle occurred at a short distance, which was followed by similar angles. i continued to explore this clue, till the suspicion occurred that i was merely going round the walls of a vast and irregular apartment. the utter darkness disabled me from comparing directions and distances. this discovery, therefore, was not made on a sudden, and was still entangled with some doubt. my blood recovered some warmth, and my muscles some elasticity; but in proportion as my sensibility returned, my pains augmented. overpowered by my fears and my agonies, i desisted from my fruitless search, and sat down, supporting my back against the wall. my excruciating sensations for a time occupied my attention. these, in combination with other causes, gradually produced a species of delirium. i existed, as it were, in a wakeful dream. with nothing to correct my erroneous perceptions, the images of the past occurred in capricious combinations and vivid hues. methought i was the victim of some tyrant who had thrust me into a dungeon of his fortress, and left me no power to determine whether he intended i should perish with famine, or linger out a long life in hopeless imprisonment. whether the day was shut out by insuperable walls, or the darkness that surrounded me was owing to the night and to the smallness of those crannies through which daylight was to be admitted, i conjectured in vain. sometimes i imagined myself buried alive. methought i had fallen into seeming death, and my friends had consigned me to the tomb, from which a resurrection was impossible. that, in such a case, my limbs would have been confined to a coffin, and my coffin to a grave, and that i should instantly have been suffocated, did not occur to destroy my supposition. neither did this supposition overwhelm me with terror or prompt my efforts at deliverance. my state was full of tumult and confusion, and my attention was incessantly divided between my painful sensations and my feverish dreams. there is no standard by which time can be measured but the succession of our thoughts and the changes that take place in the external world. from the latter i was totally excluded. the former made the lapse of some hours appear like the tediousness of weeks and months. at length, a new sensation recalled my rambling meditations, and gave substance to my fears. i now felt the cravings of hunger, and perceived that, unless my deliverance were speedily effected, i must suffer a tedious and lingering death. i once more tasked my understanding and my senses to discover the nature of my present situation and the means of escape. i listened to catch some sound. i heard an unequal and varying echo, sometimes near and sometimes distant, sometimes dying away and sometimes swelling into loudness. it was unlike any thing i had before heard, but it was evident that it arose from wind sweeping through spacious halls and winding passages. these tokens were incompatible with the result of the examination i had made. if my hands were true, i was immured between walls through which there was no avenue. i now exerted my voice, and cried as loud as my wasted strength would admit. its echoes were sent back to me in broken and confused sounds and from above. this effort was casual, but some part of that uncertainty in which i was involved was instantly dispelled by it. in passing through the cavern on the former day, i have mentioned the verge of the pit at which i arrived. to acquaint me as far as was possible with the dimensions of the place, i had hallooed with all my force, knowing that sound is reflected according to the distance and relative positions of the substances from which it is repelled. the effect produced by my voice on this occasion resembled, with remarkable exactness, the effect which was then produced. was i, then, shut up in the same cavern? had i reached the brink of the same precipice and been thrown headlong into that vacuity? whence else could arise the bruises which i had received, but from my fall? yet all remembrance of my journey hither was lost. i had determined to explore this cave on the ensuing day, but my memory informed me not that this intention had been carried into effect. still, it was only possible to conclude that i had come hither on my intended expedition, and had been thrown by another, or had, by some ill chance, fallen, into the pit. this opinion was conformable to what i had already observed. the pavement and walls were rugged like those of the footing and sides of the cave through which i had formerly passed. but if this were true, what was the abhorred catastrophe to which i was now reserved? the sides of this pit were inaccessible; human footsteps would never wander into these recesses. my friends were unapprized of my forlorn state. here i should continue till wasted by famine. in this grave should i linger out a few days in unspeakable agonies, and then perish forever. the inroads of hunger were already experienced; and this knowledge of the desperateness of my calamity urged me to frenzy. i had none but capricious and unseen fate to condemn. the author of my distress, and the means he had taken to decoy me hither, were incomprehensible. surely my senses were fettered or depraved by some spell. i was still asleep, and this was merely a tormenting vision; or madness had seized me, and the darkness that environed and the hunger that afflicted me existed only in my own distempered imagination. the consolation of these doubts could not last long. every hour added to the proof that my perceptions were real. my hunger speedily became ferocious. i tore the linen of my shirt between my teeth and swallowed the fragments. i felt a strong propensity to bite the flesh from my arm. my heart overflowed with cruelty, and i pondered on the delight i should experience in rending some living animal to pieces, and drinking its blood and grinding its quivering fibres between my teeth. this agony had already passed beyond the limits of endurance. i saw that time, instead of bringing respite or relief, would only aggravate my wants, and that my only remaining hope was to die before i should be assaulted by the last extremes of famine. i now recollected that a tomahawk was at hand, and rejoiced in the possession of an instrument by which i could so effectually terminate my sufferings. i took it in my hand, moved its edge over my fingers, and reflected on the force that was required to make it reach my heart. i investigated the spot where it should enter, and strove to fortify myself with resolution to repeat the stroke a second or third time, if the first should prove insufficient. i was sensible that i might fail to inflict a mortal wound, but delighted to consider that the blood which would be made to flow would finally release me, and that meanwhile my pains would be alleviated by swallowing this blood. you will not wonder that i felt some reluctance to employ so fatal though indispensable a remedy. i once more ruminated on the possibility of rescuing myself by other means. i now reflected that the upper termination of the wall could not be at an immeasurable distance from the pavement. i had fallen from a height; but if that height had been considerable, instead of being merely bruised, should i not have been dashed into pieces? gleams of hope burst anew upon my soul. was it not possible, i asked, to reach the top of this pit? the sides were rugged and uneven. would not their projectures and abruptnesses serve me as steps by which i might ascend in safety? this expedient was to be tried without delay. shortly my strength would fail, and my doom would be irrevocably sealed. i will not enumerate my laborious efforts, my alternations of despondency and confidence, the eager and unwearied scrutiny with which i examined the surface, the attempts which i made, and the failures which, for a time, succeeded each other. a hundred times, when i had ascended some feet from the bottom, i was compelled to relinquish my undertaking by the _untenable_ smoothness of the spaces which remained to be gone over. a hundred times i threw myself, exhausted by fatigue and my pains, on the ground. the consciousness was gradually restored that, till i had attempted every part of the wall, it was absurd to despair, and i again drew my tottering limbs and aching joints to that part of the wall which had not been surveyed. at length, as i stretched my hand upward, i found somewhat that seemed like a recession in the wall. it was possible that this was the top of the cavity, and this might be the avenue to liberty. my heart leaped with joy, and i proceeded to climb the wall. no undertaking could be conceived more arduous than this. the space between this verge and the floor was nearly smooth. the verge was higher from the bottom than my head. the only means of ascending that were offered me were by my hands, with which i could draw myself upward so as, at length, to maintain my hold with my feet. my efforts were indefatigable, and at length i placed myself on the verge. when this was accomplished, my strength was nearly gone. had i not found space enough beyond this brink to stretch myself at length, i should unavoidably have fallen backward into the pit, and all my pains had served no other end than to deepen my despair and hasten my destruction. what impediments and perils remained to be encountered i could not judge. i was now inclined to forebode the worst. the interval of repose which was necessary to be taken, in order to recruit my strength, would accelerate the ravages of famine, and leave me without the power to proceed. in this state, i once more consoled myself that an instrument of death was at hand. i had drawn up with me the tomahawk, being sensible that, should this impediment be overcome, others might remain that would prove insuperable. before i employed it, however, i cast my eyes wildly and languidly around. the darkness was no less intense than in the pit below, and yet two objects were distinctly seen. they resembled a fixed and obscure flame. they were motionless. though lustrous themselves, they created no illumination around them. this circumstance, added to others, which reminded me of similar objects noted on former occasions, immediately explained the nature of what i beheld. these were the eyes of a panther. thus had i struggled to obtain a post where a savage was lurking and waited only till my efforts should place me within reach of his fangs. the first impulse was to arm myself against this enemy. the desperateness of my condition was, for a moment, forgotten. the weapon which was so lately lifted against my own bosom was now raised to defend my life against the assault of another. there was no time for deliberation and delay. in a moment he might spring from his station and tear me to pieces. my utmost speed might not enable me to reach him where he sat, but merely to encounter his assault. i did not reflect how far my strength was adequate to save me. all the force that remained was mustered up and exerted in a throw. no one knows the powers that are latent in his constitution. called forth by imminent dangers, our efforts frequently exceed our most sanguine belief. though tottering on the verge of dissolution, and apparently unable to crawl from this spot, a force was exerted in this throw, probably greater than i had ever before exerted. it was resistless and unerring. i aimed at the middle space between those glowing orbs. it penetrated the skull, and the animal fell, struggling and shrieking, on the ground. my ears quickly informed me when his pangs were at an end. his cries and his convulsions lasted for a moment and then ceased. the effect of his voice, in these subterranean abodes, was unspeakably rueful. the abruptness of this incident, and the preternatural exertion of my strength, left me in a state of languor and sinking, from which slowly and with difficulty i recovered. the first suggestion that occurred was to feed upon the carcass of this animal. my hunger had arrived at that pitch where all fastidiousness and scruples are at an end. i crept to the spot. i will not shock you by relating the extremes to which dire necessity had driven me. i review this scene with loathing and horror. now that it is past i look back upon it as on some hideous dream. the whole appears to be some freak of insanity. no alternative was offered, and hunger was capable of being appeased even by a banquet so detestable. if this appetite has sometimes subdued the sentiments of nature, and compelled the mother to feed upon the flesh of her offspring, it will not excite amazement that i did not turn from the yet warm blood and reeking fibres of a brute. one evil was now removed, only to give place to another. the first sensations of fullness had scarcely been felt when my stomach was seized by pangs, whose acuteness exceeded all that i ever before experienced. i bitterly lamented my inordinate avidity. the excruciations of famine were better than the agonies which this abhorred meal had produced. death was now impending with no less proximity and certainty, though in a different form. death was a sweet relief for my present miseries, and i vehemently longed for its arrival. i stretched myself on the ground. i threw myself into every posture that promised some alleviation of this evil. i rolled along the pavement of the cavern, wholly inattentive to the dangers that environed me. that i did not fall into the pit whence i had just emerged must be ascribed to some miraculous chance. how long my miseries endured, it is not possible to tell. i cannot even form a plausible conjecture. judging by the lingering train of my sensations, i should conjecture that some days elapsed in this deplorable condition; but nature could riot have so long sustained a conflict like this. gradually my pains subsided, and i fell into a deep sleep. i was visited by dreams of a thousand hues. they led me to flowing streams and plenteous banquets, which, though placed within my view, some power forbade me to approach. from this sleep i recovered to the fruition of solitude and darkness, but my frame was in a state less feeble than before that which i had eaten had produced temporary distress, but on the whole had been of use. if this food had not been provided for me i should scarcely have avoided death. i had reason, therefore, to congratulate myself on the danger that had lately occurred. i had acted without foresight, and yet no wisdom could have prescribed more salutary measures. the panther was slain, not from a view to the relief of my hunger, but from the self-preserving and involuntary impulse. had i foreknown the pangs to which my ravenous and bloody meal would give birth, i should have carefully abstained; and yet these pangs were a useful effort of nature to subdue and convert to nourishment the matter i had swallowed. i was now assailed by the torments of thirst. my invention and my courage were anew bent to obviate this pressing evil. i reflected that there was some recess from this cavern, even from the spot where i now stood. before, i was doubtful whether in this direction from this pit any avenue could be found; but, since the panther had come hither, there was reason to suppose the existence of some such avenue. i now likewise attended to a sound, which, from its invariable tenor, denoted somewhat different from the whistling of a gale. it seemed like the murmur of a running stream. i now prepared to go forward and endeavour to move along in that direction in which this sound apparently came. on either side, and above my head, there was nothing but vacuity. my steps were to be guided by the pavement, which, though unequal and rugged, appeared, on the whole, to ascend. my safety required that i should employ both hands and feet in exploring my way. i went on thus for a considerable period. the murmur, instead of becoming more distinct, gradually died away. my progress was arrested by fatigue, and i began once more to despond. my exertions produced a perspiration, which, while it augmented my thirst, happily supplied me with imperfect means of appeasing it. this expedient would, perhaps, have been accidentally suggested; but my ingenuity was assisted by remembering the history of certain english prisoners in bengal, whom their merciless enemy imprisoned in a small room, and some of whom preserved themselves alive merely by swallowing the moisture that flowed from their bodies. this experiment i now performed with no less success. this was slender arid transitory consolation. i knew that, wandering at random, i might never reach the outlet of this cavern, or might be disabled, by hunger and fatigue, from going farther than the outlet. the cravings which had lately been satiated would speedily return, and my negligence had cut me off from the resource which had recently been furnished. i thought not till now that a second meal might be indispensable. to return upon my footsteps to the spot where the dead animal lay was a heartless project. i might thus be placing myself at a hopeless distance from liberty. besides, my track could not be retraced. i had frequently deviated from a straight direction for the sake of avoiding impediments. all of which i was sensible was, that i was travelling up an irregular acclivity. i hoped some time to reach the summit, but had no reason for adhering to one line of ascent in preference to another. to remain where i was was manifestly absurd. whether i mounted or descended, a change of place was most likely to benefit me. i resolved to vary my direction, and, instead of ascending, keep along the side of what i accounted a hill. i had gone some hundred feet when the murmur, before described, once more saluted my ear. this sound, being imagined to proceed from a running stream, could not but light up joy in the heart of one nearly perishing with thirst. i proceeded with new courage. the sound approached no nearer, nor became more distinct; but, as long as it died not away, i was satisfied to listen and to hope. i was eagerly observant if any the least glimmering of light should visit this recess. at length, on the right hand, a gleam, infinitely faint, caught my attention. it was wavering and unequal. i directed my steps towards it. it became more vivid and permanent. it was of that kind, however, which proceeded from a fire, kindled with dry sticks, and not from the sun. i now heard the crackling of flames. this sound made me pause, or, at least, to proceed with circumspection. at length the scene opened, and i found myself at the entrance of a cave. i quickly reached a station, when i saw a fire burning. at first no other object was noted, but it was easy to infer that the fire was kindled by men, and that they who kindled it could be at no great distance. chapter xvii. thus was i delivered from my prison, and restored to the enjoyment of the air and the light. perhaps the chance was almost miraculous that led me to this opening. in any other direction, i might have involved myself in an inextricable maze and rendered my destruction sure; but what now remained to place me in absolute security? beyond the fire i could see nothing; but, since the smoke rolled rapidly away, it was plain that on the opposite side the cavern was open to the air. i went forward, but my eyes were fixed upon the fire: presently, in consequence of changing my station, i perceived several feet, and the skirts of blankets. i was somewhat startled at these appearances. the legs were naked, and scored into uncouth figures. the _moccasins_ which lay beside them, and which were adorned in a grotesque manner, in addition to other incidents, immediately suggested the suspicion that they were indians. no spectacle was more adapted than this to excite wonder and alarm. had some mysterious power snatched me from the earth, and cast me, in a moment, into the heart of the wilderness? was i still in the vicinity of my parental habitation, or was i thousands of miles distant? were these the permanent inhabitants of this region, or were they wanderers and robbers? while in the heart of the mountain, i had entertained a vague belief that i was still within the precincts of norwalk. this opinion was shaken for a moment by the objects which i now beheld, but it insensibly returned: yet how was this opinion to be reconciled to appearances so strange and uncouth, and what measure did a due regard to my safety enjoin me to take? i now gained a view of four brawny and terrific figures, stretched upon the ground. they lay parallel to each other, on their left sides; in consequence of which their faces were turned from me. between each was an interval where lay a musket. their right hands seemed placed upon the stocks of their guns, as if to seize them on the first moment of alarm. the aperture through which these objects were seen was at the back of the cave, and some feet from the ground. it was merely large enough to suffer a human body to pass. it was involved in profound darkness, and there was no danger of being suspected or discovered as long as i maintained silence and kept out of view. it was easily imagined that these guests would make but a short sojourn in this spot. there was reason to suppose that it was now night, and that, after a short repose, they would start up and resume their journey. it was my first design to remain shrouded in this covert till their departure, and i prepared to endure imprisonment and thirst somewhat longer. meanwhile my thoughts were busy in accounting for this spectacle. i need not tell thee that norwalk is the termination of a sterile and narrow tract which begins in the indian country. it forms a sort of rugged and rocky vein, and continues upwards of fifty miles. it is crossed in a few places by narrow and intricate paths, by which a communication is maintained between the farms and settlements on the opposite sides of the ridge. during former indian wars, this rude surface was sometimes traversed by the red men, and they made, by means of it, frequent and destructive inroads into the heart of the english settlements. during the last war, notwithstanding the progress of population, and the multiplied perils of such an expedition, a band of them had once penetrated into norwalk, and lingered long enough to pillage and murder some of the neighbouring inhabitants. i have reason to remember that event. my father's house was placed on the verge of this solitude. eight of these assassins assailed it at the dead of night. my parents and an infant child were murdered in their beds; the house was pillaged, and then burnt to the ground. happily, myself and my two sisters were abroad upon a visit. the preceding day had been fixed for our return to our father's house; but a storm occurred, which made it dangerous to cross the river, and, by obliging us to defer our journey, rescued us from captivity or death. most men are haunted by some species of terror or antipathy, which they are, for the most part, able to trace to some incident which befell them in their early years. you will not be surprised that the fate of my parents, and the sight of the body of one of this savage band, who, in the pursuit that was made after them, was overtaken and killed, should produce lasting and terrific images in my fancy. i never looked upon or called up the image of a savage without shuddering. i knew that, at this time, some hostilities had been committed on the frontier; that a long course of injuries and encroachments had lately exasperated the indian tribes; that an implacable and exterminating war was generally expected. we imagined ourselves at an inaccessible distance from the danger; but i could not but remember that this persuasion was formerly as strong as at present, and that an expedition which had once succeeded might possibly be attempted again. here was every token of enmity and bloodshed. each prostrate figure was furnished with a rifled musket, and a leathern bag tied round his waist, which was, probably, stored with powder and ball. from these reflections, the sense of my own danger was revived and enforced; but i likewise ruminated on the evils which might impend over others. i should, no doubt, be safe by remaining in this nook; but might not some means be pursued to warn others of their danger? should they leave this spot without notice of their approach being given to the fearless and pacific tenants of the neighbouring district, they might commit, in a few hours, the most horrid and irreparable devastation. the alarm could only be diffused in one way. could i not escape, unperceived, and without alarming the sleepers, from this cavern? the slumber of an indian is broken by the slightest noise; but, if all noise be precluded, it is commonly profound. it was possible, i conceived, to leave my present post, to descend into the cave, and issue forth without the smallest signal. their supine posture assured me that they were asleep. sleep usually comes at their bidding, and if, perchance, they should be wakeful at an unseasonable moment, they always sit upon their haunches, and, leaning their elbows on their knees, consume the tedious hours in smoking. my peril would be great. accidents which i could not foresee, and over which i had no command, might occur to awaken some one at the moment i was passing the fire. should i pass in safety, i might issue forth into a wilderness, of which i had no knowledge, where i might wander till i perished with famine, or where my footsteps might be noted and pursued and overtaken by these implacable foes. these perils were enormous and imminent; but i likewise considered that i might be at no great distance from the habitations of men, and that my escape might rescue them from the most dreadful calamities. i determined to make this dangerous experiment without delay. i came nearer to the aperture, and had, consequently, a larger view of this recess. to my unspeakable dismay, i now caught a glimpse of one seated at the fire. his back was turned towards me, so that i could distinctly survey his gigantic form and fantastic ornaments. my project was frustrated. this one was probably commissioned to watch and to awaken his companions when a due portion of sleep had been taken. that he would not be unfaithful or remiss in the performance of the part assigned to him was easily predicted. to pass him without exciting his notice (and the entrance could not otherwise be reached) was impossible. once more i shrunk back, and revolved with hopelessness and anguish the necessity to which i was reduced. this interval of dreary foreboding did not last long. some motion in him that was seated by the fire attracted my notice. i looked, and beheld him rise from his place and go forth from the cavern. this unexpected incident led my thoughts into a new channel. could not some advantage be taken of his absence? could not this opportunity be seized for making my escape? he had left his gun and hatchet on the ground. it was likely, therefore, that he had not gone far, and would speedily return. might not these weapons be seized, and some provision be thus made against the danger of meeting him without, or of being pursued? before a resolution could be formed, a new sound saluted my ear. it was a deep groan, succeeded by sobs that seemed struggling for utterance but were vehemently counteracted by the sufferer. this low and bitter lamentation apparently proceeded from some one within the cave. it could not be from one of this swarthy band. it must, then, proceed from a captive, whom they had reserved for torment or servitude, and who had seized the opportunity afforded by the absence of him that watched to give vent to his despair. i again thrust my head forward, and beheld, lying on the ground, apart from the rest, and bound hand and foot, a young girl. her dress was the coarse russet garb of the country, and bespoke her to be some farmer's daughter. her features denoted the last degree of fear and anguish, and she moved her limbs in such a manner as showed that the ligatures by which she was confined produced, by their tightness, the utmost degree of pain. my wishes were now bent not only to preserve myself and to frustrate the future attempts of these savages, but likewise to relieve this miserable victim. this could only be done by escaping from the cavern and returning with seasonable aid. the sobs of the girl were likely to rouse the sleepers. my appearance before her would prompt her to testify her surprise by some exclamation or shriek. what could hence be predicted but that the band would start on their feet and level their unerring pieces at my head? i know not why i was insensible to these dangers. my thirst was rendered by these delays intolerable. it took from me, in some degree, the power of deliberation. the murmurs which had drawn me hither continued still to be heard. some torrent or cascade could not be far distant from the entrance of the cavern, and it seemed as if one draught of clear water was a luxury cheaply purchased by death itself. this, in addition to considerations more disinterested, and which i have already mentioned, impelled me forward. the girl's cheek rested on the hard rock, and her eyes were dim with tears. as they were turned towards me, however, i hoped that my movements would be noticed by her gradually and without abruptness. this expectation was fulfilled. i had not advanced many steps before she discovered me. this moment was critical beyond all others in the course of my existence. my life was suspended, as it were, by a spider's thread. all rested on the effect which this discovery should make upon this feeble victim. i was watchful of the first movement of her eye which should indicate a consciousness of my presence. i laboured, by gestures and looks, to deter her from betraying her emotion. my attention was, at the same time, fixed upon the sleepers, and an anxious glance was cast towards the quarter whence the watchful savage might appear. i stooped and seized the musket and hatchet. the space beyond the fire was, as i expected, open to the air. i issued forth with trembling steps. the sensations inspired by the dangers which environed me, added to my recent horrors, and the influence of the moon, which had now gained the zenith, and whose lustre dazzled my long-benighted senses, cannot be adequately described. for a minute, i was unable to distinguish objects. this confusion was speedily corrected, and i found myself on the verge of a steep. craggy eminences arose on all sides. on the left hand was a space that offered some footing, and hither i turned. a torrent was below me, and this path appeared to lead to it. it quickly appeared in sight, and all foreign cares were, for a time, suspended. this water fell from the upper regions of the hill, upon a flat projecture which was continued on either side, and on part of which i was now standing. the path was bounded on the left by an inaccessible wall, and on the right terminated, at the distance of two or three feet from the wall, in a precipice. the water was eight or ten paces distant, and no impediment seemed likely to rise between us. i rushed forward with speed. my progress was quickly checked. close to the falling water, seated on the edge, his back supported by the rock, and his legs hanging over the precipice, i now beheld the savage who left the cave before me. the noise of the cascade and the improbability of interruption, at least from this quarter, had made him inattentive to my motions. i paused. along this verge lay the only road by which i could reach the water, and by which i could escape. the passage was completely occupied by this antagonist. to advance towards him, or to remain where i was, would produce the same effect. i should, in either case, be detected. he was unarmed; but his outcries would instantly summon his companions to his aid. i could not hope to overpower him, and pass him in defiance of his opposition. but, if this were effected, pursuit would be instantly commenced. i was unacquainted with the way. the way was unquestionably difficult. my strength was nearly annihilated; i should be overtaken in a moment, or their deficiency in speed would be supplied by the accuracy of their aim. their bullets, at least, would reach me. there was one method of removing this impediment. the piece which i held in my hand was cocked. there could be no doubt that it was loaded. a precaution of this kind would never be omitted by a warrior of this hue. at a greater distance than this, i should not fear to reach the mark. should i not discharge it, and, at the same moment, rush forward to secure the road which my adversary's death would open to me? perhaps you will conceive a purpose like this to have argued a sanguinary and murderous disposition. let it be remembered, however, that i entertained no doubts about the hostile designs of these men. this was sufficiently indicated by their arms, their guise, and the captive who attended them. let the fate of my parents be, likewise, remembered. i was not certain but that these very men were the assassins of my family, and were those who had reduced me and my sisters to the condition of orphans and dependants. no words can describe the torments of my thirst. relief to these torments, and safety to my life, were within view. how could i hesitate? yet i did hesitate. my aversion to bloodshed was not to be subdued but by the direst necessity. i knew, indeed, that the discharge of a musket would only alarm the enemies who remained behind; but i had another and a better weapon in my grasp. i could rive the head of my adversary, and cast him headlong, without any noise which should be heard, into the cavern. still i was willing to withdraw, to re-enter the cave, and take shelter in the darksome recesses from which i had emerged. here i might remain, unsuspected, till these detested guests should depart. the hazards attending my re-entrance were to be boldly encountered, and the torments of unsatisfied thirst were to be patiently endured, rather than imbrue my hands in the blood of my fellowmen. but this expedient would be ineffectual if my retreat should be observed by this savage. of that i was bound to be incontestably assured. i retreated, therefore, but kept my eye fixed at the same time upon the enemy. some ill fate decreed that i should not retreat unobserved. scarcely had i withdrawn three paces when he started from his seat, and, turning towards me, walked with a quick pace. the shadow of the rock, and the improbability of meeting an enemy here, concealed me for a moment from his observation. i stood still. the slightest motion would have attracted his notice. at present, the narrow space engaged all his vigilance. cautious footsteps, and attention to the path, were indispensable to his safety. the respite was momentary, and i employed it in my own defence. how otherwise could i act? the danger that impended aimed at nothing less than my life. to take the life of another was the only method of averting it. the means were in my hand, and they were used. in an extremity like this, my muscles would have acted almost in defiance of my will. the stroke was quick as lightning, and the wound mortal and deep. he had not time to descry the author of his fate, but, sinking on the path, expired without a groan. the hatchet buried itself in his breast, and rolled with him to the bottom of the precipice. never before had i taken the life of a human creature. on this head i had, indeed, entertained somewhat of religious scruples. these scruples did not forbid me to defend myself, but they made me cautious and reluctant to decide. though they could not withhold my hand when urged by a necessity like this, they were sufficient to make me look back upon the deed with remorse and dismay. i did not escape all compunction in the present instance, but the tumult of my feelings was quickly allayed. to quench my thirst was a consideration by which all others were supplanted. i approached the torrent, and not only drank copiously, but laved my head, neck, and arms, in this delicious element. chapter xviii. never was any delight worthy of comparison with the raptures which i then experienced. life, that was rapidly ebbing, appeared to return upon me with redoubled violence. my languors, my excruciating heat, vanished in a moment, and i felt prepared to undergo the labours of hercules. having fully supplied the demands of nature in this respect, i returned to reflection on the circumstances of my situation. the path winding round the hill was now free from all impediments. what remained but to precipitate my flight? i might speedily place myself beyond all danger. i might gain some hospitable shelter, where my fatigues might be repaired by repose, and my wounds be cured. i might likewise impart to my protectors seasonable information of the enemies who meditated their destruction. i thought upon the condition of the hapless girl whom i had left in the power of the savages. was it impossible to rescue her? might i not relieve her from her bonds, and make her the companion of my flight? the exploit was perilous, but not impracticable. there was something dastardly and ignominious in withdrawing from the danger, and leaving a helpless being exposed to it. a single minute might suffice to snatch her from death or captivity. the parents might deserve that i should hazard or even sacrifice my life in the cause of their child. after some fluctuation, i determined to return to the cavern and attempt the rescue of the girl. the success of this project depended on the continuance of their sleep. it was proper to approach with wariness, and to heed the smallest token which might bespeak their condition. i crept along the path, bending my ear forward to catch any sound that might arise. i heard nothing but the half-stifled sobs of the girl. i entered with the slowest and most anxious circumspection. every thing was found in its pristine state. the girl noticed my entrance with a mixture of terror and joy. my gestures and looks enjoined upon her silence. i stooped down, and, taking another hatchet, cut asunder the deer-skin thongs by which her wrists and ankles were tied. i then made signs for her to rise and follow me. she willingly complied with my directions; but her benumbed joints and lacerated sinews refused to support her. there was no time to be lost; i therefore lifted her in my arms, and, feeble and tottering as i was, proceeded with this burden along the perilous steep and over a most rugged-path. i hoped that some exertion would enable her to retrieve the use of her limbs. i set her, therefore, on her feet, exhorting her to walk as well as she was able, and promising her my occasional assistance. the poor girl was not deficient in zeal, and presently moved along with light and quick steps. we speedily reached the bottom of the hill. no fancy can conceive a scene more wild and desolate than that which now presented itself. the soil was nearly covered with sharp fragments of stone. between these, sprung brambles and creeping vines, whose twigs, crossing and intertwining with each other, added to the roughness below, made the passage infinitely toilsome. scattered over this space were single cedars with their ragged spines and wreaths of moss, and copses of dwarf oaks, which were only new emblems of sterility. i was wholly unacquainted with the scene before me. no marks of habitation or culture, no traces of the footsteps of men, were discernible. i scarcely knew in what region of the globe i was placed. i had come hither by means so inexplicable as to leave it equally in doubt whether i was separated from my paternal abode by a river or an ocean. i made inquiries of my companion, but she was unable to talk coherently. she answered my questions with weeping, and sobs, and entreaties to fly from the scene of her distress. i collected from her, at length, that her father's house had been attacked on the preceding evening, and all the family but herself destroyed. since this disaster she had walked very fast and a great way, but knew not how far or in what direction. in a wilderness like this, my only hope was to light upon obscure paths, made by cattle. meanwhile i endeavoured to adhere to one line, and to burst through the vexatious obstacles which encumbered our way. the ground was concealed by the bushes, and we were perplexed and fatigued by a continual succession of hollows and prominences. at one moment we were nearly thrown headlong into a pit. at another we struck our feet against the angles of stones. the branches of the oak rebounded in our faces or entangled our legs, and the unseen thorns inflicted on us a thousand wounds. i was obliged, in these arduous circumstances, to support not only myself, but my companion. her strength was overpowered by her evening journey, and the terror of being overtaken incessantly harassed her. sometimes we lighted upon tracks which afforded us an easier footing and inspired us with courage to proceed. these, for a time, terminated at a brook or in a bog, and we were once more compelled to go forward at random. one of these tracks insensibly became more beaten, and, at length, exhibited the traces of wheels. to this i adhered, confident that it would finally conduct us to a dwelling. on either side, the undergrowth of shrubs and brambles continued as before. sometimes small spaces were observed, which had lately been cleared by fire. at length a vacant space, of larger dimensions than had hitherto occurred, presented itself to my view. it was a field of some acres, that had, apparently, been upturned by the hoe. at the corner of this field was a small house. my heart leaped with joy at this sight. i hastened towards it, in the hope that my uncertainties, and toils, and dangers, were now drawing to a close. this dwelling was suited to the poverty and desolation which surrounded it. it consisted of a few unhewn logs laid upon each other, to the height of eight or ten feet, including a quadrangular space of similar dimensions, and covered by a thatch. there was no window, light being sufficiently admitted into the crevices between the logs. these had formerly been loosely plastered with clay; but air and rain had crumbled and washed the greater part of this rude cement away. somewhat like a chimney, built of half-burnt bricks, was perceived at one corner. the door was fastened by a leathern thong, tied to a peg. all within was silence and darkness. i knocked at the door and called, but no one moved or answered. the tenant, whoever he was, was absent. his leave could not be obtained, and i, therefore, entered without it. the autumn had made some progress, and the air was frosty and sharp. my mind and muscles had been of late so strenuously occupied, that the cold had not been felt. the cessation of exercise, however, quickly restored my sensibility in this respect, but the unhappy girl complained of being half frozen. fire, therefore, was the first object of my search. happily, some embers were found upon the hearth, together with potato-stalks and dry chips. of these, with much difficulty, i kindled a fire, by which some warmth was imparted to our shivering limbs. the light enabled me, as i sat upon the ground, to survey the interior of this mansion. three saplings, stripped of their branches and bound together at their ends by twigs, formed a kind of bedstead, which was raised from the ground by four stones. ropes stretched across these, and covered by a blanket, constituted the bed. a board, of which one end rested on the bedstead and the other was thrust between the logs that composed the wall, sustained the stale fragments of a rye-loaf, and a cedar bucket kept entire by withes instead of hoops. in the bucket was a little water, full of droppings from the roof, drowned insects, and sand. a basket or two neatly made, and a hoe, with a stake thrust into it by way of handle, made up all the furniture that was visible. next to cold, hunger was the most urgent necessity by which we were now pressed. this was no time to give ear to scruples. we, therefore, unceremoniously divided the bread and water between us. i had now leisure to bestow some regards upon the future. these remnants of fire and food convinced me that this dwelling was usually inhabited, and that it had lately been deserted. some engagement had probably carried the tenant abroad. his absence might be terminated in a few minutes, or might endure through the night. on his return, i questioned not my power to appease any indignation he might feel at the liberties which i had taken. i was willing to suppose him one who would readily afford us all the information and succour that we needed. if he should not return till sunrise, i meant to resume my journey. by the comfortable meal we had made, and the repose of a few hours, we should be considerably invigorated and refreshed, and the road would lead us to some more hospitable tenement. my thoughts were too tumultuous, and my situation too precarious, to allow me to sleep. the girl, on the contrary, soon sank into a sweet oblivion of all her cares. she laid herself, by my advice, upon the bed, and left me to ruminate without interruption. i was not wholly free from the apprehension of danger. what influence this boisterous and solitary life might have upon the temper of the being who inhabited this hut, i could not predict. how soon the indians might awake, and what path they would pursue, i was equally unable to guess. it was by no means impossible that they might tread upon my footsteps, and knock, in a few minutes, at the door of this cottage. it behooved me to make all the preparations in my power against untoward incidents. i had not parted with the gun which i had first seized in the cavern, nor with the hatchet which i had afterwards used to cut the bands of the girl. these were at once my trophies and my means of defence, which it had been rash and absurd to have relinquished. my present reliance was placed upon these. i now, for the first time, examined the prize that i had made. other considerations had prevented me, till now, from examining the structure of the piece; but i could not but observe that it had two barrels, and was lighter and smaller than an ordinary musket. the light of the fire now enabled me to inspect it with more accuracy. scarcely had i fixed my eyes upon the stock, when i perceived marks that were familiar to my apprehension. shape, ornaments, and ciphers, were evidently the same with those of a piece which i had frequently handled. the marks were of a kind which could not be mistaken. this piece was mine; and, when i left my uncle's house, it was deposited, as i believed, in the closet of my chamber. thou wilt easily conceive the inference which this circumstance suggested. my hairs rose and my teeth chattered with horror. my whole frame was petrified, and i paced to and fro, hurried from the chimney to the door, and from the door to the chimney, with the misguided fury of a maniac. i needed no proof of my calamity more incontestable than this. my uncle and my sisters had been murdered; the dwelling had been pillaged, and this had been a part of the plunder. defenceless and asleep, they were assailed by these inexorable enemies, and i, who ought to have been their protector and champion, was removed to an immeasurable distance, and was disabled, by some accursed chance, from affording them the succour which they needed. for a time, i doubted whether i had not witnessed and shared this catastrophe. i had no memory of the circumstances that preceded my awaking in the pit. had not the cause of my being cast into this abyss some connection with the ruin of my family? had i not been dragged hither by these savages and reduced, by their malice, to that breathless and insensible condition? was i born to a malignant destiny never tired of persecuting? thus had my parents and their infant offspring perished, and thus completed was the fate of all those to whom my affections cleaved, and whom the first disaster had spared. hitherto the death of the savage, whom i had dispatched with my hatchet, had not been remembered without some remorse. now my emotions were totally changed. i was somewhat comforted in thinking that thus much of necessary vengeance had been executed. new and more vehement regrets were excited by reflecting on the forbearance i had practised when so much was in my power. all the miscreants had been at my mercy, and a bloody retribution might, with safety and ease, have been inflicted on their prostrate bodies. it was now too late. what of consolation or of hope remained to me? to return to my ancient dwelling, now polluted with blood, or, perhaps, nothing but a smoking ruin, was abhorred. life, connected with the remembrance of my misfortunes, was detestable. i was no longer anxious for flight. no change of the scene but that which terminated all consciousness could i endure to think of. amidst these gloomy meditations the idea was suddenly suggested of returning, with the utmost expedition, to the cavern. it was possible that the assassins were still asleep. he who was appointed to watch, and to make, in due season, the signal for resuming their march, was forever silent. without this signal it was not unlikely that they would sleep till dawn of day. but, if they should be roused, they might be overtaken or met, and, by choosing a proper station, two victims might at least fall. the ultimate event to myself would surely be fatal; but my own death was an object of desire rather than of dread. to die thus speedily, and after some atonement was made for those who had already been slain, was sweet. the way to the mountain was difficult and tedious, but the ridge was distinctly seen from the door of the cottage, and i trusted that auspicious chance would lead me to that part of it where my prey was to be found. i snatched up the gun and tomahawk in a transport of eagerness. on examining the former, i found that both barrels were deeply loaded. this piece was of extraordinary workmanship. it was the legacy of an english officer, who died in bengal, to sarsefield. it was constructed for the purposes not of sport but of war. the artist had made it a congeries of tubes and springs, by which every purpose of protection and offence was effectually served. a dagger's blade was attached to it, capable of being fixed at the end, and of answering the destructive purpose of a bayonet. on his departure from solesbury, my friend left it, as a pledge of his affection, in my possession. hitherto i had chiefly employed it in shooting at a mark, in order to improve my sight; now was i to profit by the gift in a different way. thus armed, i prepared to sally forth on my adventurous expedition. sober views might have speedily succeeded to the present tempest of my passions. i might have gradually discovered the romantic and criminal temerity of my project, the folly of revenge, and the duty of preserving my life for the benefit of mankind. i might have suspected the propriety of my conclusion, and have admitted some doubts as to the catastrophe which i imagined to have befallen my uncle and sisters. i might, at least, have consented to ascertain their condition with my own eyes, and for this end have returned to the cottage, and have patiently waited till the morning light should permit me to resume my journey. this conduct was precluded by a new incident. before i opened the door i looked through a crevice of the wall, and perceived three human figures at the farther end of the field. they approached the house. though indistinctly seen, something in their port persuaded me that these were the indians from whom i had lately parted. i was startled but not dismayed. my thirst of vengeance was still powerful, and i believed that the moment of its gratification was hastening. in a short time they would arrive and enter the house. in what manner should they be received? i studied not my own security. it was the scope of my wishes to kill the whole number of my foes; but, that being done, i was indifferent to the consequences. i desired not to live to relate or to exult in the deed. to go forth was perilous and useless. all that remained was to sit upon the ground opposite the door, and fire at each as he entered. in the hasty survey i had taken of this apartment, one object had been overlooked, or imperfectly noticed. close to the chimney was an aperture, formed by a cavity partly in the wall and in the ground. it was the entrance of an oven, which resembled, on the outside, a mound of earth, and which was filled with dry stalks of potatoes and other rubbish. into this it was possible to thrust my body. a sort of screen might be formed of the brushwood, and more deliberate and effectual execution be done upon the enemy. i weighed not the disadvantages of this scheme, but precipitately threw myself into this cavity. i discovered, in an instant, that it was totally unfit for my purpose; but it was too late to repair my miscarriage. this wall of the hovel was placed near the verge of a sand-bank. the oven was erected on the very brink. this bank, being of a loose and mutable soil, could not sustain my weight. it sunk, and i sunk along with it. the height of the bank was three or four feet, so that, though disconcerted and embarrassed, i received no injury. i still grasped my gun, and resumed my feet in a moment. what was now to be done? the bank screened me from the view of the savages. the thicket was hard by, and, if i were eager to escape, the way was obvious and sure. but, though single, though enfeebled by toil, by abstinence, and by disease, and though so much exceeded in number and strength by my foes, i was determined to await and provoke the contest. in addition to the desperate impulse of passion, i was swayed by thoughts of the danger which beset the sleeping girl, and from which my flight would leave her without protection. how strange is the destiny that governs mankind! the consequence of shrouding myself in this cavity had not been foreseen. it was an expedient which courage and not cowardice suggested; and yet it was the only expedient by which flight had been rendered practicable. to have issued from the door would only have been to confront, and not to elude, the danger. the first impulse prompted me to re-enter the cottage by this avenue, but this could not be done with certainty and expedition. what then remained? while i deliberated, the men approached, and, after a moment's hesitation, entered the house, the door being partly open. the fire on the hearth enabled them to survey the room. one of them uttered a sudden exclamation of surprise. this was easily interpreted. they had noticed the girl who had lately been their captive lying asleep on the blanket. their astonishment at finding her here, and in this condition, may be easily conceived. i now reflected that i might place myself, without being observed, near the entrance, at an angle of the building, and shoot at each as he successively came forth. i perceived that the bank conformed to two sides of the house, and that i might gain a view of the front and of the entrance, without exposing myself to observation. i lost no time in gaining this station. the bank was as high as my breast. it was easy, therefore, to crouch beneath it, to bring my eye close to the verge, and, laying my gun upon the top of it among the grass, with its muzzles pointed to the door, patiently to wait their forthcoming. my eye and my ear were equally attentive to what was passing. a low and muttering conversation was maintained in the house. presently i heard a heavy stroke descend. i shuddered, and my blood ran cold at the sound. i entertained no doubt but that it was the stroke of a hatchet on the head or breast of the helpless sleeper. it was followed by a loud shriek. the continuance of these shrieks proved that the stroke had not been instantly fatal. i waited to hear it repeated, but the sounds that now arose were like those produced by dragging somewhat along the ground. the shrieks, meanwhile, were incessant and piteous. my heart faltered, and i saw that mighty efforts must be made to preserve my joints and my nerves steadfast. all depended on the strenuous exertions and the fortunate dexterity of a moment. one now approached the door, and came forth, dragging the girl, whom he held by the hair, after him. what hindered me from shooting at his first appearance, i know not. this had been my previous resolution. my hand touched the trigger, and, as he moved, the piece was levelled at his right ear. perhaps the momentous consequences of my failure made me wait till his ceasing to move might render my aim more sure. having dragged the girl, still piteously shrieking, to the distance of ten feet from the house, he threw her from him with violence. she fell upon the ground, and, observing him level his piece at her breast, renewed her supplications in a still more piercing tone. little did the forlorn wretch think that her deliverance was certain and near. i rebuked myself for having thus long delayed. i fired, and my enemy sunk upon the ground without a struggle. thus far had success attended me in this unequal contest. the next shot would leave me nearly powerless. if that, however, proved as unerring as the first, the chances of defeat were lessened. the savages within, knowing the intentions of their associate with regard to the captive girl, would probably mistake the report which they heard for that of his piece. their mistake, however, would speedily give place to doubts, and they would rush forth to ascertain the truth. it behooved me to provide a similar reception for him that next appeared. it was as i expected. scarcely was my eye again fixed upon the entrance, when a tawny and terrific visage was stretched fearfully forth. it was the signal of his fate. his glances, cast wildly and swiftly round, lighted upon me, and on the fatal instrument which was pointed at his forehead. his muscles were at once exerted to withdraw his head, and to vociferate a warning to his fellow; but his movement was too slow. the ball entered above his ear. he tumbled headlong to the ground, bereaved of sensation though not of life, and had power only to struggle and mutter. chapter xix. think not that i relate these things with exultation or tranquillity. all my education and the habits of my life tended to unfit me for a contest and a scene like this. but i was not governed by the soul which usually regulates my conduct. i had imbibed, from the unparalleled events which had lately happened, a spirit vengeful, unrelenting, and ferocious. there was now an interval for flight. throwing my weapons away, i might gain the thicket in a moment. i had no ammunition, nor would time be afforded me to reload my piece. my antagonist would render my poniard and my speed of no use to me. should he miss me as i fled, the girl would remain to expiate, by her agonies and death, the fate of his companions. these thoughts passed through my mind in a shorter time than is demanded to express them. they yielded to an expedient suggested by the sight of the gun that had been raised to destroy the girl, and which now lay upon the ground. i am not large of bone, but am not deficient in agility and strength. all that remained to me of these qualities was now exerted; and, dropping my own piece, i leaped upon the bank, and flew to seize my prize. it was not till i snatched it from the ground, that the propriety of regaining my former post rushed upon my apprehension. he that was still posted in the hovel would mark me through the seams of the wall, and render my destruction sure. i once more ran towards the bank, with the intention to throw myself below it. all this was performed in an instant; but my vigilant foe was aware of his advantage, and fired through an opening between the logs. the bullet grazed my cheek, and produced a benumbing sensation that made me instantly fall to the earth. though bereaved of strength, and fraught with the belief that i had received a mortal wound, my caution was not remitted. i loosened not my grasp of the gun, and the posture into which i accidentally fell enabled me to keep an eye upon the house and a hand upon the trigger. perceiving my condition, the savage rushed from his covert in order to complete his work; but at three steps from the threshold he received my bullet in his breast. the uplifted tomahawk fell from his hand, and, uttering a loud shriek, he fell upon the body of his companion. his cries struck upon my heart, and i wished that his better fortune had cast this evil from him upon me. thus i have told thee a bloody and disastrous tale. when thou reflectest on the mildness of my habits, my antipathy to scenes of violence and bloodshed, my unacquaintance with the use of fire-arms and the motives of a soldier, thou wilt scarcely allow credit to my story. that one rushing into these dangers, unfurnished with stratagems or weapons, disheartened and enfeebled by hardships and pain, should subdue four antagonists trained from their infancy to the artifices and exertions of indian warfare, will seem the vision of fancy, rather than the lesson of truth. i lifted my head from the ground and pondered upon this scene. the magnitude of this exploit made me question its reality. by attending to my own sensations, i discovered that i had received no wound, or, at least, none of which there was reason to complain. the blood flowed plentifully from my cheek, but the injury was superficial. it was otherwise with my antagonists. the last that had fallen now ceased to groan. their huge limbs, inured to combat and _war-worn_, were useless to their own defence, and to the injury of others. the destruction that i witnessed was vast. three beings, full of energy and heroism, endowed with minds strenuous and lofty, poured out their lives before me. i was the instrument of their destruction. this scene of carnage and blood was laid by me. to this havoc and horror was i led by such rapid footsteps! my anguish was mingled with astonishment. in spite of the force and uniformity with which my senses were impressed by external objects, the transition i had undergone was so wild and inexplicable; all that i had performed, all that i had witnessed since my egress from the pit, were so contradictory to precedent events, that i still clung to the belief that my thoughts were confused by delirium. from these reveries i was at length recalled by the groans of the girl, who lay near me on the ground. i went to her and endeavoured to console her. i found that, while lying in the bed, she had received a blow upon the side, which was still productive of acute pain. she was unable to rise or to walk, and it was plain that one or more of her ribs had been fractured by the blow. i knew not what means to devise for our mutual relief. it was possible that the nearest dwelling was many leagues distant. i knew not in what direction to go in order to find it, and my strength would not suffice to carry my wounded companion thither in my arms. there was no expedient but to remain in this field of blood till the morning. i had scarcely formed this resolution before the report of a musket was heard at a small distance. at the same moment, i distinctly heard the whistling of a bullet near me. i now remembered that, of the five indians whom i saw in the cavern, i was acquainted with the destiny only of four. the fifth might be still alive, and fortune might reserve for him the task of avenging his companions. his steps might now be tending hither in search of them. the musket belonging to him who was shot upon the threshold was still charged. it was discreet to make all the provision in my power against danger. i possessed myself of this gun, and, seating myself on the ground, looked carefully on all sides, to descry the approach of the enemy. i listened with breathless eagerness. presently voices were heard. they ascended from that part of the thicket from which my view was intercepted by the cottage. these voices had something in them that bespoke them to belong to friends and countrymen. as yet i was unable to distinguish words. presently my eye was attracted to one quarter, by a sound as of feet trampling down bushes. several heads were seen moving in succession, and at length the whole person was conspicuous. one after another leaped over a kind of mound which bordered the field, and made towards the spot where i sat. this band was composed of ten or twelve persons, with each a gun upon his shoulder. their guise, the moment it was perceived, dissipated all my apprehensions. they came within the distance of a few paces before they discovered me. one stopped, and, bespeaking the attention of his followers, called to know who was there. i answered that i was a friend, who entreated their assistance. i shall not paint their astonishment when, on coming nearer, they beheld me surrounded by the arms and dead bodies of my enemies. i sat upon the ground, supporting my head with my left hand, and resting on my knee the stock of a heavy musket. my countenance was wan and haggard, my neck and bosom were dyed in blood, and my limbs, almost stripped by the brambles of their slender covering, were lacerated by a thousand wounds. three savages, two of whom were steeped in gore, lay at a small distance, with the traces of recent life on their visages. hard by was the girl, venting her anguish in the deepest groans, and entreating relief from the new-comers. one of the company, on approaching the girl, betrayed the utmost perturbation. "good god!" he cried, "is this a dream? can it be you? speak!" "ah, my father! my father!" answered she, "it is i indeed." the company, attracted by this dialogue, crowded round the girl, whom her father, clasping in his arms, lifted from the ground, and pressed, in a transport of joy, to his breast. this delight was succeeded by solicitude respecting her condition. she could only answer his inquiries by complaining that her side was bruised to pieces. "how came you here?"--"who hurt you?"--"where did the indians carry you?"--were questions to which she could make no reply but by sobs and plaints. my own calamities were forgotten in contemplating the fondness and compassion of the man for his child. i derived new joy from reflecting that i had not abandoned her, and that she owed her preservation to my efforts. the inquiries which the girl was unable to answer were now put to me. every one interrogated me who i was, whence i had come, and what had given rise to this bloody contest. i was not willing to expatiate on my story. the spirit which had hitherto sustained me began now to subside. my strength ebbed away with my blood. tremors, lassitude, and deadly cold, invaded me, and i fainted on the ground. such is the capricious constitution of the human mind. while dangers were at hand, while my life was to be preserved only by zeal, and vigilance, and courage, i was not wanting to myself. had my perils continued, or even multiplied, no doubt my energies would have kept equal pace with them; but the moment that i was encompassed by protectors, and placed in security, i grew powerless and faint. my weakness was proportioned to the duration and intensity of my previous efforts, and the swoon into which i now sunk was, no doubt, mistaken by the spectators for death. on recovering from this swoon, my sensations were not unlike those which i had experienced on awaking in the pit. for a moment a mistiness involved every object, and i was able to distinguish nothing. my sight, by rapid degrees, was restored, my painful dizziness was banished, and i surveyed the scene before me with anxiety and wonder. i found myself stretched upon the ground. i perceived the cottage and the neighbouring thicket, illuminated by a declining moon. my head rested upon something, which, on turning to examine, i found to be one of the slain indians. the other two remained upon the earth, at a small distance, and in the attitudes in which they had fallen. their arms, the wounded girl, and the troop who were near me when i fainted, were gone. my head had reposed upon the breast of him whom i had shot in this part of his body. the blood had ceased to ooze from the wound, but my dishevelled locks were matted and steeped in that gore which had overflowed and choked up the orifice. i started from this detestable pillow, and regained my feet. i did not suddenly recall what had lately passed, or comprehend the nature of my situation. at length, however, late events were recollected. that i should be abandoned in this forlorn state by these men seemed to argue a degree of cowardice or cruelty of which i should have thought them incapable. presently, however, i reflected that appearances might have easily misled them into a belief of my death. on this supposition, to have carried me away, or to have stayed beside me, would be useless. other enemies might be abroad; or their families, now that their fears were somewhat tranquillized, might require their presence and protection. i went into the cottage. the fire still burned, and afforded me a genial warmth. i sat before it, and began to ruminate on the state to which i was reduced, and on the measures i should next pursue. daylight could not be very distant. should i remain in this hovel till the morning, or immediately resume my journey? i was feeble, indeed; but, by remaining here, should i not increase my feebleness? the sooner i should gain some human habitation the better; whereas watchfulness and hunger would render me, at each minute, less able to proceed than on the former. this spot might be visited on the next day; but this was involved in uncertainty. the visitants, should any come, would come merely to examine and bury the dead, and bring with them neither the clothing nor the food which my necessities demanded. the road was sufficiently discernible, and would, unavoidably, conduct me to some dwelling. i determined, therefore, to set out without delay. even in this state i was not unmindful that my safety might require the precaution of being armed. besides, the fusil which had been given me by sarsefield, and which i had so unexpectedly recovered, had lost none of its value in my eyes. i hoped that it had escaped the search of the troop who had been here, and still lay below the bank in the spot where i had dropped it. in this hope i was not deceived. it was found. i possessed myself of the powder and shot belonging to one of the savages, and loaded it. thus equipped for defence, i regained the road, and proceeded, with alacrity, on my way. for the wound in my cheek, nature had provided a styptic, but the soreness was extreme, and i thought of no remedy but water, with which i might wash away the blood. my thirst likewise incommoded me, and i looked with eagerness for the traces of a spring. in a soil like that of the wilderness around me, nothing was less to be expected than to light upon water. in this respect, however, my destiny was propitious. i quickly perceived water in the ruts. it trickled hither from the thicket on one side, and, pursuing it among the bushes, i reached the bubbling source. though scanty and brackish, it afforded me unspeakable refreshment. thou wilt think, perhaps, that my perils were now at an end; that the blood i had already shed was sufficient for my safety. i fervently hoped that no new exigence would occur compelling me to use the arms that i bore in my own defence. i formed a sort of resolution to shun the contest with a new enemy, almost at the expense of my own life. i was satiated and gorged with slaughter, and thought upon a new act of destruction with abhorrence and loathing. but, though i dreaded to encounter a new enemy, i was sensible that an enemy might possibly be at hand. i had moved forward with caution, and my sight and hearing were attentive to the slightest tokens. other troops, besides that which i encountered, might be hovering near, and of that troop i remembered that one at least had survived. the gratification which the spring had afforded me was so great, that i was in no haste to depart. i lay upon a rock, which chanced to be shaded by a tree behind me. from this post i could overlook the road to some distance, and, at the same time, be shaded from the observation of others. my eye was now caught by movements which appeared like those of a beast. in different circumstances, i should have instantly supposed it to be a wolf, or panther, or bear. now my suspicions were alive on a different account, and my startled fancy figured to itself nothing but a human adversary. a thicket was on either side of the road. that opposite to my station was discontinued at a small distance by the cultivated field. the road continued along this field, bounded by the thicket on the one side and the open space on the other. to this space the being who was now described was cautiously approaching. he moved upon all fours, and presently came near enough to be distinguished. his disfigured limbs, pendants from his ears and nose, and his shorn locks, were indubitable indications of a savage, occasionally he reared himself above the bushes, and scanned, with suspicious vigilance, the cottage and the space surrounding it. then he stooped, and crept along as before. i was at no loss to interpret these appearances. this was my surviving enemy. he was unacquainted with the fate of his associates, and was now approaching the theatre of carnage to ascertain their fate. once more was the advantage afforded me. from this spot might unerring aim be taken, and the last of this hostile troop be made to share the fate of the rest. should i fire, or suffer him to pass in safety? my abhorrence of bloodshed was not abated. but i had not foreseen this occurrence. my success hitherto had seemed to depend upon a combination of fortunate incidents, which could not be expected again to take place; but now was i invested with the same power. the mark was near; nothing obstructed or delayed; i incurred no danger, and the event was certain. why should he be suffered to live? he came hither to murder and despoil my friends; this work he has, no doubt, performed. nay, has he not borne his part in the destruction of my uncle and my sisters? he will live only to pursue the same sanguinary trade; to drink the blood and exult in the laments of his unhappy foes and of my own brethren. fate has reserved him for a bloody and violent death. for how long a time soever it may be deferred, it is thus that his career will inevitably terminate. should he be spared, he will still roam in the wilderness, and i may again be fated to encounter him. then our mutual situation may be widely different, and the advantage i now possess may be his. while hastily revolving these thoughts, i was thoroughly aware that one event might take place which would render all deliberation useless. should he spy me where i lay, my fluctuations must end. my safety would indispensably require me to shoot. this persuasion made me keep a steadfast eye upon his motions, and be prepared to anticipate his assault. it now most seasonably occurred to me that one essential duty remained to be performed. one operation, without which fire-arms are useless, had been unaccountably omitted. my piece was uncocked. i did not reflect that in moving the spring a sound would necessarily be produced sufficient to alarm him. but i knew that the chances of escaping his notice, should i be perfectly mute and still, were extremely slender, and that, in such a case, his movements would be quicker than the light: it behooved me, therefore, to repair my omission. the sound struck him with alarm. he turned and darted at me an inquiring glance. i saw that forbearance was no longer in my power; but my heart sunk while i complied with what may surely be deemed an indispensable necessity. this faltering, perhaps, it was that made me swerve somewhat from the fatal line. he was disabled by the wound, but not killed. he lost all power of resistance, and was, therefore, no longer to be dreaded. he rolled upon the ground, uttering doleful shrieks, and throwing his limbs into those contortions which bespeak the keenest agonies to which ill-fated man is subject. horror, and compassion, and remorse, were mingled into one sentiment, and took possession of my heart. to shut out this spectacle, i withdrew from the spot, but i stopped before i had moved beyond hearing of his cries. the impulse that drove me from the scene was pusillanimous and cowardly. the past, however deplorable, could not be recalled; but could not i afford some relief to this wretch? could not i at least bring his pangs to a speedy close? thus he might continue, writhing and calling upon death, for hours. why should his miseries be uselessly prolonged? there was but one way to end them. to kill him outright was the dictate of compassion and of duty. i hastily returned, and once more levelled my piece at his head. it was a loathsome obligation, and was performed with unconquerable reluctance. thus to assault and to mangle the body of an enemy, already prostrate and powerless, was an act worthy of abhorrence; yet it was, in this case, prescribed by pity. my faltering hand rendered this second bullet ineffectual. one expedient, still more detestable, remained. having gone thus far, it would have been inhuman to stop short. his heart might easily be pierced by the bayonet, and his struggles would cease. this task of cruel lenity was at length finished. i dropped the weapon and threw myself on the ground, overpowered by the horrors of this scene. such are the deeds which perverse nature compels thousands of rational beings to perform and to witness! such is the spectacle, endlessly prolonged and diversified, which is exhibited in every field of battle; of which habit and example, the temptations of gain, and the illusions of honour, will make us, not reluctant or indifferent, but zealous and delighted actors and beholders! thus, by a series of events impossible to be computed or foreseen, was the destruction of a band, selected from their fellows for an arduous enterprise, distinguished by prowess and skill, and equally armed against surprise and force, completed by the hand of a boy, uninured to hostility, unprovided with arms, precipitate and timorous! i have noted men who seemed born for no end but by their achievements to belie experience, and baffle foresight, and outstrip belief. would to god that i had not deserved to be numbered among these! but what power was it that called me from the sleep of death just in time to escape the merciless knife of this enemy? had my swoon continued till he had reached the spot, he would have effectuated my death by new wounds and torn away the skin from my brows. such are the subtle threads on which hang the fate of man and of the universe! while engaged in these reflections, i perceived that the moonlight had begun to fade before that of the sun. a dusky and reddish hue spread itself over the east. cheered by this appearance, i once more resumed my feet and the road. i left the savage where he lay, but made prize of his tomahawk. i had left my own in the cavern; and this weapon added little to my burden. prompted by some freak of fancy, i stuck his musket in the ground, and left it standing upright in the middle of the road. chapter xx. i moved forward with as quick a pace as my feeble limbs would permit. i did not allow myself to meditate. the great object of my wishes was a dwelling where food and repose might be procured. i looked earnestly forward, and on each side, in search of some token of human residence; but the spots of cultivation, the _well-pole_, the _worm fence_, and the hayrick, were nowhere to be seen. i did not even meet with a wild hog or a bewildered cow. the path was narrow, and on either side was a trackless wilderness. on the right and left were the waving lines of mountainous ridges, which had no peculiarity enabling me to ascertain whether i had ever before seen them. at length i noticed that the tracks of wheels had disappeared from the path that i was treading; that it became more narrow, and exhibited fewer marks of being frequented. these appearances were discouraging. i now suspected that i had taken a wrong direction, and, instead of approaching, was receding from, the habitation of men. it was wisest, however, to proceed. the road could not but have some origin as well as end. some hours passed away in this uncertainty. the sun rose, and by noonday i seemed to be farther than ever from the end of my toils. the path was more obscure, and the wilderness more rugged. thirst more incommoded me than hunger, but relief was seasonably afforded by the brooks that flowed across the path. coming to one of these, and having slaked my thirst, i sat down upon the bank, to reflect on my situation. the circuity of the path had frequently been noticed, and i began to suspect that, though i had travelled long, i had not moved far from the spot where i had commenced my pilgrimage. turning my eyes on all sides, i noticed a sort of pool, formed by the rivulet, at a few paces distant from the road. in approaching and inspecting it, i observed the footsteps of cattle, who had retired by a path that seemed much beaten: i likewise noticed a cedar bucket, broken and old, lying on the margin. these tokens revived my drooping spirits, arid i betook myself to this new track. it was intricate, but, at length, led up a steep, the summit of which was of better soil than that of which the flats consisted. a clover-field, and several apple-trees,--sure attendants of man,--were now discovered. from this space i entered a corn-field, and at length, to my inexpressible joy, caught a glimpse of a house. this dwelling was far different from that i had lately left. it was as small and as low, but its walls consisted of boards. a window of four panes admitted the light, and a chimney of brick, well burnt and neatly arranged, peeped over the roof. as i approached, i heard the voice of children and the hum of a spinning-wheel. i cannot make thee conceive the delight which was afforded me by all these tokens. i now found myself, indeed, among beings like myself, and from whom hospitable entertainment might be confidently expected. i compassed the house, and made my appearance at the door. a good woman, busy at her wheel, with two children playing on the ground before her, were the objects that now presented themselves. the uncouthness of my garb, my wild and weatherworn appearance, my fusil and tomahawk, could not but startle them. the woman stopped her wheel, and gazed as if a spectre had started into view. i was somewhat aware of these consequences, and endeavoured to elude them by assuming an air of supplication and humility. i told her that i was a traveller, who had unfortunately lost his way and had rambled in this wild till nearly famished for want. i entreated her to give me some food; any thing, however scanty or coarse, would be acceptable. after some pause she desired me, though not without some marks of fear, to walk in. she placed before me some brown bread and milk. she eyed me while i eagerly devoured this morsel. it was, indeed, more delicious than any i had ever tasted. at length she broke silence, and expressed her astonishment and commiseration at my seemingly-forlorn state, adding that perhaps i was the man whom the men were looking after who had been there some hours before. my curiosity was roused by this intimation. in answer to my interrogations, she said that three persons had lately stopped, to inquire if her husband had not met, within the last three days, a person of whom their description seemed pretty much to suit my person and dress. he was tall, slender, wore nothing but shirt and trousers, and was wounded on the cheek. "what," i asked, "did they state the rank or condition of the person to be?" he lived in solesbury. he was supposed to have rambled in the mountains, and to have lost his way, or to have met with some mischance. it was three days since he had disappeared, but had been seen by some one, the last night, at deb's hut. what and where was deb's hut? it was a hut in the wilderness, occupied by an old indian woman, known among her neighbours by the name of old deb. some people called her queen mab. her dwelling was eight _long_ miles from this house. a thousand questions were precluded and a thousand doubts solved by this information. _queen mab_ were sounds familiar to my ears; for they originated with myself. this woman originally belonged to the tribe of delawares, or lenni-lennapee. all these districts were once comprised within the dominions of that nation. about thirty years ago, in consequence of perpetual encroachments of the english colonists, they abandoned their ancient seats and retired to the banks of the wabash and muskingum. this emigration was concerted in a general council of the tribe, and obtained the concurrence of all but one female. her birth, talents, and age, gave her much consideration and authority among her countrymen; and all her zeal and eloquence were exerted to induce them to lay aside their scheme. in this, however, she could not succeed. finding them refractory, she declared her resolution to remain behind and maintain possession of the land which her countrymen should impiously abandon. the village inhabited by this clan was built upon ground which now constitutes my uncle's barnyard and orchard. on the departure of her countrymen, this female burnt the empty wigwams and retired into the fastnesses of norwalk. she selected a spot suitable for an indian dwelling and a small plantation of maize, and in which she was seldom liable to interruption and intrusion. her only companions were three dogs, of the indian or wolf species. these animals differed in nothing from their kinsmen of the forest but in their attachment and obedience to their mistress. she governed them with absolute sway. they were her servants and protectors, and attended her person or guarded her threshold, agreeably to her directions. she fed them with corn, and they supplied her and themselves with meat, by hunting squirrels, raccoons, and rabbits. to the rest of mankind they were aliens or enemies. they never left the desert but in company with their mistress, and, when she entered a farm-house, waited her return at a distance. they would suffer none to approach them, but attacked no one who did not imprudently crave their acquaintance, or who kept at a respectful distance from their wigwam. that sacred asylum they would not suffer to be violated, and no stranger could enter it but at the imminent hazard of his life, unless accompanied and protected by their dame. the chief employment of this woman, when at home, besides plucking the weeds from among her corn, bruising the grain between two stones, and setting her snares for rabbits and opossums, was to talk. though in solitude, her tongue was never at rest but when she was asleep; but her conversation was merely addressed to her dogs. her voice was sharp and shrill, and her gesticulations were vehement and grotesque. a hearer would naturally imagine that she was scolding; but, in truth, she was merely giving them directions. having no other object of contemplation or subject of discourse, she always found, in their postures and looks, occasion for praise, or blame, or command. the readiness with which they understood, and the docility with which they obeyed, her movements and words, were truly wonderful. if a stranger chanced to wander near her hut and overhear her jargon, incessant as it was, and shrill, he might speculate in vain on the reason of these sounds. if he waited in expectation of hearing some reply, he waited in vain. the strain, always voluble and sharp, was never intermitted for a moment, and would continue for hours at a time. she seldom left the hut but to visit the neighbouring inhabitants and demand from them food and clothing, or whatever her necessities required. these were exacted as her due; to have her wants supplied was her prerogative, and to withhold what she claimed was rebellion. she conceived that by remaining behind her countrymen she succeeded to the government and retained the possession of all this region. the english were aliens and sojourners, who occupied the land merely by her connivance and permission, and whom she allowed to remain on no terms but those of supplying her wants. being a woman aged and harmless, her demands being limited to that of which she really stood in need, and which her own industry could not procure, her pretensions were a subject of mirth and good-humour, and her injunctions obeyed with seeming deference and gravity. to me she early became an object of curiosity and speculation. i delighted to observe her habits and humour her prejudices. she frequently came to my uncle's house, and i sometimes visited her: insensibly she seemed to contract an affection for me, and regarded me with more complacency and condescension than any other received. she always disdained to speak english, and custom had rendered her intelligible to most in her native language, with regard to a few simple questions. i had taken some pains to study her jargon, and could make out to discourse with her on the few ideas which she possessed. this circumstance, likewise, wonderfully prepossessed her in my favour. the name by which she was formerly known was deb; but her pretensions to royalty, the wildness of her aspect and garb, her shrivelled and diminutive form, a constitution that seemed to defy the ravages of time and the influence of the elements, her age, (which some did not scruple to affirm exceeded a hundred years,) her romantic solitude and mountainous haunts, suggested to my fancy the appellation of _queen mab_. there appeared to me some rude analogy between this personage and her whom the poets of old time have delighted to celebrate: thou perhaps wilt discover nothing but incongruities between them; but, be that as it may, old deb and queen mab soon came into indiscriminate and general use. she dwelt in norwalk upwards of twenty years. she was not forgotten by her countrymen, and generally received from her brothers and sons an autumnal visit; but no solicitations or entreaties could prevail on her to return with them. two years ago, some suspicion or disgust induced her to forsake her ancient habitation and to seek a hew one. happily she found a more convenient habitation twenty miles to the westward, and in a spot abundantly sterile and rude. this dwelling was of logs, and had been erected by a scottish emigrant, who, not being rich enough to purchase land, and entertaining a passion for solitude and independence, cleared a field in the unappropriated wilderness and subsisted on its produce. after some time he disappeared. various conjectures were formed as to the cause of his absence. none of them were satisfactory; but that, which obtained most credit was, that he had been murdered by the indians, who, about the same period, paid their annual visit to the _queen_. this conjecture acquired some force by observing that the old woman shortly after took possession of his hut, his implements of tillage, and his corn-field. she was not molested in her new abode, and her life passed in the same quiet tenor as before. her periodical rambles, her regal claims, her guardian wolves, and her uncouth volubility, were equally remarkable; but her circuits were new. her distance made her visits to solebury more rare, and had prevented me from ever extending my pedestrian excursions to her present abode. these recollections were now suddenly called up by the information of my hostess. the hut where i had sought shelter and relief was, it seems, the residence of queen mab. some fortunate occurrence had called her away during my visit. had she and her dogs been at home, i should have been set upon by these ferocious sentinels, and, before their dame could have interfered, have been, together with my helpless companion, mangled or killed. these animals never barked: i should have entered unaware of my danger, and my fate could scarcely have been averted by my fusil. her absence at this unseasonable hour was mysterious. it was now the time of year when her countrymen were accustomed to renew their visit. was there a league between her and the plunderers whom i had encountered? but who were they by whom my footsteps were so industriously traced? those whom i had seen at deb's hut were strangers to me, but the wound upon my face was known only to them. to this circumstance was now added my place of residence and name. i supposed them impressed with the belief that i was dead; but this mistake must have speedily been rectified. revisiting the spot, finding me gone, and obtaining some intelligence of my former condition, they had instituted a search after me. but what tidings were these? i was supposed to have been bewildered in the mountains, and three days were said to have passed since my disappearance. twelve hours had scarcely elapsed since i emerged from the cavern. had two days and a half been consumed in my subterranean prison? these reflections were quickly supplanted by others. i now gained a sufficient acquaintance with the region that was spread around me. i was in the midst of a vale included between ridges that gradually approached each other, and, when joined, were broken up into hollows and steeps, and, spreading themselves over a circular space, assumed the appellation of norwalk. this vale gradually widened as it tended to the westward, and was, in this place, ten or twelve miles in breadth. my devious footsteps had brought me to the foot of the southern barrier. the outer basis of this was laved by the river; but, as it tended eastward, the mountain and river receded from each other, and one of the cultivable districts lying between them was solesbury, my natal _township_. hither it was now my duty to return with the utmost expedition. there were two ways before me. one lay along the interior base of the hill, over a sterile and trackless space, and exposed to the encounter of savages, some of whom might possibly be lurking here. the other was the well-frequented road on the outside and along the river, and which was to be gained by passing over this hill. the practicability of the passage was to be ascertained by inquiries made to my hostess. she pointed out a path that led to the rocky summit and down to the river's brink. the path was not easy to be kept in view or to be trodden, but it was undoubtedly to be preferred to any other. a route somewhat circuitous would terminate in the river-road. thenceforward the way to solesbury was level and direct; but the whole space which i had to traverse was not less than thirty miles. in six hours it would be night, and to perform the journey in that time would demand the agile boundings of a leopard and the indefatigable sinews of an elk. my frame was in a miserable plight. my strength had been assailed by anguish, and fear, and watchfulness, by toil, and abstinence, and wounds. still, however, some remnant was left; would it not enable me to reach my home by nightfall? i had delighted, from my childhood, in feats of agility and perseverance. in roving through the maze of thickets and precipices, i had put my energies, both moral and physical, frequently to the test. greater achievements than this had been performed, and i disdained to be outdone in perspicacity by the lynx, in his sure-footed instinct by the roe, or in patience under hardship, and contention with fatigue, by the mohawk. i have ever aspired to transcend the rest of animals in all that is common to the rational and brute, as well as in all by which they are distinguished from each other. chapter xxi. i likewise burned with impatience to know the condition of my family, to dissipate at once their tormenting doubts and my own with regard to our mutual safety. the evil that i feared had befallen them was too enormous to allow me to repose in suspense, and my restlessness and ominous forebodings would be more intolerable than any hardship or toils to which i could possibly be subjected during this journey. i was much refreshed and invigorated by the food that i had taken, and by the rest of an hour. with this stock of recruited force i determined to scale the hill. after receiving minute directions, and, returning many thanks for my hospitable entertainment, i set out. the path was indeed intricate, and deliberate attention was obliged to be exerted in order to preserve it. hence my progress was slower than i wished. the first impulse was to fix my eye upon the summit, and to leap from crag to crag till i reached it; but this my experience had taught me was impracticable. it was only by winding through gullies, and coasting precipices and bestriding chasms, that i could hope finally to gain the top; and i was assured that by one way only was it possible to accomplish even this. an hour was spent in struggling with impediments, and i seemed to have gained no way. hence a doubt was suggested whether i had not missed the true road. in this doubt i was confirmed by the difficulties which now grew up before me. the brooks, the angles, and the hollows, which my hostess had described, were not to be seen. instead of these, deeper dells, more headlong torrents, and wider-gaping rifts, were incessantly encountered. to return was as hopeless as to proceed. i consoled myself with thinking that the survey which my informant had made of the hill-side might prove inaccurate, and that, in spite of her predictions, the heights might be reached by other means than by those pointed out by her. i will not enumerate my toilsome expedients, my frequent disappointments, and my desperate exertions. suffice it to say that i gained the upper space not till the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. my satisfaction at accomplishing thus much was not small, and i hied, with renovated spirits, to the opposite brow. this proved to be a steep that could not be descended. the river flowed at its foot. the opposite bank was five hundred yards distant, and was equally towering and steep as that on which i stood. appearances were adapted to persuade you that these rocks had formerly joined, but by some mighty effort of nature had been severed, that the stream might find way through the chasm. the channel, however, was encumbered with asperities, over which the river fretted and foamed with thundering impetuosity. i pondered for a while on these stupendous scenes. they ravished my attention from considerations that related to myself; but this interval was snort, and i began to measure the descent, in order to ascertain the practicability of treading it. my survey terminated in bitter disappointment. i turned my eye successively eastward and westward. solesbury lay in the former direction, and thither i desired to go. i kept along the verge in this direction till i reached an impassable rift. beyond this i saw that the steep grew lower; but it was impossible to proceed farther. higher up the descent might be practicable, and, though more distant from solesbury, it was better to reach the road even at that distance than never to reach it. changing my course, therefore, i explored the spaces above. the night was rapidly advancing; the gray clouds gathered in the southeast, and a chilling blast, the usual attendant of a night in october, began to whistle among the pigmy cedars that scantily grew upon these heights. my progress would quickly be arrested by darkness, and it behooved me to provide some place of shelter and repose. no recess better than a hollow in the rock presented itself to my anxious scrutiny. meanwhile, i would not dismiss the hope of reaching the road, which i saw some hundred feet below, winding along the edge of the river, before daylight should utterly fail. speedily these hopes derived new vigour from meeting a ledge that irregularly declined from the brow of the hill. it was wide enough to allow of cautious footing. on a similar stratum, or ledge, projecting still farther from the body of the hill, and close to the surface of the river, was the road. this stratum ascended from the level of the stream, while that on which i trod rapidly descended. i hoped that they would speedily be blended, or, at least, approach so near as to allow me to leap from one to the other without enormous hazard. this fond expectation was frustrated. presently i perceived that the ledge below began to descend, while that above began to tend upward and was quickly terminated by the uppermost surface of the cliff. here it was needful to pause. i looked over the brink, and considered whether i might not leap from my present station without endangering my limbs. the road into which i should fall was a rocky pavement far from being smooth. the descent could not be less than forty or fifty feet. such an attempt was, to the last degree, hazardous; but was it not better to risk my life by leaping from this eminence than to remain and perish on the top of this inhospitable mountain? the toils which i had endured in reaching this height appeared, to my panic-struck fancy, less easy to be borne again than death. i know not but that i should have finally resolved to leap, had not different views been suggested by observing that the outer edge of the road was, in like manner, the brow of a steep which terminated in the river. the surface of the road was twelve or fifteen feet above the level of the stream, which, in this spot, was still and smooth. hence i inferred that the water was not of inconsiderable depth. to fall upon rocky points was, indeed, dangerous, but to plunge into water of sufficient depth, even from a height greater than that at which i now stood, especially to one to whom habit had rendered water almost as congenial an element as air, was scarcely attended with inconvenience. this expedient was easy and safe. twenty yards from this spot, the channel was shallow, and to gain the road from the stream was no difficult exploit. some disadvantages, however, attended this scheme. the water was smooth; but this might arise from some other cause than its depth. my gun, likewise, must be left behind me; and that was a loss to which i felt invincible repugnance. to let it fall upon the road would put it in my power to retrieve the possession, but it was likely to be irreparably injured by the fall. while musing upon this expedient, and weighing injuries with benefits, the night closed upon me. i now considered that, should i emerge in safety from the stream, i should have many miles to travel before i could reach a house. my clothes meanwhile would be loaded with wet. i should be heart-pierced by the icy blast that now blew, and my wounds and bruises would be chafed into insupportable pain. i reasoned likewise on the folly of impatience and the necessity of repose. by thus long continuance in one posture, my sinews began to stiffen, and my reluctance to make new exertions to increase. my brows were heavy, and i felt an irresistible propensity to sleep. i concluded to seek some shelter, and resign myself, my painful recollections, and my mournful presages, to sweet forgetfulness. for this end, i once more ascended to the surface of the cliff. i dragged my weary feet forward, till i found somewhat that promised me the shelter that i sought. a cluster of cedars appeared, whose branches overarched a space that might be called a bower. it was a slight cavity, whose flooring was composed of loose stones and a few faded leaves blown from a distance and finding a temporary lodgment here. on one side was a rock, forming a wall rugged and projecting above. at the bottom of the rock was a rift, somewhat resembling a coffin in shape, and not much larger in dimensions. this rift terminated, on the opposite side of the rock, in an opening that was too small for the body of a man to pass. the distance between each entrance was twice the length of a man. this bower was open to the southeast, whence the gale now blew. it therefore imperfectly afforded the shelter of which i stood in need; but it was the best that the place and the time afforded. to stop the smaller entrance of the cavity with a stone, and to heap before the other branches lopped from the trees with my hatchet, might somewhat contribute to my comfort. this was done, and, thrusting myself into this recess as far as i was able, i prepared for repose. it might have been reasonably suspected to be the den of rattlesnakes or panthers; but my late contention with superior dangers and more formidable enemies made me reckless of these. but another inconvenience remained. in spite of my precautions, my motionless posture and slender covering exposed me so much to the cold that i could not sleep. the air appeared to have suddenly assumed the temperature of midwinter. in a short time, my extremities were benumbed, and my limbs shivered and ached as if i had been seized by an ague. my bed likewise was dank and uneven, and the posture i was obliged to assume, unnatural and painful. it was evident that my purpose could not be answered by remaining here. i therefore crept forth, and began to reflect upon the possibility of continuing my journey. motion was the only thing that could keep me from freezing, and my frame was in that state which allowed me to take no repose in the absence of warmth, since warmth was indispensable. it now occurred to me to ask whether it were not possible to kindle a fire. sticks and leaves were at hand. my hatchet and a pebble would enable me to extract a spark. from this, by suitable care and perseverance, i might finally procure sufficient fire to give me comfort and ease, and even enable me to sleep. this boon was delicious, and i felt as if i were unable to support a longer deprivation of it. i proceeded to execute this scheme. i took the driest leaves, and endeavoured to use them as tinder; but the driest leaves were moistened by the dews. they were only to be found in the hollows, in some of which were pools of water and others were dank. i was not speedily discouraged; but my repeated attempts failed, and i was finally compelled to relinquish this expedient. all that now remained was to wander forth and keep myself in motion till the morning. the night was likely to prove tempestuous and long. the gale seemed freighted with ice, and acted upon my body like the points of a thousand needles. there was no remedy, and i mustered my patience to endure it. i returned again to the brow of the hill. i ranged along it till i reached a place where the descent was perpendicular, and, in consequence of affording no sustenance to trees or bushes, was nearly smooth and bare. there was no road to be seen; and this circumstance, added to the sounds which the rippling current produced, afforded me some knowledge of my situation. the ledge along which the road was conducted disappeared near this spot. the opposite sides of the chasm through which flowed the river approached nearer to each other, in the form of jutting promontories. i now stood upon the verge of that on the northern side. the water flowed at the foot, but, for the space of ten or twelve feet from the rock, was so shallow as to permit the traveller and his horse to wade through it, and thus to regain the road which the receding precipice had allowed to be continued on the farther side. i knew the nature and dimensions of this ford. i knew that, at a few yards from the rock, the channel was of great depth. to leap into it, in this place, was a less dangerous exploit than at the spot where i had formerly been tempted to leap. there i was unacquainted with the depth, but here i knew it to be considerable. still, there was some ground of hesitation and fear. my present station was loftier, and how deeply i might sink into this gulf, how far the fall and the concussion would bereave me of my presence of mind, i could not determine. this hesitation vanished, and, placing my tomahawk and fusil upon the ground, i prepared to leap. this purpose was suspended, in the moment of its execution, by a faint sound, heard from the quarter whence i had come. it was the warning of men, but had nothing in common with those which i had been accustomed to hear. it was not the howling of a wolf or the yelling of a panther. these had often been overheard by night during my last year's excursion to the lakes. my fears whispered that this was the vociferation of a savage. i was unacquainted with the number of the enemies who had adventured into this district. whether those whom i had encountered at _deb's hut_ were of that band whom i had met with in the cavern, was merely a topic of conjecture. there might be a half-score of troops, equally numerous, spread over the wilderness, and the signal i had just heard might betoken the approach of one of these. yet by what means they should gain this nook, and what prey they expected to discover, were not easily conceived. the sounds, somewhat diversified, nearer and rising from different quarters, were again heard. my doubts and apprehensions were increased. what expedient to adopt for my own safety was a subject of rapid meditation:--whether to remain stretched upon the ground or to rise and go forward. was it likely the enemy would coast along the edge of the steep? would they ramble hither to look upon the ample scene which spread on all sides around the base of this rocky pinnacle? in that case, how should i conduct myself? my arms were ready for use. could i not elude the necessity of shedding more blood? could i not anticipate their assault by casting myself without delay into the stream? the sense of danger demanded more attention to be paid to external objects than to the motives by which my future conduct should be influenced. my post was on a circular prefecture, in some degree detached from the body of the hill, the brow of which continued in a straight line, uninterrupted by this projecture, which was somewhat higher than the continued summit of the ridge. this line ran at the distance of a few paces from my post. objects moving along this line could merely be perceived to move, in the present obscurity. my scrutiny was entirely directed to this quarter. presently the treading of many feet was heard, and several figures were discovered, following each other in that straight and regular succession which is peculiar to the indians. they kept along the brow of the hill joining the promontory. i distinctly marked seven figures in succession. my resolution was formed. should any one cast his eye hither, suspect or discover an enemy, and rush towards me, i determined to start upon my feet, fire on my foe as he advanced, throw my piece on the ground, and then leap into the river. happily, they passed unobservant and in silence. i remained in the same posture for several minutes. at length, just as my alarms began to subside, the halloos, before heard, arose, and from the same quarter as before. this convinced me that my perils were not at an end. this now appeared to be merely the vanguard, and would speedily be followed by others, against whom the same caution was necessary to be taken. my eye, anxiously bent the only way by which any one could approach, now discerned a figure, which was indubitably that of a man armed. none other appeared in company; but doubtless others were near. he approached, stood still, and appeared to gaze steadfastly at the spot where i lay. the optics of a _lenni-lennapee_ i knew to be far keener than my own. a log or a couched fawn would never be mistaken for a man, nor a man for a couched fawn or a log. not only a human being would be instantly detected, but a decision be unerringly made whether it wrere friend or foe. that my prostrate body was the object on which the attention of this vigilant and steadfast gazer was fixed could not be doubted. yet, since he continued an inactive gazer, there was ground for a possibility to stand upon that i was not recognised. my fate therefore was still in suspense. this interval was momentary. i marked a movement, which my fears instantly interpreted to be that of levelling a gun at my head. this action was sufficiently conformable to my prognostics. supposing me to be detected, there was no need for him to change his post. aim might be too fatally taken, and his prey be secured, from the distance at which he now stood. these images glanced upon my thought, and put an end to my suspense. a single effort placed me on my feet. i fired with a precipitation that precluded the certainty of hitting my mark, dropped my piece upon the ground, and leaped from this tremendous height into the river. i reached the surface, and sunk in a moment to the bottom. plunging endlong into the water, the impetus created by my fall from such a height would be slowly resisted by this denser element. had the depth been less, its resistance would not perhaps have hindered me from being mortally injured against the rocky bottom. had the depth been greater, time enough would not have been allowed me to regain the surface. had i fallen on my side, i should have been bereft of life or sensibility by the shock which my frame would have received. as it was, my fate was suspended on a thread. to have lost my presence of mind, to have forborne to counteract my sinking, for an instant, after i had reached the water, would have made all exertions to regain the air fruitless. to so fortunate a concurrence of events was thy friend indebted for his safety! yet i only emerged from the gulf to encounter new perils. scarcely had i raised my head above the surface, and inhaled the vital breath, when twenty shots were aimed at me from the precipice above. a shower of bullets fell upon the water. some of them did not fall farther than two inches from my head. i had not been aware of this new danger, and, now that it assailed me, continued gasping the air and floundering at random. the means of eluding it did not readily occur. my case seemed desperate, and all caution was dismissed. this state of discomfiting surprise quickly disappeared. i made myself acquainted, at a glance, with the position of surrounding objects. i conceived that the opposite bank of the river would afford me most security, and thither i tended with all the expedition in my power. meanwhile, my safety depended on eluding the bullets that continued incessantly to strike the water at an arm's-length from my body. for this end i plunged beneath the surface, and only rose to inhale fresh air. presently the firing ceased, the flashes that lately illuminated the bank disappeared, and a certain bustle and murmur of confused voices gave place to solitude and silence. chapter xxii. i reached without difficulty the opposite bank, but the steep was inaccessible. i swam along the edge in hopes of meeting with some projection or recess where i might, at least, rest my weary limbs, and, if it were necessary to recross the river, to lay in a stock of recruited spirits and strength for that purpose. i trusted that the water would speedily become shoal, or that the steep would afford rest to my feet. in both these hopes i was disappointed. there is no one to whom i would yield the superiority in swimming; but my strength, like that of other human beings, had its limits. my previous fatigues had been enormous, and my clothes, heavy with moisture, greatly encumbered and retarded my movements. i had proposed to free myself from this imprisonment; but i foresaw the inconveniences of wandering over this scene in absolute nakedness, and was willing therefore, at whatever hazard, to retain them. i continued to struggle with the current and to search for the means of scaling the steeps. my search was fruitless, and i began to meditate the recrossing of the river. surely my fate has never been paralleled! where was this series of hardships and perils to end? no sooner was one calamity eluded, than i was beset by another. i had emerged from abhorred darkness in the heart of the earth, only to endure the extremities of famine and encounter the fangs of a wild beast. from these i was delivered only to be thrown into the midst of savages, to wage an endless and hopeless war with adepts in killing, with appetites that longed to feast upon my bowels and to quaff my heart's blood. from these likewise was i rescued, but merely to perish in the gulfs of the river, to welter on unvisited shores, or to be washed far away from curiosity or pity. formerly water was not only my field of sport but my sofa and my bed. i could float for hours on its surface, enjoying its delicious cool, almost without the expense of the slightest motion. it was an element as fitted for repose as for exercise; but now the buoyant spirit seemed to have flown. my muscles were shrunk, the air and water were equally congealed, and my most vehement exertions were requisite to sustain me on the surface. at first i had moved along with my wonted celerity and ease, but quickly my forces were exhausted. my pantings and efforts were augmented, and i saw that to cross the river again was impracticable. i must continue, therefore, to search out some accessible spot in the bank along which i was swimming. each moment diminished my stock of strength, and it behooved me to make good my footing before another minute should escape. i continued to swim, to survey the bank, and to make ineffectual attempts to grasp the rock. the shrubs which grew upon it would not uphold me, and the fragments which, for a moment, inspired me with hope, crumbled away as soon as they were touched. at length i noticed a pine which was rooted in a crevice near the water. the trunk, or any part of the root, was beyond my reach; but i trusted that i could catch hold of the branch which hung lowest, and that, when caught, it would assist me in gaining the trunk, and thus deliver me from the death which could not be otherwise averted. the attempt was arduous. had it been made when i first reached the bank, no difficulty had attended it; but now to throw myself some feet above the surface could scarcely be expected from one whose utmost efforts seemed to be demanded to keep him from sinking. yet this exploit, arduous as it was, was attempted and accomplished. happily the twigs were strong enough to sustain my weight till i caught at other branches and finally placed myself upon the trunk. this danger was now past; but i admitted the conviction that others, no less formidable, remained to be encountered, and that my ultimate destiny was death. i looked upward. new efforts might enable me to gain the summit of this steep, but perhaps i should thus be placed merely in the situation from which i had just been delivered. it was of little moment whether the scene of my imprisonment was a dungeon not to be broken, or a summit from which descent was impossible. the river, indeed, severed me from a road which was level and safe, but my recent dangers were remembered only to make me shudder at the thought of incurring them a second time by attempting to cross it. i blush at the recollection of this cowardice. it was little akin to the spirit which i had recently displayed. it was, indeed, an alien to my bosom, and was quickly supplanted by intrepidity and perseverance. i proceeded to mount the hill. from root to root, and from branch to branch, lay my journey. it was finished, and i sat down upon the highest brow to meditate on future trials. no road lay along this side of the river. it was rugged and sterile, and farms were sparingly dispersed over it. to reach one of these was now the object of my wishes. i had not lost the desire of reaching solesbury before morning, but my wet clothes and the coldness of the night seemed to have bereaved me of the power. i traversed this summit, keeping the river on my right hand. happily, its declinations and ascents were by no means difficult, and i was cheered, in the midst of my vexations, by observing that every mile brought me nearer to my uncle's dwelling. meanwhile i anxiously looked for some tokens of a habitation. these at length presented themselves. a wild heath, whistled over by october blasts, meagrely adorned with the dry stalks of scented shrubs and the bald heads of the sapless mullein, was succeeded by a fenced field and a corn-stack. the dwelling to which these belonged was eagerly sought. i was not surprised that all voices were still and all lights extinguished, for this was the hour of repose. having reached a piazza before the house, i paused. whether, at this drowsy time, to knock for admission, to alarm the peaceful tenants and take from them the rest which their daily toils and their rural innocence had made so sweet, or to retire to what shelter a haystack or barn could afford, was the theme of my deliberations. meanwhile, i looked up at the house. it was the model of cleanliness and comfort. it was built of wood; but the materials had undergone the plane, as well as the axe and the saw. it was painted white, and the windows not only had sashes, but these sashes were supplied, contrary to custom, with glass. in most cases the aperture where glass should be is stuffed with an old hat or a petticoat. the door had not only all its parts entire, but was embellished with mouldings and a pediment. i gathered from these tokens that this was the abode not only of rural competence and innocence, but of some beings raised by education and fortune above the intellectual mediocrity of clowns. methought i could claim consanguity with such beings. not to share their charity and kindness would be inflicting as well as receiving injury. the trouble of affording shelter, and warmth, and wholesome diet, to a wretch destitute as i was, would be eagerly sought by them. still, i was unwilling to disturb them. i bethought myself that their kitchen might be entered, and all that my necessities required be obtained without interrupting their slumber. i needed nothing but the warmth which their kitchen-hearth would afford. stretched upon the bricks, i might dry my clothes, and perhaps enjoy some unmolested sleep, in spite of presages of ill and the horrid remembrances of what i had performed and endured. i believed that nature would afford a short respite to my cares. i went to the door of what appeared to be a kitchen. the door was wide open. this circumstance portended evil. though it be not customary to lock or to bolt, it is still less usual to have entrances unclosed. i entered with suspicious steps, and saw enough to confirm my apprehensions. several pieces of wood, half burned, lay in the midst of the floor. they appeared to have been removed hither from the chimney, doubtless with a view to set fire to the whole building. the fire had made some progress on the floor, but had been seasonably extinguished by pailfuls of water thrown upon it. the floor was still deluged with wet: the pail, not emptied of all its contents, stood upon the hearth. the earthen vessels and plates, whose proper place was the dresser, were scattered in fragments in all parts of the room. i looked around me for some one to explain this scene, but no one appeared. the last spark of fire was put out, so that, had my curiosity been idle, my purpose could not be accomplished. to retire from this scene, neither curiosity nor benevolence would permit. that some mortal injury had been intended was apparent. what greater mischief had befallen, or whether greater might not, by my interposition, be averted, could only be ascertained by penetrating farther into the house. i opened a door on one side which led to the main body of the building and entered to a bed-chamber. i stood at the entrance and knocked, but no one answered my signals. the sky was not totally clouded, so that some light pervaded the room. i saw that a bed stood in the corner, but whether occupied or not its curtains hindered me from judging. i stood in suspense a few minutes, when a motion in the bed showed me that some one was there. i knocked again, but withdrew to the outside of the door. this roused the sleeper, who, half groaning, and puffing the air through his nostrils, grumbled out, in the hoarsest voice that i ever heard, and in a tone of surly impatience, "who is there?" i hesitated for an answer; but the voice instantly continued, in the manner of one half asleep and enraged at being disturbed, "is't you, peg? damn ye, stay away, now! i tell ye, stay away, or, by god, i will cut your throat!--i will!" he continued to mutter and swear, but without coherence or distinctness. these were the accents of drunkenness, and denoted a wild and ruffian life. they were little in unison with the external appearances of the mansion, and blasted all the hopes i had formed of meeting under this roof with gentleness and hospitality. to talk with this being, to attempt to reason him into humanity and soberness, was useless. i was at a loss in what manner to address him, or whether it was proper to maintain any parley. meanwhile, my silence was supplied by the suggestions of his own distempered fancy. "ay," said he; "ye will, will ye? well, come on; let's see who's the better at the oak stick. if i part with ye before i have bared your bones!--i'll teach ye to be always dipping in my dish, ye devil's dam ye." so saying, he tumbled out of bed. at the first step, he struck his head against the bedpost, but, setting himself upright, he staggered towards the spot where i stood. some new obstacle occurred. he stumbled and fell at his length upon the floor. to encounter or expostulate with a man in this state was plainly absurd. i turned and issued forth, with an aching heart, into the court before the house. the miseries which a debauched husband or father inflicted upon all whom their evil destiny allies to him were pictured by my fancy, and wrung from me tears of anguish, these images, however, quickly yielded to reflections on my own state. no expedient now remained but to seek the barn and find a covering and a bed of straw. i had scarcely set foot within the barnyard when i heard a sound as of the crying of an infant. it appeared to issue from the barn. i approached softly and listened at the door. the cries of the babe continued, but were accompanied by the entreaties of a nurse or a mother to be quiet. these entreaties were mingled with heart-breaking sobs, and exclamations of, "ah, me, my babe! canst thou not sleep and afford thy unhappy mother some peace? thou art cold, and i have not sufficient warmth to cherish thee! what will become of us? thy deluded father cares not if we both perish." a glimpse of the true nature of the scene seemed to be imparted by these words. i now likewise recollected incidents that afforded additional light. somewhere on this bank of the river there formerly resided one by name selby. he was an aged person, who united science and taste to the simple and laborious habits of a husbandman. he had a son who resided several years in europe, but on the death of his father returned home, accompanied by a wife. he had succeeded to the occupation of the farm, but rumour had whispered many tales to the disadvantage of his morals. his wife was affirmed to be of delicate and polished manners, and much unlike her companion. it now occurred to me that this was the dwelling of the selbys, and i seemed to have gained some insight into the discord and domestic miseries by which the unhappy lady suffered. this was no time to waste my sympathy on others. i could benefit her nothing. selby had probably returned from a carousal, with all his malignant passions raised into frenzy by intoxication. he had driven his desolate wife from her bed and house, and, to shun outrage and violence, she had fled, with her helpless infant, to the barn. to appease his fury, to console her, to suggest a remedy for this distress, was not in my power. to have sought an interview would be merely to excite her terrors and alarm her delicacy, without contributing to alleviate her calamity. here, then, was no asylum for me. a place of rest must be sought at some neighbouring habitation. it was probable that one would be found at no great distance: the path that led from the spot where i stood, through a gate, into a meadow, might conduct me to the nearest dwelling; and this path i immediately resolved to explore. i was anxious to open the gate without noise, but i could not succeed. some creaking of its hinges was unavoidably produced, which i feared would be overheard by the lady and multiply her apprehensions and perplexities. this inconvenience was irremediable. i therefore closed the gate and pursued the footway before me with the utmost expedition. i had not gained the farther end of the meadow when i lighted on something which lay across the path, and which, on being closely inspected, appeared to be a human body. it was the corpse of a girl, mangled by a hatchet. her head, gory and deprived of its locks, easily explained the kind of enemies by whom she had been assailed. here was proof that this quiet and remote habitation had been visited, in their destructive progress, by the indians. the girl had been slain by them, and her scalp, according to their savage custom, had been torn away to be preserved as a trophy. the fire which had been kindled on the kitchen-floor tvas now remembered, and corroborated the inferences which were drawn from this spectacle. and yet that the mischief had been thus limited, that the besotted wretch who lay helpless on his bed and careless of impending danger, and that the mother and her infant, should escape, excited some degree of surprise. could the savages have been interrupted in their work, and obliged to leave their vengeance unfinished? their visit had been recent. many hours had not elapsed since they prowled about these grounds. had they wholly disappeared, and meant they not to return? to what new danger might i be exposed in remaining thus guideless and destitute of all defence? in consequence of these reflections, i proceeded with more caution. i looked with suspicious glances before and on either side of me. i now approached the fence which, on this side, bounded the meadow. something was discerned, or imagined, stretched close to the fence, on the ground, and filling up the pathway. my apprehensions of a lurking enemy had been previously awakened, and my fancy instantly figured to itself an armed man lying on the ground and waiting to assail the unsuspecting passenger. at first i was prompted to fly, but a second thought showed me that i had already approached near enough to be endangered. notwithstanding my pause, the form was motionless. the possibility of being misled in my conjectures was easily supposed. what i saw might be a log, or it might be another victim to savage ferocity. this track was that which my safety required me to pursue. to turn aside or go back would be merely to bewilder myself anew. urged by these motives, i went nearer, and at last was close enough to perceive that the figure was human. he lay upon his face. near his right hand was a musket, unclenched. this circumstance, his deathlike attitude, and the garb and ornaments of an indian, made me readily suspect the nature and cause of this catastrophe. here the invaders had been encountered and repulsed, and one at least of their number had been left upon the field. i was weary of contemplating these rueful objects. custom, likewise, even in so short a period, had inured me to spectacles of horror. i was grown callous and immovable. i stayed not to ponder on the scene, but, snatching the musket, which was now without an owner, and which might be indispensable to my defence, i hastened into the wood. on this side the meadow was skirted by a forest; but a beaten road led into it, and might therefore be attempted without danger. chapter xxiii. the road was intricate and long. it seemed designed to pervade the forest in every possible direction. i frequently noticed cut wood piled in heaps upon either side, and rejoiced in these tokens that the residence of man was near. at length i reached a second fence, which proved to be the boundary of a road still more frequented. i pursued this, and presently beheld before me the river and its opposite barriers. this object afforded me some knowledge of my situation. there was a ford over which travellers used to pass, and in which the road that i was now pursuing terminated. the stream was rapid and tumultuous, but in this place did not rise higher than the shoulders. on the opposite side was a highway, passable by horses and men, though not by carriages, and which led into the midst of solesbury. should i not rush into the stream, and still aim at reaching my uncle's house before morning? why should i delay? thirty hours of incessant watchfulness and toil, of enormous efforts and perils, preceded and accompanied by abstinence and wounds, were enough to annihilate the strength and courage of ordinary men. in the course of them, i had frequently believed myself to have reached the verge beyond which my force would not carry me; but experience as frequently demonstrated my error. though many miles were yet to be traversed, though my clothes were once more to be drenched and loaded with moisture, though every hour seemed to add somewhat to the keenness of the blast, yet how should i know, but by trial, whether my stock of energy was not sufficient for this last exploit? my resolution to proceed was nearly formed, when the figure of a man moving slowly across the road at some distance before me was observed. hard by this ford lived a man by name bisset, of whom i had slight knowledge. he tended his two hundred acres with a plodding and money-doting spirit, while his son overlooked a grist-mill on the river. he was a creature of gain, coarse and harmless. the man whom i saw before me might be he, or some one belonging to his family. being armed for defence, i less scrupled at meeting with any thing in the shape of man. i therefore called. the figure stopped and answered me without surliness or anger. the voice was unlike that of bisset, but this person's information i believed would be of some service. coming up to him, he proved to be a clown belonging to bisset's habitation. his panic and surprise on seeing me made him aghast. in my present garb i should not have easily been recognised by my nearest kinsman, and much less easily by one who had seldom met me. it may be easily conceived that my thoughts, when allowed to wander from the objects before me, were tormented with forebodings and inquietudes on account of the ills which i had so much reason to believe had befallen my family. i had no doubt that some evil had happened, but the full extent of it was still uncertain. i desired and dreaded to discover the truth, and was unable to interrogate this person in a direct manner. i could deal only in circuities and hints. i shuddered while i waited for an answer to my inquiries. had not indians, i asked, been lately seen in this neighbourhood? were they not suspected of hostile designs? had they not already committed some mischief? some passenger, perhaps, had been attacked, or fire had been set to some house? on which side of the river had their steps been observed or any devastation been committed? above the ford or below it? at what distance from the river? when his attention could be withdrawn from my person and bestowed upon my questions, he answered that some alarm had indeed been spread about indians, and that parties from solesbury and chetasco were out in pursuit of them, that many persons had been killed by them, and that one house in solesbury had been rifled and burnt on the night before the last. these tidings were a dreadful confirmation of my fears. there scarcely remained a doubt; but still my expiring hope prompted me to inquire, "to whom did the house belong?" he answered that he had not heard the name of the owner. he was a stranger to the people on the other side of the river. were any of the inhabitants murdered? yes; all that were at home, except a girl whom they carried off. some said that the girl had been retaken. what was the name? was it huntly? huntly? yes. no. he did not know. he had forgotten. i fixed my eyes upon the ground. an interval of gloomy meditation succeeded. all was lost! all for whose sake i had desired to live had perished by the hands of these assassins! that dear home, the scene of my sportive childhood, of my studies, labours, and recreations, was ravaged by fire and the sword,--was reduced to a frightful ruin! not only all that embellished and endeared existence was destroyed, but the means of subsistence itself. thou knowest that my sisters and i were dependants on the bounty of our uncle. his death would make way for the succession of his son, a man fraught with envy and malignity, who always testified a mortal hatred to us, merely because we enjoyed the protection of his father. the ground which furnished me with bread was now become the property of one who, if he could have done it with security, would gladly have mingled poison with my food. all that my imagination or my heart regarded as of value had likewise perished. whatever my chamber, my closets, my cabinets contained, my furniture, my books, the records of my own skill, the monuments of their existence whom i loved, my very clothing, were involved in indiscriminate and irretrievable destruction. why should i survive this calamity? but did not he say that one had escaped? the only females in the family were my sisters. one of these had been reserved for a fate worse than death; to gratify the innate and insatiable cruelty of savages, by suffering all the torments their invention can suggest, or to linger out years of weary bondage and unintermitted hardship in the bosom of the wilderness. to restore her to liberty, to cherish this last survivor of my unfortunate race, was a sufficient motive to life and to activity. but soft! had not rumour whispered that the captive was retaken? oh! who was her angel of deliverance? where did she now abide? weeping over the untimely fall of her protector and her friend? lamenting and upbraiding the absence of her brother? why should i not haste to find her?--to mingle my tears with hers, to assure her of my safety, and expatiate the involuntary crime of my desertion by devoting all futurity to the task of her consolation and improvement? the path was open and direct. my new motives would have trampled upon every impediment and made me reckless of all dangers and all toils. i broke from my reverie, and, without taking leave or expressing gratitude to my informant, i ran with frantic expedition towards the river, and, plunging into it, gained the opposite side in a moment. i was sufficiently acquainted with the road. some twelve or fifteen miles remained to be traversed. i did not fear that my strength would fail in the performance of my journey. it was not my uncle's habitation to which i directed my steps. inglefield was my friend. if my sister had existence, or was snatched from captivity, it was here that an asylum had been afforded to her, and here was i to seek the knowledge of my destiny. for this reason, having reached a spot where the road divided into two branches, one of which led to inglefield's and the other to huntly's, i struck into the former. scarcely had i passed the angle when i noticed a building on the right hand, at some distance from the road. in the present state of my thoughts, it would not have attracted my attention, had not a light gleamed from an upper window and told me that all within were not at rest. i was acquainted with the owner of this mansion. he merited esteem and confidence, and could not fail to be acquainted with recent events. from him i should obtain all the information that i needed, and i should be delivered from some part of the agonies of my suspense. i should reach his door in a few minutes, and the window-light was a proof that my entrance at this hour would not disturb the family, some of whom were stirring. through a gate i entered an avenue of tall oaks, that led to the house. i could not but reflect on the effect which my appearance would produce upon the family. the sleek locks, neat apparel, pacific guise, sobriety and gentleness of aspect by which i was customarily distinguished, would in vain be sought in the apparition which would now present itself before them. my legs, neck, and bosom were bare, and their native hue was exchanged for the livid marks of bruises and scarifications. a horrid scar upon my cheek, and my uncombed locks; hollow eyes, made ghastly by abstinence and cold, and the ruthless passions of which my mind had been the theatre, added to the musket which i carried in my hand, would prepossess them with the notion of a maniac or ruffian. some inconveniences might hence arise, which, however, could not be avoided. i must trust to the speed with which my voice and my words should disclose my true character and rectify their mistake. i now reached the principal door of the house. it was open, and i unceremoniously entered. in the midst of the room stood a german stove, well heated. to thaw my half-frozen limbs was my first care. meanwhile i gazed around me, and marked the appearances of things. two lighted candles stood upon the table. beside them were cider-bottles and pipes of tobacco. the furniture and room was in that state which denoted it to have been lately filled with drinkers and smokers; yet neither voice, nor visage, nor motion, were anywhere observable. i listened; but neither above nor below, within nor without, could any tokens of a human being be perceived. this vacancy and silence must have been lately preceded by noise, and concourse, and bustle. the contrast was mysterious and ambiguous. no adequate cause of so quick and absolute a transition occurred to me. having gained some warmth and lingered some ten or twenty minutes in this uncertainty, i determined to explore the other apartments of the building. i knew not what might betide in my absence, or what i might encounter in my search to justify precaution, and, therefore, kept the gun in my hand. i snatched a candle from the table and proceeded into two other apartments on the first floor and the kitchen. neither was inhabited, though chairs and tables were arranged in their usual order, and no traces of violence or hurry were apparent. having gained the foot of the staircase, i knocked, but my knocking was wholly disregarded. a light had appeared in an upper chamber. it was not, indeed, in one of those apartments which the family permanently occupied, but in that which, according to rural custom, was reserved for guests; but it indubitably betokened the presence of some being by whom my doubts might be solved. these doubts were too tormenting to allow of scruples and delay. i mounted the stairs. at each chamber-door i knocked, but i knocked in vain. i tried to open, but found them to be locked. i at length reached the entrance of that in which a light had been discovered. here it was certain that some one would be found; but here, as well as elsewhere, my knocking was unnoticed. to enter this chamber was audacious, but no other expedient was afforded me to determine whether the house had any inhabitants. i therefore entered, though with caution and reluctance. no one was within, but there were sufficient traces of some person who had lately been here. on the table stood a travelling-escritoire, open, with pens and inkstand. a chair was placed before it, and a candle on the right hand. this apparatus was rarely seen in this country. some traveller, it seemed, occupied this room, though the rest of the mansion was deserted. the pilgrim, as these appearances testified, was of no vulgar order, and belonged not to the class of periodical and every-day guests. it now occurred to me that the occupant of this apartment could not be far off, and that some danger and embarrassment could not fail to accrue from being found, thus accoutred and garbed, in a place sacred to the study and repose of another. it was proper, therefore, to withdraw, and either to resume my journey, or wait for the stranger's return, whom perhaps some temporary engagement had called away, in the lower and public room. the former now appeared to be the best expedient, as the return of this unknown person was uncertain, as well as his power to communicate the information which i wanted. had paper, as well as the implements of writing, lain upon the desk, perhaps my lawless curiosity would not have scrupled to have pried into it. on the first glance nothing of that kind appeared; but now, as i turned towards the door, somewhat, lying beside the desk, on the side opposite the candle, caught my attention. the impulse was instantaneous and mechanical that made me leap to the spot and lay my hand upon it. till i felt it between my fingers, till i brought it near my eyes and read frequently the inscriptions that appeared upon it, i was doubtful whether my senses had deceived me. few, perhaps, among mankind, have undergone vicissitudes of peril and wonder equal to mine. the miracles of poetry, the transitions of enchantment, are beggarly and mean compared with those which i had experienced. passage into new forms, overleaping the bars of time and space, reversal of the laws of inanimate and intelligent existence, had been mine to perform and to witness. no event had been more fertile of sorrow and perplexity than the loss of thy brother's letters. they went by means invisible, and disappeared at a moment when foresight would have least predicted their disappearance. they now placed themselves before me, in a manner equally abrupt, in a place and by means no less contrary to expectation. the papers which i now seized were those letters. the parchment cover, the string that tied and the wax that sealed them, appeared not to have been opened or violated. the power that removed them, from my cabinet, and dropped them in this house,--a house which i rarely visited, which i had not entered during the last year, with whose inhabitants i maintained no cordial intercourse, and to whom my occupations and amusements, my joys and my sorrows, were unknown,--was no object even of conjecture. but they were not possessed by any of the family. some stranger was here, by whom they had been stolen, or into whose possession they had, by some incomprehensible chance, fallen. that stranger was near. he had left this apartment for a moment. he would speedily return. to go hence might possibly occasion me to miss him. here, then, i would wait, till he should grant me an interview. the papers were mine, and were recovered. i would never part with them. but to know by whose force or by whose stratagems i had been bereaved of them thus long, was now the supreme passion of my soul. i seated myself near a table and anxiously waited for an interview, on which i was irresistibly persuaded to believe that much of my happiness depended. meanwhile, i could not but connect this incident with the destruction of my family. the loss of these papers had excited transports of grief; and yet to have lost them thus was perhaps the sole expedient by which their final preservation could be rendered possible. had they, remained in my cabinet, they could not have escaped the destiny which overtook the house and its furniture. savages are not accustomed to leave their exterminating work unfinished. the house which they have plundered they are careful to level with the ground. this not only their revenge, but their caution, prescribes. fire may originate by accident as well as by design, and the traces of pillage and murder are totally obliterated by the flames. these thoughts were interrupted by the shutting of a door below, and by footsteps ascending the stairs. my heart throbbed at the sound. my seat became uneasy and i started on my feet. i even advanced half-way to the entrance of the room. my eyes were intensely fixed upon the door. my impatience would have made me guess at the person of this visitant by measuring his shadow, if his shadow were first seen; but this was precluded by the position of the light. it was only when the figure entered, and the whole person was seen, that my curiosity was gratified. he who stood before me was the parent and fosterer of my mind, the companion and instructor of my youth, from whom i had been parted for years, from whom i believed myself to be forever separated,--sarsefield himself! chapter xxiv. my deportment, at an interview so much desired and so wholly unforeseen, was that of a maniac. the petrifying influence of surprise yielded to the impetuosities of passion. i held him in my arms; i wept upon his bosom; i sobbed with emotion which, had it not found passage at my eyes, would have burst my heart-strings. thus i, who had escaped the deaths that had previously assailed me in so many forms, should have been reserved to solemnize a scene like this by--_dying for joy_! the sterner passions and habitual austerities of my companion exempted him from pouring out this testimony of his feelings. his feelings were, indeed, more allied to astonishment and incredulity than mine had been. my person was not instantly recognised. he shrunk from my embrace as if i were an apparition or impostor. he quickly disengaged himself from my arms, and, withdrawing a few paces, gazed upon me as on one whom he had never before seen. these repulses were ascribed to the loss of his affection. i was not mindful of the hideous guise in which i stood before him, and by which he might justly be misled to imagine me a ruffian or a lunatic. my tears flowed now on a new account, and i articulated, in a broken and faint voice, "my master! my friend! have you forgotten, have you ceased to love me?" the sound of my voice made him start and exclaim, "am i alive? am i awake? speak again, i beseech you, and convince me that i am not dreaming or delirious." "can you need any proof," i answered, "that it is edgar huntly, your pupil, your child, that speaks to you?" he now withdrew his eyes from me and fixed them on the floor. after a pause he resumed, in emphatic accents:--"well, i have lived to this age in unbelief. to credit or trust in miraculous agency was foreign to my nature, but now i am no longer skeptical. call me to any bar, and exact from me an oath that you have twice been dead and twice recalled to life; that you move about invisibly, and change your place by the force, not of muscles, but of thought, and i will give it. "how came you hither? did you penetrate the wall? did you rise through the floor? "yet surely 'tis an error. you could not be he whom twenty witnesses affirmed to have beheld a lifeless and mangled corpse upon the ground, whom my own eyes saw in that condition. "in seeking the spot once more to provide you a grave, you had vanished. again i met you. you plunged into a rapid stream, from a height from which it was impossible to fall and to live; yet, as if to set the limits of nature at defiance, to sport with human penetration, you rose upon the surface; you floated; you swam; thirty bullets were aimed at your head, by marksmen celebrated for the exactness of their sight. i myself was of the number, and i never missed what i desired to hit. "my predictions were confirmed by the event. you ceased to struggle; you sunk to rise no more; and yet, after these accumulated deaths, you light upon this floor, so far distant from the scene of your catastrophe, over spaces only to be passed, in so short a time as has since elapsed, by those who have wings. "my eyes, my ears, bear testimony to your existence now, as they formerly convinced me of your death. what am i to think? what proofs am i to credit?" there he stopped. every accent of this speech added to the confusion of my thoughts. the allusions that my friend had made were not unintelligible. i gained a glimpse of the complicated errors by which we had been mutually deceived. i had fainted on the area before deb's hut. i was found by sarsefield in this condition, and imagined to be dead. the man whom i had seen upon the promontory was not an indian. he belonged to a numerous band of pursuers, whom my hostile and precipitate deportment caused to suspect me for an enemy. they that fired from the steep were friends. the interposition that screened me from so many bullets was indeed miraculous. no wonder that my voluntary sinking, in order to elude their shots, was mistaken for death, and that, having accomplished the destruction of this foe, they resumed their pursuit of others. but how was sarsefield apprized that it was i who plunged into the river? no subsequent event was possible to impart to him the incredible truth. a pause of mutual silence ensued. at length sarsefield renewed his expressions of amazement at this interview, and besought me to explain why i had disappeared by night from my uncle's house, and by what series of unheard-of events this interview was brought about. was it indeed huntly whom he examined and mourned over at the threshold of deb's hut. whom he had sought in every thicket and cave in the ample circuit of norwalk and chetasco? whom he had seen perish in the current of the delaware? instead of noticing his questions, my soul was harrowed with anxiety respecting the fate of my uncle and sisters. sarsefield could communicate the tidings which would decide on my future lot and set my portion in happiness or misery. yet i had not breath to speak my inquiries. hope tottered, and i felt as if a single word would be sufficient for its utter subversion. at length i articulated the name of my uncle. the single word sufficiently imparted my fears, and these fears needed no verbal confirmation. at that dear name my companion's features were overspread by sorrow. "your uncle," said he, "is dead." "dead? merciful heaven! and my sisters too! both?" "your sisters are alive and well." "nay," resumed i, in faltering accents, "jest not with my feelings. be not cruel in your pity. tell me the truth." "i have said the truth. they are well, at mr. inglefield's." my wishes were eager to assent to the truth of these tidings. the better part of me was, then, safe: but how did they escape the fate that overtook my uncle? how did they evade the destroying hatchet and the midnight conflagration? these doubts were imparted in a tumultuous and obscure manner to my friend. he no sooner fully comprehended them, than he looked at me with some inquietude and surprise. "huntly," said he, "are you mad? what has filled you with these hideous prepossessions? much havoc has indeed been committed in chetasco and the wilderness, and a log hut has been burnt, by design or by accident, in solesbury; but that is all. your house has not been assailed by either firebrand or tomahawk. every thing is safe and in its ancient order. the master indeed is gone, but the old man fell a victim to his own temerity and hardihood. it is thirty years since he retired with three wounds from the field of braddock; but time in no degree abated his adventurous and military spirit. on the first alarm, he summoned his neighbours, and led them in pursuit of the invaders. alas! he was the first to attack them, and the only one who fell in the contest." these words were uttered in a manner that left me no room to doubt of their truth. my uncle had already been lamented, and the discovery of the nature of his death, so contrary to my forebodings, and of the safety of my girls, made the state of my mind partake more of exultation and joy than of grief or regret. but how was i deceived? had not my fusil been found in the hands of an enemy? whence could he have plundered it but from my own chamber? it hung against the wall of a closet, from which no stranger could have taken it except by violence. my perplexities and doubts were not at an end, but those which constituted my chief torment were removed. i listened to my friend's entreaties to tell him the cause of my elopement, and the incidents that terminated in the present interview. i began with relating my return to consciousness in the bottom of the pit; my efforts to free myself from this abhorred prison; the acts of horror to which i was impelled by famine, and their excruciating consequences; my gaining the outlet of the cavern, the desperate expedient by which i removed the impediment to my escape, and the deliverance of the captive girl; the contest i maintained before deb's hut; my subsequent wanderings; the banquet which hospitality afforded me; my journey to the river-bank; my meditations on the means of reaching the road; my motives for hazarding my life by plunging into the stream; and my subsequent perils and fears till i reached the threshold of this habitation. "thus," continued i, "i have complied with your request. i have told all that i myself know. what were the incidents between my sinking to rest at my uncle's and my awaking in the chambers of the hill; by what means and by whose contrivance, preternatural or human, this transition was effected, i am unable to explain; i cannot even guess. "what has eluded my sagacity may not be beyond the reach of another. your own reflections on my tale, or some facts that have fallen under your notice, may enable you to furnish a solution. but, meanwhile, how am i to account for your appearance on this spot? this meeting was unexpected and abrupt to you, but it has not been less so to me. of all mankind, sarsefield was the furthest from my thoughts when i saw these tokens of a traveller and a stranger. "you were imperfectly acquainted with my wanderings. you saw me on the ground before deb's hut. you saw me plunge into the river. you endeavoured to destroy me while swimming; and you knew, before my narrative was heard, that huntly was the object of your enmity. what was the motive of your search in the desert, and how were you apprized of my condition? these things are not less wonderful that any of those which i have already related." during my tale the features of sarsefield betokened the deepest attention. his eye strayed not a moment from my face. all my perils and forebodings were fresh in my remembrance: they had scarcely gone by; their skirts, so to speak, were still visible. no wonder that my eloquence was vivid and pathetic; that i portrayed the past as if it were the present scene; and that not my tongue only, but every muscle and limb, spoke. when i had finished my relation, sarsefield sank into thoughtfulness. from this, after a time, he recovered, and said, "your tale, huntly, is true; yet, did i not see you before me, were i not acquainted with the artlessness and rectitude of your character, and, above all, had not my own experience, during the last three days, confirmed every incident, i should question its truth. you have amply gratified my curiosity, and deserve that your own should be gratified as fully. listen to me. "much has happened since we parted, which shall not be now mentioned. i promised to inform you of my welfare by letter, and did not fail to write; but whether my letters were received, or any were written by you in return, or if written were ever transmitted, i cannot tell: none were ever received. "some days since, i arrived, in company with a lady who is my wife, in america. you have never been forgotten by me. i knew your situation to be little in agreement with your wishes, and one of the benefits which fortune has lately conferred upon me is the power of snatching you from a life of labour and obscurity, whose goods, scanty as they are, were transient and precarious, and affording you the suitable leisure and means of intellectual gratification and improvement. "your silence made me entertain some doubts concerning your welfare, and even your existence. to solve these doubts, i hastened to solesbury. some delays upon the road hindered me from accomplishing my journey by daylight. it was night before i entered the norwalk path; but my ancient rambles with you made me familiar with it, and i was not afraid of being obstructed or bewildered. "just as i gained the southern outlet, i spied a passenger on foot, coming towards me with a quick pace. the incident was of no moment; and yet the time of night, the seeming expedition of the walker, recollection of the mazes and obstacles which he was going to encounter, and a vague conjecture that perhaps he was unacquainted with the difficulties that awaited him, made me eye him with attention as he passed. "he came near, and i thought i recognised a friend in this traveller. the form, the gesture, the stature, bore a powerful resemblance to those of edgar huntly. this resemblance was so strong, that i stopped, and, after he had gone by, called him by your name. that no notice was taken of my call proved that the person was mistaken; but, even though it were another, that he should not even hesitate or turn at a summons which he could not but perceive to be addressed, though erroneously, to him, was the source of some surprise. i did not repeat my call, but proceeded on my way. "all had retired to repose in your uncle's dwelling. i did not scruple to rouse them, and was received with affectionate and joyous greetings. that you allowed your uncle to rise before you was a new topic of reflection. to my inquiries concerning you, answers were made that accorded with my wishes. i was told that you were in good health and were then in bed. that you had not heard and risen at my knocking was mentioned with surprise; but your uncle accounted for your indolence by saying that during the last week you had fatigued yourself by rambling, night and day, in search of some maniac or visionary who was supposed to have retreated into norwalk. "i insisted upon awakening you myself. i anticipated the effect of this sudden and unlooked-for meeting with some emotions of pride as well as of pleasure. to find, in opening your eyes, your old preceptor standing by your bedside and gazing in your face, would place you, i conceived, in an affecting situation. "your chamber-door was open, but your bed was empty. your uncle and sisters were made acquainted with this circumstance. their surprise gave way to conjectures that your restless and romantic spirit had tempted you from your repose, that you had rambled abroad on some fantastic errand, and would probably return before the dawn. i willingly acquiesced in this opinion, and, my feelings being too thoroughly aroused to allow me to sleep, i took possession of your chamber and patiently awaited your return. "the morning returned, but huntly made not his appearance. your uncle became somewhat uneasy at this unseasonable absence. much speculation and inquiry as to the possible reasons of your flight was made. in my survey of your chamber, i noted that only part of your clothing remained beside your bed. coat, hat, stockings and shoes lay upon the spot where they had probably been thrown when you had disrobed yourself; but the pantaloons, which, according to mr. huntly's report, completed your dress, were nowhere to be found. that you should go forth on so cold a night so slenderly apparelled, was almost incredible. your reason or your senses had deserted you, before so rash an action could be meditated. "i now remembered the person i had met in norwalk. his resemblance to your figure, his garb, which wanted hat, coat, stockings and shoes, and your absence from your bed at that hour, were remarkable coincidences: but why did you disregard my call? your name, uttered by a voice that could not be unknown, was surely sufficient to arrest your steps. "each hour added to the impatience of your friends. to their recollections and conjectures i listened with a view to extract from them some solution of this mystery. at length a story was alluded to of some one who, on the preceding night, had been heard walking in the long room: to this was added the tale of your anxieties and wonders occasioned by the loss of certain manuscripts. "while ruminating upon these incidents, and endeavouring to extract from this intelligence a clue explanatory of your present situation, a single word, casually dropped by your uncle, instantly illuminated my darkness and dispelled my doubts.--'after all,' said the old man, 'ten to one but edgar himself was the man whom we heard walking, but the lad was asleep, and knew not what he was about.' "'surely,' said i, 'this inference is just. his manuscripts could not be removed by any hands but his own, since the rest of mankind were unacquainted not only with the place of their concealment, but with their existence. none but a man insane or asleep would wander forth so slightly dressed, and none but a sleeper would have disregarded my calls.' this conclusion was generally adopted; but it gave birth in my mind to infinite inquietudes. you had roved into norwalk, a scene of inequalities, of prominences and pits, among which, thus destitute of the guidance of your senses, you could scarcely fail to be destroyed, or, at least, irretrievably bewildered. i painted to myself the dangers to which you were subjected. your careless feet would bear you into some whirlpool or to the edge of some precipice; some internal revolution or outward shock would recall you to consciousness at some perilous moment. surprise and fear would disable you from taking seasonable or suitable precautions, and your destruction be made sure. "the lapse of every new hour, without bringing tidings of your state, enhanced these fears. at length the propriety of searching for you occurred; mr. huntly and i determined to set out upon this pursuit, as well as to commission others. a plan was laid by which every accessible part of norwalk, the wilderness beyond the flats of solesbury, and the valley of chetasco, should be traversed and explored. "scarcely had we equipped ourselves for this expedition, when a messenger arrived, who brought the disastrous news of indians being seen within these precincts, and on the last night a farmer was shot in his fields, a dwelling in chetasco was burnt to the ground, and its inhabitants murdered or made captives. rumour and inquiry had been busy, and a plausible conjecture had been formed as to the course and number of the enemies. they were said to be divided into bands, and to amount in the whole to thirty or forty warriors. this messenger had come to warn us of danger which might impend, and to summon us to join in the pursuit and extirpation of these detestable foes. "your uncle, whose alacrity and vigour age had not abated, eagerly engaged in this scheme. i was not averse to contribute my efforts to an end like this. the road which we had previously designed to take, in search of my fugitive pupil, was the same by which we must trace or intercept the retreat of the savages. thus two purposes, equally momentous, would be answered by the same means. "mr. huntly armed himself with your fusil; inglefield supplied me with a gun. during our absence the dwelling was closed and locked, and your sisters placed under the protection of inglefield, whose age and pacific sentiments unfitted him for arduous and sanguinary enterprises. a troop of rustics was collected, half of whom remained to traverse solesbury, and the other, whom mr. huntly and i accompanied, hastened to chetasco." chapter xxv. "it was noonday before we reached the theatre of action. fear and revenge combined to make the people of chetasco diligent and zealous in their own defence. the havoc already committed had been mournful. to prevent a repetition of the same calamities, they resolved to hunt out the hostile footsteps and exact a merciless retribution. "it was likely that the enemy, on the approach of day, had withdrawn from the valley and concealed themselves in the thickets between the parallel ridges of the mountain. this space, which, according to the object with which it is compared, is either a vale or the top of a hill, was obscure and desolate. it was undoubtedly the avenue by which the robbers had issued forth, and by which they would escape to the ohio. here they might still remain, intending to emerge from their concealment on the next night and perpetrate new horrors. "a certain distribution was made of our number, so as to move in all directions at the same time. i will not dwell upon particulars. it will suffice to say that keen eyes and indefatigable feet brought us at last to the presence of the largest number of these marauders. seven of them were slain by the edge of a brook, where they sat wholly unconscious of the danger which hung over them. five escaped, and one of these secured his retreat by wresting your fusil from your uncle and shooting him dead. before our companion could be rescued or revenged, the assassin, with the remnant of the troop, disappeared, and bore away with him the fusil as a trophy of his victory. "this disaster was deplored, not only on account of that life which had thus been sacrificed, but because a sagacious guide and intrepid leader was lost. his acquaintance with the habits of the indians, and his experience in their wars, made him trace their footsteps with more certainty than any of his associates. "the pursuit was still continued, and parties were so stationed that the escape of the enemy was difficult, if not impossible. our search was unremitted, but, during twelve or fourteen hours, unsuccessful. queen mab did not elude all suspicion. her hut was visited by different parties, but the old woman and her dogs had disappeared. "meanwhile your situation was not forgotten. every one was charged to explore your footsteps as well as those of the savages; but this search was no less unsuccessful than the former. none had heard of you or seen you. "this continued till midnight. three of us made a pause at a brook, and intended to repair our fatigues by a respite of a few hours; but scarcely had we stretched ourselves on the ground when we were alarmed by a shot which seemed to have been fired at a short distance. we started on our feet and consulted with each other on the measures to be taken. a second, a third, and a fourth shot, from the same quarter, excited our attention anew. mab's hut was known to stand at the distance and in the direction of this sound, and thither we resolved to repair. "this was done with speed, but with the utmost circumspection. we shortly gained the road that leads near this hut, and at length gained a view of the building. many persons were discovered, in a sort of bustling inactivity, before the hut. they were easily distinguished to be friends, and were therefore approached without scruple. "the objects that presented themselves to a nearer view were five bodies stretched upon the ground. three of them were savages. the fourth was a girl, who, though alive, seemed to have received a mortal wound. the fifth, breathless and mangled, and his features almost concealed by the blood that overspread his face, was edgar,--the fugitive for whom i had made such anxious search. "about the same hour on the last night i had met you hastening into norwalk. now were you lying in the midst of savages, at the distance of thirty miles from your home, and in a spot which it was impossible for you to have reached unless by an immense circuit over rocks and thickets. that you had found a rift at the basis of a hill, and thus penetrated its solidities, and thus precluded so tedious and circuitous a journey as must otherwise have been made, was not to be imagined. "but whence arose this scene? it was obvious to conclude that my associates had surprised their enemies in this house, and exacted from them the forfeit of their crimes; but how you should have been confounded with their foes, or whence came the wounded girl, was a subject of astonishment. "you will judge how much this surprise was augmented when i was informed that the party whom we found had been attracted hither by the same signals by which we had been alarmed. that on reaching this spot you had been discovered, alive, seated on the ground, and still sustaining the gun with which you had apparently completed the destruction of so many adversaries. in a moment after their arrival you sunk down and expired. "this scene was attended with inexplicable circumstances. the musket which lay beside you appeared to have belonged to one of the savages. the wound by which each had died was single. of the four shots we had distinguished at a distance, three of them were therefore fatal to the indians, and the fourth was doubtless that by which you had fallen; yet three muskets only were discoverable. "the arms were collected, and the girl carried to the nearest house in the arms of her father. her situation was deemed capable of remedy, and the sorrow and wonder which i felt at your untimely and extraordinary fate did not hinder me from endeavouring to restore the health of this unfortunate victim. i reflected, likewise, that some light might be thrown upon transactions so mysterious by the information which might be collected from her story. numberless questions and hints were necessary to extract from her a consistent or intelligible tale. she had been dragged, it seems, for miles, at the heels of her conquerors, who at length stopped in a cavern for the sake of some repose. all slept but one, who sat and watched. something called him away, and, at the same moment, you appeared at the bottom of the cave, half naked and without arms. you instantly supplied the last deficiency by seizing the gun and tomahawk of him who had gone forth, and who had negligently left his weapons behind. then, stepping over the bodies of the sleepers, you rushed out of the cavern. "she then mentioned your unexpected return, her deliverance and flight, and arrival at deb's hut. you watched upon the hearth, and she fell asleep upon the blanket. from this sleep she was aroused by violent and cruel blows. she looked up: you were gone, and the bed on which she lay was surrounded by the men from whom she had so lately escaped. one dragged her out of the hut and levelled his gun at her breast. at the moment when he touched the trigger, a shot came from an unknown quarter, and he fell at her feet. of subsequent events she had an incoherent recollection. the indians were successively slain, and you came to her, and interrogated and consoled her. "in your journey to the hut you were armed. this in some degree accounted for appearances: but where were your arms? three muskets only were discovered, and these undoubtedly belonged to your enemies. "i now had leisure to reflect upon your destiny. i had arrived soon enough on this shore merely to witness the catastrophe of two beings whom i most loved. both were overtaken by the same fate, nearly at the same hour. the same hand had possibly accomplished the destruction of uncle and nephew. "now, however, i began to entertain a hope that your state might not be irretrievable. you had walked and spoken after the firing had ceased and your enemies had ceased to contend with you. a wound had, no doubt, been previously received. i had hastily inferred that the wound was mortal, and that life could not be recalled. occupied with attention to the wailings of the girl, and full of sorrow and perplexity, i had admitted an opinion which would have never been adopted in different circumstances. my acquaintance with wounds would have taught me to regard sunken muscles, lividness, and cessation of the pulse, as mere indications of a swoon, and not as tokens of death. "perhaps my error was not irreparable. by hastening to the hut, i might ascertain your condition, and at least transport your remains to some dwelling and finally secure to you the decencies of burial. "of twelve savages discovered on the preceding day, ten were now killed. two at least remained, after whom the pursuit was still zealously maintained. attention to the wounded girl had withdrawn me from the party, and i had now leisure to return to the scene of these disasters. the sun had risen, and, accompanied by two others, i repaired thither. "a sharp turn in the road, at the entrance of a field, set before us a startling spectacle. an indian, mangled by repeated wounds of bayonet and bullet, was discovered. his musket was stuck in the ground, by way of beacon attracting our attention to the spot. over this space i had gone a few hours before, and nothing like this was then seen. the parties abroad had hied away to a distant quarter. some invisible power seemed to be enlisted in our defence and to preclude the necessity of our arms. "we proceeded to the hut. the savages were there, but edgar had risen and flown! nothing now seemed to be incredible. you had slain three foes, and the weapon with which the victory had been achieved had vanished. you had risen from the dead, had assailed one of the surviving enemies, had employed bullet and dagger in his destruction, with both of which you could only be supplied by supernatural means, and had disappeared. if any inhabitant of chetasco had done this, we should have heard of it. "but what remained? you were still alive. your strength was sufficient to bear you from this spot. why were you still invisible? and to what dangers might you not be exposed before you could disinvolve yourself from the mazes of this wilderness? "once more i procured indefatigable search to be made after you. it was continued till the approach of evening, and was fruitless. inquiries were twice made at the house where you were supplied with food and intelligence. on the second call i was astonished and delighted by the tidings received from the good woman. your person, and demeanour, and arms, were described, and mention made of your resolution to cross the southern ridge and traverse the solesbury road with the utmost expedition. "the greater part of my inquietudes were now removed. you were able to eat and to travel, and there was little doubt that a meeting would take place between us on the next morning. meanwhile, i determined to concur with those who pursued the remainder of the enemy. i followed you, in the path that you were said to have taken, and quickly joined a numerous party who were searching for those who, on the last night, had attacked a plantation that lies near this, and destroyed the inhabitants. "i need not dwell upon our doublings and circuities. the enemy was traced to the house of selby. they had entered, they had put fire on the floor, but were compelled to relinquish their prey. of what number they consisted could not be ascertained; but one, lingering behind his fellows, was shot, at the entrance of the wood, and on the spot where you chanced to light upon him. "selby's house was empty, and before the fire had made any progress we extinguished it. the drunken wretch whom you encountered had probably returned from his nocturnal debauch after we had left the spot. "the flying enemy was pursued with fresh diligence. they were found, by various tokens, to have crossed the river, and to have ascended the mountain. we trod closely on their heels. when we arrived at the promontory described by you, the fatigues of the night and day rendered me unqualified to proceed. i determined that this should be the bound of my excursions. i was anxious to obtain an interview with you, and, unless i paused here, should not be able to gain inglefield's as early in the morning as i wished. two others concurred with me in this resolution, and prepared to return to this house, which had been deserted by its tenants till the danger was past, and which had been selected as the place of rendezvous. "at this moment, dejected and weary, i approached the ledge which severed the headland from the mountain. i marked the appearance of some one stretched upon the ground where you lay. no domestic animal would wander hither and place himself upon this spot. there was something likewise in the appearance of the object that bespoke it to be man; but, if it were man, it was incontrovertibly a savage and a foe. i determined, therefore, to rouse you by a bullet. "my decision was perhaps absurd. i ought to have gained more certainty before i hazarded your destruction. be that as it will, a moment's lingering on your part would have probably been fatal. you started on your feet, and fired. see the hole which your random shot made through my sleeve! this surely was a day destined to be signalized by hairbreadth escapes. "your action seemed incontestably to confirm my prognostics. every one hurried to the spot and was eager to destroy an enemy. no one hesitated to believe that some of the shots aimed at you had reached their mark, and that you had sunk to rise no more. "the gun which was fired and thrown down was taken and examined. it had been my companion in many a toilsome expedition. it had rescued me and my friends from a thousand deaths. in order to recognise it, i needed only to touch and handle it. i instantly discovered that i held in my hand the fusil which i had left with you on parting, with which your uncle had equipped himself, and which had been ravished from him by a savage. what was i hence to infer respecting the person of the last possessor? "my inquiries respecting you, of the woman whose milk and bread you had eaten, were minute. you entered, she said, with a hatchet and gun in your hand. while you ate, the gun was laid upon the table. she sat near, and the piece became the object of inquisitive attention. the stock and barrels were described by her in such terms as left no doubt that this was the _fusil_. "a comparison of incidents enabled me to trace the manner in which you came into possession of this instrument. one of those whom you found in the cavern was the assassin of your uncle. according to the girl's report, on issuing from your hiding-place you seized a gun that was unoccupied, and this gun chanced to be your own. "its two barrels were probably the cause of your success in that unequal contest at mab's hut. on recovering from _deliquium_, you found it where it had been dropped by you, out of sight and unsuspected by the party that had afterwards arrived. in your passage to the river, had it once more fallen into hostile hands? or had you missed the way, wandered to this promontory, and mistaken a troop of friends for a band of indian marauders? "either supposition was dreadful. the latter was the most plausible. no motives were conceivable by which one of the fugitives could be induced to post himself here, in this conspicuous station; whereas, the road which led you to the summit of the hill, to that spot where descent to the river-road was practicable, could not be found but by those who were accustomed to traverse it. the directions which you had exacted from your hostess proved your previous unacquaintance with these tracts. "i acquiesced in this opinion with a heavy and desponding heart. fate had led us into a maze which could only terminate in the destruction of one or of the other. by the breadth of a hair had i escaped death from your hand. the same fortune had not befriended you. after my tedious search, i had lighted on you, forlorn, bewildered, perishing with cold and hunger. instead of recognising and affording you relief, i compelled you to leap into the river, from a perilous height, and had desisted from my persecution only when i had bereaved you of life and plunged you to the bottom of the gulf. "my motives in coming to america were numerous and mixed. among these was the parental affection with which you had inspired me. i came with fortune, and a better gift than fortune, in my hand. i intended to bestow both upon you, not only to give you competence, but one who would endear to you that competence, who would enhance, by participating, every gratification. "my schemes were now at an end. you were gone, beyond the reach of my benevolence and justice. i had robbed your two sisters of a friend and guardian. it was some consolation to think that it was in my power to stand, with regard to them, in your place; that i could snatch them from the poverty, dependence, and humiliation, to which your death and that of your uncle had reduced them. "i was now doubly weary of the enterprise in which i was engaged, and returned with speed to this rendezvous. my companions have gone to know the state of the family who resided under this roof, and left me to beguile the tedious moments in whatever manner i pleased. "i have omitted mentioning one incident that happened between the detection of your flight and our expedition to chetasco. having formed a plausible conjecture as to him who walked in the long room, it was obvious to conclude that he who purloined your manuscript, and the walker, was the same personage. it was likewise easily inferred that the letters were secreted in the cedar chest or in some other part of the room. instances similar to this have heretofore occurred. men have employed anxious months in search of that which, in a freak of noctambulation, was hidden by their own hands. "a search was immediately commenced, and your letters were found, carefully concealed between the rafters and shingles of the roof, in a spot where, if suspicion had not been previously excited, they would have remained till the vernal rains and the summer heats had insensibly destroyed them. this packet i carried with me, knowing the value which you set upon it, and there being no receptacle equally safe but your own cabinet, which was locked. "having, as i said, reached this house, and being left alone, i bethought me of the treasure i possessed. i was unacquainted with the reasons for which these papers were so precious. they probably had some momentous and intimate connection with your own history. as such, they could not be of little value to me, and this moment of inoccupation and regrets was as suitable as any other to the task of perusing them. i drew them forth, therefore, and laid them on the table in this chamber. "the rest is known to you. during a momentary absence you entered. surely no interview of ancient friends ever took place in so unexpected and abrupt a manner. you were dead. i mourned for you, as one whom i loved, and whom fate had snatched forever from my sight. now, in a blissful hour, you had risen, and my happiness in thus embracing you is tenfold greater than would have been experienced if no uncertainties and perils had protracted our meeting." chapter xxvi. here ended the tale of sarsefield. humiliation and joy were mingled in my heart. the events that preceded my awakening in the cave were now luminous and plain. what explication was more obvious? what but this solution ought to have been suggested by the conduct i had witnessed in clithero? clithero? was not this the man whom clithero had robbed of his friend? was not this the lover of mrs. lorimer, the object of the persecutions of wiatte? was it not now given me to investigate the truth of that stupendous tale? to dissipate the doubts which obstinately clung to my imagination respecting it? but soft! had not sarsefield said that he was married? was mrs. lorimer so speedily forgotten by him, or was the narrative of clithero the web of imposture or the raving of insanity? these new ideas banished all personal considerations from my mind. i looked eagerly into the face of my friend, and exclaimed, in a dubious accent, "how say you? married? when? to whom?" "yes, huntly, i am wedded to the most excellent of women. to her am i indebted for happiness, and wealth, and dignity, and honour. to her do i owe the power of being the benefactor and protector of you and your sisters. she longs to embrace you as a son. to become truly her son will depend upon your own choice, and that of one who was the companion of our voyage." "heavens!" cried i, in a transport of exultation and astonishment. "of whom do you speak? of the mother of clarice? the sister of wiatte? the sister of the ruffian who laid snares for her life? who pursued you and the unhappy clithero with the bitterest animosity?" my friend started at these sounds as if the earth had yawned at his feet. his countenance was equally significant of terror and rage. as soon as he regained the power of utterance, he spoke:--"clithero! curses light upon thy lips for having uttered that detested name! thousands of miles have i flown to shun the hearing of it. is the madman here? have you set eyes upon him? does he yet crawl upon the face of the earth? unhappy? unparalleled, unheard-of, thankless miscreant! has he told his execrable falsehoods here? has he dared to utter names so sacred as those of euphemia lorimer and clarice?" "he has; he has told a tale that had all the appearances of truth----" "out upon the villain! the truth! truth would prove him to be unnatural, devilish; a thing for which no language has yet provided a name! he has called himself unhappy? no doubt, a victim to injustice! overtaken by unmerited calamity. say! has he fooled thee with such tales?" "no. his tale was a catalogue of crimes and miseries of which he was the author and sufferer. you know not his motives, his horrors------" "his deeds were monstrous and infernal. his motives were sordid and flagitious. to display all their ugliness and infamy was not his province. no; he did not tell you that he stole at midnight to the chamber of his mistress; a woman who astonished the world by her loftiness and magnanimity, by indefatigable beneficence and unswerving equity; who had lavished on this wretch, whom she snatched from the dirt, all the goods of fortune, all the benefits of education; all the treasures of love; every provocation to gratitude; every stimulant to justice. "he did not tell you that, in recompense for every benefit, he stole upon her sleep and aimed a dagger at her breast. there was no room for flight, or ambiguity, or prevarication. she whom he meant to murder stood near, saw the lifted weapon, and heard him confess and glory in his purposes. "no wonder that the shock bereft her, for a time, of life. the interval was seized by the ruffian to effect his escape. the rebukes of justice were shunned by a wretch conscious of his inexpiable guilt. these things he has hidden from you, and has supplied their place by a tale specious as false." "no. among the number of his crimes, hypocrisy is not to be numbered. these things are already known to me: he spared himself too little in the narrative. the excellencies of his lady, her claims to gratitude and veneration, were urged beyond their true bounds. his attempts upon her life were related. it is true that he desired and endeavoured to destroy her." "how? has he told you this?" "he has told me all. alas! the criminal intention has been amply expiated." "what mean you? whence and how came he hither? where is he now? i will not occupy the same land, the same world, with him. have this woman and her daughter lighted on the shore haunted by this infernal and implacable enemy?" "alas! it is doubtful whether he exists. if he lives, he is no longer to be feared; but he lives not. famine and remorse have utterly consumed him." "famine? remorse? you talk in riddles." "he has immured himself in the desert. he has abjured the intercourse of mankind. he has shut himself in caverns where famine must inevitably expedite that death for which he longs as the only solace of his woes. to no imagination are his offences blacker and more odious than to his own. i had hopes of rescuing him from this fate, but my own infirmities and errors have afforded me sufficient occupation." sarsefield renewed his imprecations on the memory of that unfortunate man, and his inquiries as to the circumstances that led him into this remote district. his inquiries were not to be answered by one in my present condition. my languors and fatigues had now gained a pitch that was insupportable. the wound in my face had been chafed and inflamed by the cold water and the bleak air; and the pain attending it would no longer suffer my attention to stray. i sunk upon the floor, and entreated him to afford me the respite of a few hours' repose. he was sensible of the deplorableness of my condition, and chid himself for the negligence of which he had already been guilty. he lifted me to the bed, and deliberated on the mode he should pursue for my relief. some mollifying application to my wound was immediately necessary; but, in our present lonely condition, it was not at hand. it could only be procured from a distance. it was proper therefore to hasten to the nearest inhabited dwelling, which belonged to one by name walton, and supply himself with such medicines as could be found. meanwhile, there was no danger of molestation and intrusion. there was reason to expect the speedy return of those who had gone in pursuit of the savages. this was their place of rendezvous, and hither they appointed to reassemble before the morrow's dawn. the distance of the neighbouring farm was small, and sarsefield promised to be expeditious. he left me to myself and my own ruminations. harassed by fatigue and pain, i had yet power to ruminate on that series of unparalleled events that had lately happened. i wept, but my tears flowed from a double source: from sorrow, on account of the untimely fate of my uncle, and from joy, that my sisters were preserved, that sarsefield had returned and was not unhappy. i reflected on the untoward destiny of clithero. part of his calamity consisted in the consciousness of having killed his patroness; but it now appeared, though by some infatuation i had not previously suspected, that the first impulse of sorrow in the lady had been weakened by reflection and by time; that the prejudice persuading her that her life and that of her brother were to endure and to terminate together was conquered by experience or by argument. she had come, in company with sarsefield and clarice, to america. what influence might these events have upon the gloomy meditations of clithero? was it possible to bring them together; to win the maniac from his solitude, wrest from him his fatal purposes, and restore him to communion with the beings whose imagined indignation is the torment of his life? these musings were interrupted by a sound from below, which was easily interpreted into tokens of the return of those with whom sarsefield had parted at the promontory. voices were confused and busy, but not turbulent. they entered the lower room, and the motion of chairs and tables showed that they were preparing to rest themselves after their toils. few of them were unacquainted with me, since they probably were residents in this district. no inconvenience, therefore, would follow from an interview, though, on their part, wholly unexpected. besides, sarsefield would speedily return, and none of the present visitants would be likely to withdraw to this apartment. meanwhile, i lay upon the bed, with my face turned towards the door, and languidly gazing at the ceiling and walls. just then a musket was discharged in the room below. the shock affected me mechanically, and the first impulse of surprise made me almost start upon my feet. the sound was followed by confusion and bustle. some rushed forth and called on each other to run different ways, and the words, "that is he,"--"stop him!" were spoken in a tone of eagerness and rage. my weakness and pain were for a moment forgotten, and my whole attention was bent to discover the meaning of this hubbub. the musket which i had brought with me to this chamber lay across the bed. unknowing of the consequences of this affray with regard to myself, i was prompted, by a kind of self-preserving instinct, to lay hold of the gun and prepare to repel any attack that might be made upon me. a few moments elapsed, when i thought i heard light footsteps in the entry leading to this room. i had no time to construe these signals, but, watching fearfully the entrance, i grasped my weapon with new force, and raised it so as to be ready at the moment of my danger. i did not watch long. a figure cautiously thrust itself forward. the first glance was sufficient to inform me that this intruder was an indian, and, of consequence, an enemy. he was unarmed. looking eagerly on all sides, he at last spied me as i lay. my appearance threw him into consternation, and, after the fluctuation of an instant, he darted to the window, threw up the sash, and leaped out upon the ground. his flight might have been easily arrested by my shot, but surprise, added to my habitual antipathy to bloodshed unless in cases of absolute necessity, made me hesitate. he was gone, and i was left to mark the progress of the drama. the silence was presently broken by firing at a distance. three shots, in quick succession, were followed by the deepest pause. that the party, recently arrived, had brought with them one or more captives, and that by some sudden effort the prisoners had attempted to escape, was the only supposition that i could form. by wrhat motives either of them could be induced to seek concealment in my chamber could not be imagined. i now heard a single step on the threshold below. some one entered the common room. he traversed the floor during a few minutes, and then, ascending the staircase, he entered my chamber. it was sarsefield. trouble and dismay were strongly written on his countenance. he seemed totally unconscious of my presence; his eyes were fixed upon the floor, and, as he continued to move across the room, he heaved forth deep sighs. this deportment was mournful and mysterious. it was little in unison with those appearances which he wore at our parting, and must have been suggested by some event that had since happened. my curiosity impelled me to recall him from his reverie. i rose, and, seizing him by the arm, looked at him with an air of inquisitive anxiety. it was needless to speak. he noticed my movement, and, turning towards me, spoke in a tone of some resentment:--"why did you deceive me? did you not say clithero was dead?" "i said so because it was my belief. know you any thing to the contrary? heaven grant that he is still alive, and that our mutual efforts may restore him to peace!" "heaven grant," replied my friend, with a vehemence that bordered upon fury,--"heaven grant that he may live thousands of years, and know not, in their long course, a moment's respite from remorse and from anguish! but this prayer is fruitless. he is not dead, but death hovers over him. should he live, he will live only to defy justice and perpetrate new horrors. my skill might perhaps save him, but a finger shall not be moved to avert his fate. "little did i think that the wretch whom my friends rescued from the power of the savages, and brought wounded and expiring hither, was clithero. they sent for me in haste to afford him surgical assistance. i found him stretched upon the floor below, deserted, helpless, and bleeding. the moment i beheld him, he was recognised. the last of evils was to look upon the face of this assassin; but that evil is past, and shall never be endured again. "rise, and come with me. accommodation is prepared for you at walcot's. let us leave this house, and, the moment you are able to perform a journey, abandon forever this district." i could not readily consent to this proposal. clithero had been delivered from captivity, but was dying for want of that aid which sarsefield was able to afford. was it not inhuman to desert him in this extremity? what offence had he committed that deserved such implacable vengeance? nothing i had heard from sarsefield was in contradiction to his own story. his deed, imperfectly observed, would appear to be atrocious and detestable; but the view of all its antecedent and accompanying events and motives would surely place it in the list, not of crimes, but of misfortunes. but wrhat is that guilt which no penitence can expiate? had not clithero's remorse been more than adequate to crimes far more deadly and enormous than this? this, however, was no time to argue with the passions of sarsefield. nothing but a repetition of clithero's tale could vanquish his prepossessions and mollify his rage; but this repetition was impossible to be given by me, till a moment of safety and composure. these thoughts made me linger, but hindered me from attempting to change the determination of my friend. he renewed his importunities for me to fly with him. he dragged me by the arm, and, wavering and reluctant, i followed where he chose to lead. he crossed the common room, with hurried steps, and eyes averted from a figure which instantly fastened my attention. it was indeed clithero whom i now beheld, supine, polluted with blood, his eyes closed, and apparently insensible. this object was gazed at with emotions that rooted me to the spot. sarsefield, perceiving me determined to remain where i was, rushed out of the house, and disappeared. chapter xxvii. i hung over the unhappy wretch, whose emaciated form and rueful features sufficiently bespoke that savage hands had only completed that destruction which his miseries had begun. he was mangled by the tomahawk in a shocking manner, and there was little hope that human skill could save his life. i was sensible of nothing but compassion. i acted without design, when, seating myself on the floor, i raised his head and placed it on my knees. this movement awakened his attention, and, opening his eyes, he fixed them on my countenance. they testified neither insensibility, nor horror, nor distraction. a faint emotion of surprise gave way to an appearance of tranquillity. having perceived these tokens of a state less hopeless than i at first imagined, i spoke to him:--"my friend, how do you feel? can any thing be done for you?" he answered me in a tone more firm and with more coherence of ideas than previous appearances had taught me to expect. "no," said he; "thy kindness, good youth, can avail me nothing. the end of my existence here is at hand. may my guilt be expiated by the miseries that i have suffered, and my good deeds only attend me to the presence of my divine judge! "i am waiting, not with trembling or dismay, for this close of my sorrows. i breathed but one prayer, and that prayer has been answered. i asked for an interview with thee, young man; but, feeling as i now feel, this interview, so much desired, was beyond my hope. now thou art come, in due season, to hear the last words that i shall need to utter. "i wanted to assure thee that thy efforts for my benefit were not useless. they have saved me from murdering myself, a guilt more inexpiable than any which it was in my power to commit. "i retired to the innermost recess of norwalk, and gained the summit of a hill, by subterranean paths. this hill i knew to be on all sides inaccessible to human footsteps, and the subterranean passages were closed up by stones. here i believed my solitude exempt from interruption, and my death, in consequence of famine, sure. "this persuasion was not taken away by your appearance on the opposite steep. the chasm which severed us i knew to be impassable. i withdrew from your sight. "some time after, awakening from a long sleep, i found victuals beside me. he that brought it was invisible. for a time, i doubted whether some messenger of heaven had not interposed for my salvation. how other than by supernatural means my retreat should be explored, i was unable to conceive. the summit was encompassed by dizzy and profound gulfs, and the subterranean passages were still closed. "this opinion, though corrected by subsequent reflection, tended to change the course of my desperate thoughts. my hunger, thus importunately urged, would not abstain, and i ate of the food that was provided. henceforth i determined to live, to resume the path of obscurity and labour which i had relinquished, and wait till my god should summon me to retribution. to anticipate his call is only to redouble our guilt. "i designed not to return to inglefield's service, but to choose some other and remoter district. meanwhile, i had left in his possession a treasure, which my determination to die had rendered of no value, but which my change of resolution restored. enclosed in a box at inglefield's were the memoirs of euphemia lorimer, by which, in all my vicissitudes, i had been hitherto accompanied, and from which i consented to part only because i had refused to live. my existence was now to be prolonged, and this manuscript was once more to constitute the torment and the solace of my being. "i hastened to inglefield's by night. there was no need to warn him of my purpose. i desired that my fate should be an eternal secret to my ancient master and his neighbours. the apartment containing my box was well known, and easily accessible. "the box was found, but broken and rifled of its treasure. my transports of astonishment, and indignation, and grief, yielded to the resumption of my fatal purpose. i hastened back to the hill, and determined anew to perish. "this mood continued to the evening of the ensuing day. wandering over rocks and pits, i discovered the manuscript lying under a jutting precipice. the chance that brought it hither was not less propitious and miraculous than that by which i had been supplied with food. it produced a similar effect upon my feelings, and, while in possession of this manuscript, i was reconciled to the means of life. i left the mountain, and, traversing the wilderness, stopped in chetasco. that kind of employment which i sought was instantly procured; but my new vocation was scarcely assumed when a band of savages invaded our security. "rambling in the desert by moonlight, i encountered these foes. they rushed upon me, and, after numerous wounds, which for the present neither killed nor disabled me, they compelled me to keep pace with them in their retreat. some hours have passed since the troop was overtaken and my liberty redeemed. hardships, and repeated wounds, inflicted at the moment when the invaders were surprised and slain, have brought me to my present condition. i rejoice that my course is about to terminate." here the speaker was interrupted by the tumultuous entrance of the party by whom he had been brought hither. their astonishment at seeing me sustaining the head of the dying man may be easily conceived. their surprise was more strongly excited by the disappearance of the captive whom they had left in this apartment, bound hand and foot. it now appeared that, of the savage troop who had adventured thus far in search of pillage and blood, all had been destroyed but two, who had been led hither as prisoners. on their entrance into this house, one of the party had been sent to walcot's to summon sarsefield to the aid of the wounded man, while others had gone in search of cords to secure the arms and legs of the captives, who had hitherto been manacled imperfectly. the cords were brought and one of them was bound; but the other, before the same operation was begun upon him, broke, by a sudden effort, the feeble ligatures by which he was at present constrained, and, seizing a musket that lay near him, fired on his enemies, and then rushed out of doors. all eagerly engaged in the pursuit. the savage was fleet as a deer, and finally eluded his pursuers. while their attention was thus engaged abroad, he that remained found means to extricate his wrists and ankles from his bonds, and, betaking himself to the stairs, escaped, as i before described, through the window of the room which i had occupied. they pestered me with their curiosity and wonder, for i was known to all of them; but, waiving the discussion of my own concerns, i entreated their assistance to carry clithero to the chamber and the bed which i had just deserted. i now, in spite of pain, fatigue, and watchfulness, set out to go to walton's. sarsefield was ready to receive me at the door, and the kindness and compassion of the family were active in my behalf. i was conducted to a chamber and provided with suitable attendance and remedies. i was not unmindful of the more deplorable condition of clithero. i incessantly meditated on the means for his relief. his case stood in need of all the vigilance and skill of a physician, and sarsefield was the only one of that profession whose aid could be seasonably administered. sarsefield, therefore, must be persuaded to bestow this aid. there was but one mode of conquering his abhorrence of this man,--to prepossess my friend with the belief of the innocence of clithero, or to soothe him into pity by a picture of remorse and suffering. this could be done, and in the manner most conformable to truth, by a simple recital of the incidents that had befallen, and by repeating the confession which had been extorted from clithero. i requested all but my friend to leave my chamber, and then, soliciting a patient hearing, began the narrative of waldegrave's death; of the detection of clithero beneath the shade of the elm; of the suspicions which were thence produced; and of the forest interview to which these suspicions gave birth. i then repeated, without variation or addition, the tale which was then told. i likewise mentioned my subsequent transactions in norwalk, so far as they illustrated the destiny of clithero. during this recital, i fixed my eyes upon the countenance of sarsefield, and watched every emotion as it arose or declined. with the progress of my tale, his indignation and his fury grew less, and at length gave place to horror and compassion. his seat became uneasy; his pulse throbbed with new vehemence. when i came to the motives which prompted the unhappy man to visit the chamber of his mistress, he started from his seat, and sometimes strode across the floor in a troubled mood, and sometimes stood before me, with his breath almost suspended in the eagerness of his attention. when i mentioned the lifted dagger, the shriek from behind, and the apparition that interposed, he shuddered and drew back, as if a dagger had been aimed at his breast. when the tale was done, some time elapsed in mutual and profound silence. my friend's thoughts were involved in a mournful and indefinable reverie. from this he at length recovered and spoke:-"it is true. a tale like this could never be the fruit of invention, or be invented to deceive. he has done himself injustice. his character was spotless and fair. all his moral properties seemed to have resolved themselves into gratitude, fidelity, and honour. "we parted at the door, late in the evening, as he mentioned, and he guessed truly that subsequent reflection had induced me to return and to disclose the truth to mrs. lorimer. clarice, relieved by the sudden death of her friend, and unexpectedly by all, arrived at the same hour. "these tidings astonished, afflicted, and delighted the lady. her brother's death had been long believed by all but herself. to find her doubts verified, and his existence ascertained, was the dearest consolation that he ever could bestow. she was afflicted at the proofs that had been noted of the continuance of his depravity, but she dreaded no danger to herself from his malignity or vengeance. "the ignorance and prepossessions of this woman were remarkable. on this subject only she was perverse, headstrong, obstinate. her anxiety to benefit this archruffian occupied her whole thoughts, and allowed her no time to reflect upon the reasonings or remonstrances of others. she could not be prevailed on to deny herself to his visits, and i parted from her in the utmost perplexity. "a messenger came to me at midnight, entreating my immediate presence. some disaster had happened, but of what kind the messenger was unable to tell. my fears easily conjured up the image of wiatte. terror scarcely allowed me to breathe. when i entered the house of mrs. lorimer, i was conducted to her chamber. she lay upon the bed in a state of stupefaction, that arose from some mental cause. clarice sat by her, wringing her hands, and pouring forth her tears without intermission. neither could explain to me the nature of the scene. i made inquiries of the servants and attendants. they merely said that the family as usual had retired to rest, but their lady's bell rung with great violence, and called them in haste to her chamber, where they found her in a swoon upon the floor, and the young lady in the utmost affright and perturbation. "suitable means being used, mrs. lorimer had, at length, recovered, but was still nearly insensible. i went to clithero's apartments; but he was not to be found, and the domestics informed me that, since he had gone with me, he had not returned. the doors between this chamber and the court were open; hence, that some dreadful interview had taken place, perhaps with wiatte, was an unavoidable conjecture. he had withdrawn, however, without committing any personal injury. "i need not mention my reflections upon this scene. all was tormenting doubt and suspense, till the morning arrived, and tidings were received that wiatte had been killed in the streets. this event was antecedent to that which had occasioned mrs. lorimer's distress and alarm. i now remembered that fatal prepossession by which the lady was governed, and her frantic belief that her death and that of her brother were to fall out at the same time. could some witness of his death have brought her tidings of it? had he penetrated, unexpected and unlicensed, to her chamber? and were these the effects produced by the intelligence? "presently i knew that not only wiatte was dead, but that clithero had killed him. clithero had not been known to return, and was nowhere to be found. he, then, was the bearer of these tidings, for none but he could have found access or egress without disturbing the servants. "these doubts were at length at an end. in a broken and confused manner, and after the lapse of some days, the monstrous and portentous truth was disclosed. after our interview, the lady and her daughter had retired to the same chamber; the former had withdrawn to her closet, and the latter to bed. some one's entrance alarmed the lady, and, coming forth after a moment's pause, the spectacle which clithero has too faithfully described presented itself. "what could i think? a life of uniform hypocrisy, or a sudden loss of reason, were the only suppositions to be formed. clithero was the parent of fury and abhorrence in my heart. in either case i started at the name. i shuddered at the image of the apostate or the maniac. "what? kill the brother whose existence was interwoven with that of his benefactress and his friend? then hasten to her chamber, and attempt her life? lift a dagger to destroy her who had been the author of his being and his happiness? "he that could meditate a deed like this was no longer man. an agent from hell had mastered his faculties. he was become the engine of infernal malice, against whom it was the duty of all mankind to rise up in arms and never to desist till, by shattering it to atoms, its power to injure was taken away. "all inquiries to discover the place of his retreat were vain. no wonder, methought, that he wrapped himself in the folds of impenetrable secrecy. curbed, checked, baffled in the midst of his career, no wonder that he shrunk into obscurity, that he fled from justice and revenge, that he dared not meet the rebukes of that eye which, dissolving in tenderness or flashing with disdain, had ever been irresistible. "but how shall i describe the lady's condition? clithero she had cherished from his infancy. he was the stay, the consolation, the pride of her life. his projected alliance with her daughter made him still more dear. her eloquence was never tired of expatiating on his purity and rectitude. no wonder that she delighted in this theme, for he was her own work. his virtues were the creatures of her bounty. "how hard to be endured was this sad reverse! she can be tranquil, but never more will she be happy. to promote her forgetfulness of him, i persuaded her to leave her country, which contained a thousand memorials of past calamity, and which was lapsing fast into civil broils. clarice has accompanied us, and time may effect the happiness of others by her means, though she can never remove the melancholy of her mother. "i have listened to your tale, not without compassion. what would you have me to do? to prolong his life would be merely to protract his misery. "he can never be regarded with complacency by my wife. he can never be thought of without shuddering by clarice. common ills are not without a cure less than death, but here all remedies are vain. consciousness itself is the malady, the pest, of which he only is cured who ceases to think." i could not but assent to this mournful conclusion: yet, though death was better to clithero than life, could not some of his mistakes be rectified? euphemia lorimer, contrary to his belief, was still alive. he dreamed that she was dead, and a thousand evils were imagined to flow from that death. this death, and its progeny of ills, haunted his fancy, and added keenness to his remorse. was it not our duty to rectify this error? sarsefield reluctantly assented to the truth of my arguments on this head. he consented to return, and afford the dying man the consolation of knowing that the being whom he adored as a benefactor and parent had not been deprived of existence, though bereft of peace by his act. during sarsefield's absence my mind was busy in revolving the incidents that had just occurred. i ruminated on the last words of clithero. there was somewhat in his narrative that was obscure and contradictory. he had left the manuscript, which he so much and so justly prized, in his cabinet. he entered the chamber in my absence, and found the cabinet unfastened and the manuscript gone. it was i by whom the cabinet was opened; but the manuscript supposed to be contained in it was buried in the earth beneath the elm. how should clithero be unacquainted with its situation, since none but clithero could have dug for it this grave? this mystery vanished when i reflected on the history of my own manuscript. clithero had buried his treasure with his own hands, as mine had been secreted by myself; but both acts had been performed during sleep. the deed was neither prompted by the will nor noticed by the senses of him by whom it was done. disastrous and humiliating is the state of man! by his own hands is constructed the mass of misery and error in which his steps are forever involved. thus it was with thy friend. hurried on by phantoms too indistinct to be now recalled, i wandered from my chamber to the desert. i plunged into some unvisited cavern, and easily proceeded till i reached the edge of a pit. there my step was deceived, and i tumbled headlong from the precipice. the fall bereaved me of sense, and i continued breathless and motionless during the remainder of the night and the ensuing day. how little cognizance have men over the actions and motives of each other! how total is our blindness with regard to our own performances! who would have sought me in the bowels of this mountain? ages might have passed away, before my bones would be discovered in this tomb by some traveller whom curiosity had prompted to explore it. i was roused from these reflections by sarsefield's return. inquiring into clithero's condition, he answered that the unhappy man was insensible, but that, notwithstanding numerous and dreadful gashes in different parts of his body, it was possible that, by submitting to the necessary treatment, he might recover. encouraged by this information, i endeavoured to awaken the zeal and compassion of my friend in clithero's behalf. he recoiled with involuntary shuddering from any task which would confine him to the presence of this man. time and reflection, he said, might introduce different sentiments and feelings, but at present he could not but regard this person as a maniac, whose disease was irremediable, and whose existence could not be protracted but to his own misery and the misery of others. finding him irreconcilably averse to any scheme connected with the welfare of clithero, i began to think that his assistance as a surgeon was by no means necessary. he had declared that the sufferer needed nothing more than common treatment; and to this the skill of a score of aged women in this district, furnished with simples culled from the forest, and pointed out, of old time, by indian _leeches_, was no less adequate than that of sarsefield. these women were ready and officious in their charity, and none of them were prepossessed against the sufferer by a knowledge of his genuine story. sarsefield, meanwhile, was impatient for my removal to inglefield's habitation, and that venerable friend was no less impatient to receive me. my hurts were superficial, and my strength sufficiently repaired by a night's repose. next day i went thither, leaving clithero to the care of his immediate neighbours. sarsefield's engagements compelled him to prosecute his journey into virginia, from which he had somewhat deviated in order to visit solesbury. he proposed to return in less than a month, and then to take me in his company to new york. he has treated me with paternal tenderness, and insists upon the privilege of consulting for my interest as if he were my real father. meanwhile these views have been disclosed to inglefield, and it is with him that i am to remain, with my sisters, until his return. my reflections have been various and tumultuous. they have been busy in relation to you, to weymouth, and especially to clithero. the latter, polluted with gore and weakened by abstinence, fatigue, and the loss of blood, appeared in my eyes to be in a much more dangerous condition than the event proved him to be. i was punctually informed of the progress of his cure, and proposed in a few days to visit him. the duty of explaining the truth, respecting the present condition of mrs. lorimer, had devolved upon me. by imparting this intelligence, i hoped to work the most auspicious revolutions in his feelings, and prepared, therefore, with alacrity, for an interview. in this hope i was destined to be disappointed. on the morning on which i intended to visit him, a messenger arrived from the house in which he was entertained, and informed us that the family, on entering the sick man's apartment, had found it deserted. it appeared that clithero had, during the night, risen from his bed and gone secretly forth. no traces of his flight have since been discovered. but, oh, my friend, the death of waldegrave, thy brother, is at length divested of uncertainty and mystery. hitherto, i had been able to form no conjecture respecting it; but the solution was found shortly after this time. queen mab, three days after my adventure, was seized in her hut on suspicion of having aided and counselled her countrymen in their late depredations. she was not to be awed or intimidated by the treatment she received, but readily confessed and gloried in the mischief she had done, and accounted for it by enumerating the injuries which she had received from her neighbours. these injuries consisted in contemptuous or neglectful treatment, and in the rejection of groundless and absurd claims. the people of chetasco were less obsequious to her humours than those of solesbury, her ancient neighbourhood, and her imagination brooded for a long time over nothing but schemes of revenge. she became sullen, irascible, and spent more of her time in solitude than ever. a troop of her countrymen at length visited her hut. their intentions being hostile, they concealed from the inhabitants their presence in this quarter of the country. some motives induced them to withdraw and postpone, for the present, the violence which they meditated. one of them, however, more sanguinary and audacious than the rest, would not depart without some gratification of his vengeance. he left his associates and penetrated by night into solesbury, resolving to attack the first human being whom he should meet. it was the fate of thy unhappy brother to encounter this ruffian, whose sagacity made him forbear to tear away the usual trophy from the dead, lest he should afford grounds for suspicion as to the authors of the evil. satisfied with this exploit, he rejoined his companions, and, after an interval of three weeks, returned with a more numerous party, to execute a more extensive project of destruction. they were counselled and guided, in all their movements, by queen mab, who now explained these particulars and boldly defied her oppressors. her usual obstinacy and infatuation induced her to remain in her ancient dwelling and prepare to meet the consequences. this disclosure awakened anew all the regrets and anguish which flowed from that disaster. it has been productive, however, of some benefit. suspicions and doubts, by which my soul was harassed, and which were injurious to the innocent, are now at an end. it is likewise some imperfect consolation to reflect that the assassin has himself been killed, and probably by my own hand. the shedder of blood no longer lives to pursue his vocation, and justice is satisfied. thus have i fulfilled my promise to compose a minute relation of my sufferings. i remembered my duty to thee, and, as soon as i was able to hold a pen, employed it to inform thee of my welfare. i could not at that time enter into particulars, but reserved a more copious narrative till a period of more health and leisure. on looking back, i am surprised at the length to which my story has run. i thought that a few days would suffice to complete it; but one page has insensibly been added to another, till i have consumed weeks and filled volumes. here i will draw to a close; i will send you what i have written, and discuss with you in conversation my other immediate concerns, and my schemes for the future. as soon as i have seen sarsefield, i will visit you. farewell. e. h. solesbury, november 10. letter i. _to mr. sarsefield._ philadelphia. i came hither but ten minutes ago, and write this letter in the bar of the stage-house. i wish not to lose a moment in informing you of what has happened. i cannot do justice to my own feelings when i reflect upon the rashness of which i have been guilty. i will give you the particulars to-morrow. at present, i shall only say that clithero is alive, is apprized of your wife's arrival and abode in new york, and has set out with mysterious intentions to visit her. may heaven avert the consequences of such a design! may you be enabled, by some means, to prevent their meeting! if you cannot prevent it--but i must not reason on such an event, nor lengthen out this letter. e. h. letter ii. _to the same._ i will now relate the particulars which i yesterday promised to send you. you heard through your niece of my arrival at inglefield's, in solesbury: my inquiries, you may readily suppose, would turn upon the fate of my friend's servant clithero, whose last disappearance was so strange and abrupt, and of whom, since that time, i had heard nothing. you are indifferent to his fate, and are anxious only that his existence and misfortunes may be speedily forgotten. i confess that it is somewhat otherwise with me. i pity him; i wish to relieve him, and cannot admit the belief that his misery is without a cure. i want to find him out. i want to know his condition, and, if possible, to afford him comfort and inspire him with courage and hope. inglefield replied to my questions:--"oh yes! he has appeared. the strange being is again upon the stage. shortly after he left his sick-bed, i heard from philip beddington, of chetasco, that deb's hut had found a new tenant. at first i imagined that the scotsman who built it had returned; but, making closer inquiries, i found that the new tenant was my servant. i had no inclination to visit him myself, but frequently inquired respecting him of those who lived or passed that way, and find that he still lives there." "but how!" said i: "what is his mode of subsistence? the winter has been no time for cultivation; and he found, i presume, nothing in the ground." "deb's hut," replied my friend, "is his lodging and his place of retirement, but food and clothing he procures by labouring on a neighbouring farm. this farm is next to that of beddington, who consequently knows something of his present situation. i find little or no difference in his present deportment and those appearances which he assumed while living with me, except that he retires every night to his hut, and holds as little intercourse as possible with the rest of mankind. he dines at his employer's table; but his supper, which is nothing but rye-bread, he carries home with him, and, at all those times when disengaged from employment, he secludes himself in his hut, or wanders nobody knows whither." this was the substance of inglefield's intelligence. i gleaned from it some satisfaction. it proved the condition of clithero to be less deplorable and desperate than i had previously imagined. his fatal and gloomy thoughts seemed to have somewhat yielded to tranquillity. in the course of my reflections, however, i could not but perceive that his condition, though eligible when compared with what it once was, was likewise disastrous and humiliating, compared with his youthful hopes and his actual merits. for such a one to mope away his life in this unsocial and savage state was deeply to be deplored. it was my duty, if possible, to prevail on him to relinquish his scheme. and what would be requisite, for that end, but to inform him of the truth? the source of his dejection was the groundless belief that he had occasioned the death of his benefactress. it was this alone that could justly produce remorse or grief. it was a distempered imagination both in him and in me that had given birth to this opinion, since the terms of his narrative, impartially considered, were far from implying that catastrophe. to him, however, the evidence which he possessed was incontestable. no deductions from probability could overthrow his belief. this could only be effected by similar and counter evidence. to apprize him that she was now alive, in possession of some degree of happiness, the wife of sarsefield, and an actual resident on this shore, would dissipate the sanguinary apparition that haunted him, cure his diseased intellects, and restore him to those vocations for which his talents, and that rank in society for which his education, had qualified him. influenced by these thoughts, i determined to visit his retreat. being obliged to leave solesbury the next day, i resolved to set out the same afternoon, and, stopping in chetasco for the night, seek his habitation at the hour when he had probably retired to it. this was done. i arrived at beddington's at nightfall. my inquiries respecting clithero obtained for me the same intelligence from him which i had received from inglefield. deb's hut was three miles from this habitation, and thither, when the evening had somewhat advanced, i repaired. this was the spot which had witnessed so many perils during the last year; and my emotions, on approaching it, were awful. with palpitating heart and quick steps i traversed the road, skirted on each side by thickets, and the area before the house. the dwelling was by no means in so ruinous a state as when i last visited it. the crannies between the logs had been filled up, and the light within was perceivable only at a crevice in the door. looking through this crevice, i perceived a fire in the chimney, but the object of my visit was nowhere to be seen. i knocked and requested admission, but no answer was made. at length i lifted the latch and entered. nobody was there. it was obvious to suppose that clithero had gone abroad for a short time, and would speedily return; or perhaps some engagement had detained him at his labour later than usual. i therefore seated myself on some straw near the fire, which, with a woollen rug, appeared to constitute his only bed. the rude bedstead which i formerly met was gone. the slender furniture, likewise, which had then engaged my attention, had disappeared. there was nothing capable of human use but a heap of fagots in the corner, which seemed intended for fuel. how slender is the accommodation which nature has provided for man, and how scanty is the portion which our physical necessities require! while ruminating upon this scene, and comparing past events with the objects before me, the dull whistling of the gale without gave place to the sound of footsteps. presently the door opened, and clithero entered the apartment. his aspect and guise were not essentially different from those which he wore when an inhabitant of solesbury. to find his hearth occupied by another appeared to create the deepest surprise. he looked at me without any tokens of remembrance. his features assumed a more austere expression, and, after scowling on my person for a moment, he withdrew his eyes, and, placing in a corner a bundle which he bore in his hand, he turned and seemed preparing to withdraw. i was anxiously attentive to his demeanour, and, as soon as i perceived his purpose to depart, leaped on my feet to prevent it. i took his hand, and, affectionately pressing it, said, "do you not know me? have you so soon forgotten me, who is truly your friend?" he looked at me with some attention, but again withdrew his eyes, and placed himself in silence on the seat which i had left. i seated myself near him, and a pause of mutual silence ensued. my mind was full of the purpose that brought me hither, but i knew not in what manner to communicate my purpose. several times i opened my lips to speak, but my perplexity continued, and suitable words refused to suggest themselves. at length i said, in a confused tone,-"i came hither with a view to benefit a man with whose misfortunes his own lips have made me acquainted, and who has awakened in my breast the deepest sympathy. i know the cause and extent of his dejection. i know the event which has given birth to horror and remorse in his heart. he believes that, by his means, his patroness and benefactress has found an untimely death." these words produced a visible shock in my companion, which evinced that i had at least engaged his attention. i proceeded:-"this unhappy lady was cursed with a wicked and unnatural brother. she conceived a disproportionate affection for this brother, and erroneously imagined that her fate was blended with his, that their lives would necessarily terminate at the same period, and that, therefore, whoever was the contriver of his death was likewise, by a fatal and invincible necessity, the author of her own. "clithero was her servant, but was raised by her bounty to the station of her son and the rank of her friend. clithero, in self-defence, took away the life of that unnatural brother, and, in that deed, falsely but cogently believed that he had perpetrated the destruction of his benefactress. "to ascertain the truth, he sought her presence. she was found, the tidings of her brother's death were communicated, and she sank breathless at his feet." at these words clithero started from the ground, and cast upon me looks of furious indignation. "and come you hither," he muttered, "for this end?--to recount my offences and drive me again to despair?" "no," answered i, with quickness; "i come to outroot a fatal but powerful illusion. i come to assure you that the woman with whose destruction you charge yourself is _not dead_." these words, uttered with the most emphatical solemnity, merely produced looks in which contempt was mingled with anger. he continued silent. "i perceive," resumed i, "that my words are disregarded. would to heaven i were able to conquer your incredulity, could show you not only the truth but the probability of my tale! can you not confide in me? that euphemia lorimer is now alive, is happy, is the wife of sarsefield? that her brother is forgotten and his murderer regarded without enmity or vengeance?" he looked at me with a strange expression of contempt. "come," said he, at length; "make out thy assertion to be true. fall on thy knees, and invoke the thunder of heaven to light on thy head if thy words be false. swear that euphemia lorimer is alive; happy; forgetful of wiatte and compassionate of me. swear that thou hast seen her; talked with her; received from her own lips the confession of her pity for him who aimed a dagger at her bosom. swear that she is sarsefield's wife." i put my hands together, and, lifting my eyes to heaven, exclaimed, "i comply with your conditions. i call the omniscient god to witness that euphemia lorimer is alive; that i have seen her with these eyes; have talked with her; have inhabited the same house for months." these asseverations were listened to with shuddering. he laid not aside, however, an air of incredulity and contempt. "perhaps," said he, "thou canst point out the place of her abode?--canst guide me to the city, the street, the very door of her habitation?" "i can. she resides at this moment in the city of new york; in broadway; in a house contiguous to the--." "'tis well!" exclaimed my companion, in a tone loud, abrupt, and in the utmost degree vehement. "'tis well! rash and infatuated youth, thou hast ratified, beyond appeal or forgiveness, thy own doom. thou hast once more let loose my steps, and sent me on a fearful journey. thou hast furnished the means of detecting thy imposture. i will fly to the spot which thou describest. i will ascertain thy falsehood with my own eyes. if she be alive, then am i reserved for the performance of a new crime. my evil destiny will have it so. if she be dead, i shall make thee expiate." so saying, he darted through the door, and was gone in a moment beyond my sight and my reach. i ran to the road, looked on every side, and called; but my calls were repeated in vain. he had fled with the swiftness of a deer. my own embarrassment, confusion, and terror were inexpressible. his last words were incoherent. they denoted the tumult and vehemence of frenzy. they intimated his resolution to seek the presence of your wife. i had furnished a clue which could not fail to conduct him to her presence. what might not be dreaded from the interview? clithero is a maniac. this truth cannot be concealed. your wife can with difficulty preserve her tranquillity when his image occurs to her remembrance. what must it be when he starts up before her in his neglected and ferocious guise, and armed with purposes perhaps as terrible as those which had formerly led him to her secret chamber and her bedside? his meaning was obscurely conveyed. he talked of a deed for the performance of which his malignant fate had reserved him, which was to ensue their meeting, and which was to afford disastrous testimony of the infatuation which had led me hither. heaven grant that some means may suggest themselves to you of intercepting his approach! yet i know not what means can be conceived. some miraculous chance may befriend you; yet this is scarcely to be hoped. it is a visionary and fantastic base on which to rest our security. i cannot forget that my unfortunate temerity has created this evil. yet who could foresee this consequence of my intelligence? i imagined that clithero was merely a victim of erroneous gratitude, a slave of the errors of his education and the prejudices of his rank; that his understanding was deluded by phantoms in the mask of virtue and duty, and not, as you have strenuously maintained, utterly subverted. i shall not escape your censure, but i shall, likewise, gain your compassion. i have erred, not through sinister or malignant intentions, but from the impulse of misguided, indeed, but powerful, benevolence. letter iii. _to edgar huntly_. new york. edgar:-after the fatigues of the day, i returned home. as i entered, my wife was breaking the seal of a letter; but, on seeing me, she forbore, and presented the letter to me. "i saw," said she, "by the superscription of this letter, who the writer was. so, agreeably to your wishes, i proceeded to open it; but you have come just time enough to save me the trouble." this letter was from you. it contained information relative to clithero. see how imminent a chance it was that saved my wife from a knowledge of its contents! it required all my efforts to hide my perturbation from her and excuse myself from showing her the letter. i know better than you the character of clithero, and the consequences of a meeting between him and my wife. you may be sure that i would exert myself to prevent a meeting. the method for me to pursue was extremely obvious. clithero is a madman, whose liberty is dangerous, and who requires to be fettered and imprisoned as the most atrocious criminal. i hastened to the chief-magistrate, who is my friend, and, by proper representations, obtained from him authority to seize clithero wherever i should meet with him, and effectually debar him from the perpetration of new mischiefs. new york does not afford a place of confinement for lunatics as suitable to his case as pennsylvania. i was desirous of placing him as far as possible from the place of my wife's residence. fortunately, there was a packet for philadelphia on the point of setting out on her voyage. this vessel i engaged to wait a day or two, for the purpose of conveying him to pennsylvania hospital. meanwhile, proper persons were stationed at powles hook, and at the quays where the various stage-boats from jersey arrive. these precautions were effectual. not many hours after the receipt of your intelligence, this unfortunate man applied for a passage at elizabethtown, was seized the moment he set his foot on shore, and was forthwith conveyed to the packet, which immediately set sail. i designed that all these proceedings should be concealed from the women, but unfortunately neglected to take suitable measures for hindering the letter, which you gave me reason to expect on the ensuing day, from coming into their hands. it was delivered to my wife in my absence, and opened immediately by her. you know what is, at present, her personal condition. you know what strong reasons i had to prevent any danger or alarm from approaching her. terror could not assume a shape more ghastly than this. the effects have been what might have been easily predicted. her own life has been imminently endangered, and an untimely birth has blasted my fondest hope. her infant, with whose future existence so many pleasures were entwined, is dead. i assure you, edgar, my philosophy has not found itself lightsome and active under this burden. i find it hard to forbear commenting on your rashness in no very mild terms. you acted in direct opposition to my counsel and to the plainest dictates of propriety. be more circumspect and more obsequious for the future. you knew the liberty that would be taken of opening my letters; you knew of my absence from home during the greatest part of the day, and the likelihood, therefore, that your letters would fall into my wife's hands before they came into mine. these considerations should have prompted you to send them under cover to whitworth or harvey, with directions to give them immediately to me. some of these events happened in my absence; for i determined to accompany the packet myself, and see the madman safely delivered to the care of the hospital. i will not torture your sensibility by recounting the incidents of his arrest and detention. you will imagine that his strong but perverted reason exclaimed loudly against the injustice of his treatment. it was easy for him to out-reason his antagonist, and nothing but force could subdue his opposition. on me devolved the province of his jailer and his tyrant,--a province which required a heart more steeled by spectacles of suffering and the exercise of cruelty than mine had been. scarcely had we passed the narrows, when the lunatic, being suffered to walk the deck, (as no apprehensions were entertained of his escape in such circumstances,) threw himself overboard, with a seeming intention to gain the shore. the boat was immediately manned; the fugitive was pursued; but, at the moment when his flight was overtaken, he forced himself beneath the surface, and was seen no more. with the life of this wretch, let our regrets and our forebodings terminate. he has saved himself from evils for which no time would have provided a remedy, from lingering for years in the noisome dungeon of a hospital. having no reason to continue my voyage, i put myself on board a coasting-sloop, and regained this city in a few hours. i persuade myself that my wife's indisposition will be temporary. it was impossible to hide from her the death of clithero, and its circumstances. may this be the last arrow in the quiver of adversity! farewell. +----------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's notes: | | | | words surrounded by _ are italicized. | | | | a number of obvious errors have been corrected in this text. | | for a complete list, please see the bottom of this document. | | | +----------------------------------------------------------------+ our philadelphia [illustration: looking up broad street from spruce street] our philadelphia described by elizabeth robins pennell illustrated with one hundred & five lithographs by joseph pennell philadelphia and london j. b. lippincott company mcmxiv copyright, 1914, by j. b. lippincott company published october, 1914 printed by j. b. lippincott company at the washington square press philadelphia, u. s. a. preface to-day, when it is the american born in the ghetto, or syria, or some other remote part of the earth, whose recollections are prized, it may seem as if the following pages called for an apology. i have none to make. they were written simply for the pleasure of gathering together my old memories of a town that, as my native place, is dear to me and my new impressions of it after an absence of a quarter of a century. but now i have finished i add to this pleasure in my book the pleasant belief that it will have its value for others, if only for two reasons. in the first place, j.'s drawings which illustrate it are his record of the old philadelphia that has passed and the new philadelphia that is passing--a record that in a few years it will be impossible for anybody to make, so continually is philadelphia changing. in the second, my story of philadelphia, perfect or imperfect, may in as short a time be equally impossible for anybody to repeat, since i am one of those old-fashioned americans, american by birth with many generations of american fore-fathers, who are rapidly becoming rare creatures among the hordes of new-fashioned americans who were anything and everything else no longer than a year or a week or an hour ago. elizabeth robins pennell 3 adelphi terrace house, london may, 1914 contents chapter page i. an explanation 1 ii. a child in philadelphia 24 iii. a child in philadelphia (continued) 48 iv. at the convent 72 v. transitional 104 vi. the social adventure 130 vii. the social adventure: the assembly 154 viii. a question of creed 175 ix. the first awakening 205 x. the miracle of work 233 xi. the romance of work 268 xii. philadelphia and literature 304 xiii. philadelphia and literature (continued) 332 xiv. philadelphia and art 368 xv. philadelphia and art (continued) 390 xvi. philadelphia at table 413 xvii. philadelphia at table (continued) 433 xviii. philadelphia after a quarter of a century 451 xix. philadelphia after a quarter of a century (continued) 477 xx. philadelphia after a quarter of a century (continued) 509 index 543 illustrations page looking up broad street from spruce street _frontispiece_ delancey place 3 "portico row," spruce street 7 arch street meeting house 13 the schuylkill south from callowhill street 17 friends' graveyard, germantown 21 in rittenhouse square 25 the pennsylvania hospital from the grounds 29 "eleventh and spruce" 33 drawing room at cliveden 37 back-yards, st. peter's spire in the distance 45 independence square and the state house 51 christ church interior 57 classic fairmount 65 down pine street 69 loudoun, main street, germantown 75 entrance to fairmount and the washington statue 83 main street, germantown 89 arch street meeting 95 the train shed, broad street station 99 st. peter's, interior 105 the pennsylvania hospital from pine street 109 second street market 115 fourth and arch streets meeting house 121 johnson house, germantown 127 the customs house 131 under broad street station at fifteenth street 135 the philadelphia club, thirteenth and walnut streets 141 the new ritz-carlton; the finishing touches; the walnut street addition has since been made 149 the hall, stenton 155 "proclaim liberty throughout all the land into all the inhabitants thereof" 159 bed room, stenton, the home of james logan 163 the tunnel in the park 167 the boat houses on the schuylkill 171 the pulpit, st. peter's 179 the cathedral, logan square 185 christ church, from second street 189 first presbyterian church, seventh street and washington square 195 old swedes' church 201 independence hall: the original desk on which the declaration of independence was signed and the chair used by the president of congress, john hancock, in 1776 207 philadelphia from belmont 211 the dining room, stenton 217 down the aisle at christ church 223 the bridge across market street from broad street station 229 state house yard 235 the penitentiary 247 on the reading, at sixteenth street 251 locust street east from broad street 255 broad street, looking south from above arch street 261 clinton street, with the pennsylvania hospital at its end 265 the cherry street stairs near the river 269 the morris house on eighth street 273 the old coaching-inn yard 279 franklin's grave 285 arch street meeting 291 cliveden, the chew house 295 bartram's 301 carpenter's hall, interior 305 main street, germantown 311 arch street meeting--interior 317 front and callowhill 321 the elevated at market street wharf 327 dr. furness's house, west washington square, just before it was pulled down 333 the germantown academy 339 the state house from independence square 345 "the little street of clubs," camac street above spruce street 349 down sansom street from eighth street. the low houses at seventh street have since been torn down and the western end of the curtis building now occupies their place 353 the double stairway in the pennsylvania hospital 359 carpenter's hall, built 1771 365 independence hall--lengthwise view 369 girard college 377 upsala, germantown 383 the hall at cliveden, the chew house 387 the old water-works, fairmount park 391 the stairway, state house 397 upper room, stenton 403 wyck--the doorway from within 409 the philadelphia dispensary from independence square 415 morris house, germantown 419 the state house colonnade 425 the smith memorial, west fairmount park 431 the basin, old water-works 435 girard street 441 the union league, from broad and chestnut streets 415 broad street station 453 wanamaker's 457 st. peter's churchyard 461 city hall from the schuylkill 465 chestnut street bridge 469 the narrow street 475 the market street elevated at the delaware end 479 the railroad bridges at falls of schuylkill 483 the parkway pergolas 487 market street west of the schuylkill 491 manheim cricket ground 497 dock street and the exchange 501 the locomotive yard, west philadelphia 507 the girard trust company 511 twelfth street meeting house 515 wyck 519 the massed sky-scrapers above the housetops 523 sunset. philadelphia from across the delaware 527 the union league between the sky-scrapers 531 up broad street from league island 535 from gray's ferry 539 our philadelphia chapter i: an explanation i i think i have a right to call myself a philadelphian, though i am not sure if philadelphia is of the same opinion. i was born in philadelphia, as my father was before me, but my ancestors, having had the sense to emigrate to america in time to make me as american as an american can be, were then so inconsiderate as to waste a couple of centuries in virginia and maryland, and my grandfather was the first of the family to settle in a town where it is important, if you belong at all, to have belonged from the beginning. however, j.'s ancestors, with greater wisdom, became at the earliest available moment not only philadelphians, but philadelphia friends, and how very much more that means philadelphians know without my telling them. and so, as he does belong from the beginning and as i would have belonged had i had my choice, for i would rather be a philadelphian than any other sort of american. i do not see why i cannot call myself one despite the blunder of my forefathers in so long calling themselves something else. i might hope that my affection alone for philadelphia would give me the right, were i not philadelphian enough to know that philadelphia is, as it always was and always will be, cheerfully indifferent to whatever love its citizens may have to offer it. i can hardly suppose my claim for gratitude greater than that of its founder or the long succession of philadelphians between his time and mine who have loved it and been snubbed or bullied in return. indeed, in the face of this philadelphia indifference, my affection seems so superfluous that i often wonder why it should be so strong. but wise or foolish, there it is, strengthening with the years whether i will or no,--a deeper rooted sentiment than i thought i was capable of for the town with which the happiest memories of my childhood are associated, where the first irresponsible days of my youth were spent, which never ceased to be home to me during the more than a quarter of a century i lived away from it. [illustration: delancey place] besides, philadelphia attracts me apart from what it may stand for in memory or from the charm sentiment may lend to it. i love its beauty--the beauty of tranquil streets, of red brick houses with white marble steps, of pleasant green shade, of that peaceful look of the past philadelphians cross the ocean to rave over in the little old dead towns of england and holland--a beauty that is now fast disappearing. i love its character--the calm, the dignity, the reticence with which it has kept up through the centuries with the american pace, the airs of a demure country village with which it has done the work and earned the money of a big bustling town, the cloistered seclusion with which it enjoys its luxury and hides its palaces behind its plain brick fronts--a character that also is fast going. i love its history, though i am no historian, for the little i know colours its beauty and accounts for its character. ii it is not for nothing that i begin with this flourish of my birth certificate and public confession of love. i want to establish my right, first, to call myself a philadelphian, and then, to talk about philadelphia as freely as we only can talk about the places and the people and the things we belong to and care for. i would not dare to take such a liberty with philadelphia if my references were not in order, for, as a philadelphian, i appreciate the risk. not that i have any idea of writing the history of philadelphia. i hope i have the horror, said to be peculiar to all generous minds, of what are commonly called facts, and also the intelligence not to attempt what i know i cannot do. another good reason is that the history has already been written more than once. philadelphians, almost from their cave-dwelling period, have seemed conscious of the eye of posterity upon them. they had hardly landed on the banks of the delaware before they began to write alarmingly long letters which they preserved, and elaborate diaries which they kept with equal care. and the letter-writing, diary-keeping fever was so in the air that strangers in the town caught it: from richard castleman to john adams, from john adams to charles dickens, from charles dickens to henry james, every visitor, with writing for profession or amusement, has had more or less to say about it--usually more. the historical society of pennsylvania has gathered the old material together; our indispensable antiquary, john watson, has gleaned the odds and ends left by the way; and no end of modern writers in philadelphia have ransacked their stores of information: dr. weir mitchell making novels out of them, mr. sydney fisher and miss agnes repplier, history; mr. hampton carson using them as the basis of further research; miss anne hollingsworth wharton resurrecting colonial life and society and fashions from them, mr. eberlein and mr. lippincott, the genealogy of colonial houses; other patriotic citizens helping themselves in one way or another; until, among them all, they have filled a large library and prepared a sufficiently formidable task for the historian of philadelphia in generations to come without my adding to his burden. iii it is an amusing library, as philadelphians may believe now they are getting over the bad habit into which they had fallen of belittling their town, much in their town's fashion of belittling them. i am afraid it was partly their fault if the rest of america fell into the same habit. as i recall my old feelings and attitude, it seems to me that in my day we must have been brought up to look down upon philadelphia. the town surely cut a poor figure in my school books, and the purplest patches in colonial history must have been there reserved for new england or new york, virginia or the carolinas, for any and every colony rather than the province of pennsylvania, or i would not have left school better posted in the legends of powhatan and pocahontas than in the life of william penn, and more edified by the burning of witches and the tracking of indians than by the struggles of friends to give every man the liberty to go to heaven his own way. the amiable contempt in which philadelphians held william penn revealed itself in their free-and-easy way of speaking of him, if they spoke of him at all, as billy penn, though penn would have been the last to invite the familiarity. probably few outside the society of friends could have said just what he had done for their town, or just what they owed to him. if i am not mistaken, the prevailing idea was that his chief greatness consisted in the cleverness with which he fooled the land out of the indians for a handful of beads. [illustration: "portico row" spruce street] the present generation could not be so ignorant if it wanted to. the statue of penn, in full-skirted coat and broad-brimmed hat, dominating philadelphia from the ugly tower of the public buildings, though it may not be a thing of beauty, at least suggests to philadelphians that it would not have been put up there, the most conspicuous landmark from the streets and the surrounding country, if penn had not been somebody, or done something, of some consequence. as for the rest of america, i doubt if it often comes so near to philadelphia that it can see the statue. the last time i went to new york from london i met on the steamer a man from michigan who had obviously been but a short time before a man from cork, and who was so keen to stop in philadelphia on his way west that i might have been astonished had i not heard so much of the miraculously rapid americanization of the modern emigrant. most people do not want to stop in philadelphia unless they have business there, and he had none, and naturally i could not imagine any other motive except the desire to see the town which is of the greatest historic importance in the united states and which still possesses proofs of it. but the man from michigan gave me to understand, and pretty quick too, that he did not know philadelphia had a history and old buildings to prove it, and what was more, he did not care if it had. he guessed history wasn't in his line. what he wanted was to take the next train to atlantic city; folks he knew had been there and said it was great. and i rather think this is the way most americans, from america or from cork, feel about philadelphia. iv it is not my affair to enlighten them or anybody else. i have a more personal object in view. philadelphia may mean to other people nothing at all--that is their loss; i am concerned entirely with what it means to me. in those wonderful eighteen-nineties, now written about with awe by the younger generation as if no less prehistoric than the period of the renaissance, until it makes me feel a new methusaleh to own that i lived and worked through them, we were always being told that art should be the artist's record of nature seen through a temperament, criticism the critic's story of his adventures among the world's masterpieces, and though i am neither artist nor critic, though i am not sure what a temperament is, much less if i have one, still i fancy this expresses in a way the end i have set myself in writing about philadelphia. for i should like, if i can, to record my personal impressions of the town i love and to give my adventures among the beautiful things, the humorous things, the tragic things it contains in more than ample measure. my interest is in my personal experiences, but these have been coloured by the history of philadelphia since i have dabbled in it, and have become richer and more amusing. i have learned, with age and reading and travelling, that philadelphia as it is cannot really be known without some knowledge of philadelphia as it was: also that philadelphia, both as it is and as it was, is worth knowing. americans will wander to the ends of the earth to study the psychology--as they call it of people they never could understand however hard they tried; they will shut themselves up in a remote town of italy or spain to master the secrets of its prehistoric past; they will squander months in the bibliothã¨que nationale or the british museum to get at the true atmosphere of paris or london; when, had they only stopped their journey at broad street station in philadelphia or, if they were philadelphians, never taken the train out of it, they could have had all the psychology and secrets and atmosphere they could ask for, with much less trouble and expense. i have never been to any town anywhere, and i have been to many in my time, that has more decided character than philadelphia, or to any where this character is more difficult to understand if the clue is not got from the past. for instance, people talk about philadelphia as if its one talent was for sleep, while the truth is, taking the sum of its achievements, no other american town has done so much hard work, no other has accomplished so much for the country. impressed as we are by the fact, it would be impossible to account for the reputation if it were not known that the people who made philadelphia presented the same puzzling contradiction in their own lives--the only people who ever understood how to be in the world and not of it. [illustration: arch street meeting house] the usual alternative to not being of the world is to be in a cloister or to live like a hermit, to accept a role in common or to renounce social intercourse. but the friends did not have to shut themselves up to conquer worldliness, they did not have to renounce the world's work and its rewards. for "affluence of the world's goods," isaac norris, writing from philadelphia, could felicitate jonathan dickinson, "knowing both thyself and dear wife have hearts and souls fit to use them." that was better than shirking temptation in a monk's cell or a philosopher's tub. if george fox wore a leather suit, it was because he found it convenient, but william penn, for whom it would have been highly inconvenient, had no scruple in dressing like other men of his position and wearing the blue ribbon of office. nor because religion was freed from all unessential ornament, was the house stripped of comfort and luxury. i write about friends with hesitation. i have been married to one now for many years and can realize the better therefore that none save friends can write of themselves with authority. but i hope i am right in thinking, as i always have thought since i read thomas elwood's _memoirs_, that their attitude is excellently explained in his account of his first visit to the penningtons "after they were become quakers" when, though he was astonished at the new gravity of their look and behaviour, he found guli springett amusing herself in the garden and the dinner "handsome." for the world's goods never being the end they were to the world's people, friends were as undisturbed by their possession as by their absence and, as a consequence, could meet and accept life, whether its gifts were wealth and power or poverty and obscurity, with the serenity few other men have found outside the cloister. moreover, they could speak the truth, calling a spade a spade, or their enemy the scabbed sheep, or smooth silly man, or vile fellow, or inhuman monster, or villain infecting the air with a hellish stench, he no doubt was, and never for a moment lose their tempers. this serenity--this "still strength"--is as the poles apart from the phlegmatic, constitutional slowness of the dutch in new york or, on the other hand, from the tranquillity henry james traces in progressive descent from taste, tradition, and history, even from the philosopher's calm of achieved indifference, and friends, having carried it to perfection in their own conduct, left it as a legacy to their town. [illustration: the schuylkill south from callowhill street] the usual american town, when it hustles, lets nobody overlook the fact that it is hustling. but philadelphia has done its work as calmly as the friends have done theirs, never boasting of its prosperity, never shouting its success and riches from the house-top, and its dignified serenity has been mistaken for sleep. whistler used to say that if the general does not tell the world he has won the battle, the world will never hear of it. the trouble with philadelphia is that it has kept its triumph to itself. but we have got so far from the old friends that no harm can be done if philadelphians begin to interpret their town's serenity to a world capable of confusing it with drowsiness. if america is ready to forget, if for long philadelphians were as ready, it is high time we should remember ourselves and remind america of the services philadelphia has rendered to the country, and its good taste in rendering them with so little fuss that all the country has done in return is to laugh at philadelphia as a back number. v philadelphians have grown accustomed to the laugh. we have heard it since we were in our cradles. we are used to have other americans come to our town and,--in the face of our factory chimneys smoking along the schuylkill and our ship-building yards in full swing on the delaware, and our locomotives pouring out over the world by i do not know how many thousands from the works in broad street, and our mills going at full pressure in the "little england" of kensington, in frankford and germantown,--in the face of our busy schools and hospitals and academies,--in the face of our stores and banks and charities,--that is, in the face of our industry, our learning, and our philanthropy that have given tips to the whole country,--see only our sleep-laden eyes and hear only our sluggish snores. we know the foolish stories they tell. we have heard many more times than we can count of the bostonian who retires to philadelphia for complete intellectual rest, and the new yorker who when he has a day off comes to spend a week in philadelphia, and the philadelphian who goes to new york to eat the snails he cannot catch in his own back-yard. we have heard until we have it by heart that philadelphia is a cemetery, and the road to it, the road to yesterday. we are so familiar with the venerable _clichã©_ that we can but wonder at its gift of eternal youth. never was there a jest that wore so well with those who make it. the comic column is rarely complete without it, and it is forever cropping up where least expected. in the last american novel i opened philadelphia was described as hanging on to the last strap of the last car to the sound of gabriel's horn on judgment day; in the last american magazine story i read the philadelphia heroine by her philadelphia calm conquered the cowboys of the west, as friends of old disarmed their judges in court. in the general americanization of london, even the london papers have seized upon the slowness of philadelphia as a joke for londoners to roar at. li hung chang couldn't visit philadelphia without dozing through the ceremonies in his honour and noting the appropriateness of it in his diary. and so it goes on, the witticism to-day apparently as fresh as it was in the stone age from which it has come down to us. [illustration: friends' graveyard, germantown] if philadelphians laugh, that is another matter--every man has the right to laugh at himself. but we have outlived our old affectation of indifference to our town, i am not sure that we are not pushing our profession of pride in it too far to the other extreme. i remember the last time i was home i went to a public meeting called to talk about the world's waterways, and no philadelphian present, from the mayor down, could talk of anything but philadelphia and its greatness. but whatever may be our pose now, or next year, or the year after, there is always beneath it a substantial layer of affection, for we cannot help knowing, if nobody else does, what philadelphia is and what philadelphia has done. certainly, it is because i know that i, for one, would so much rather be the philadelphian i am, and my ancestors were not, than any other sort of american, that, as i have grown older, my love for my town has surprised me by its depth, and makes my confession of it now seem half pleasure, half duty. chapter ii: a child in philadelphia i if i made my first friendships from my perambulator, or trundling my hoop and skipping my rope, in rittenhouse square, as every philadelphian should, they were interrupted and broken so soon that i have no memory of them. [illustration: in rittenhouse square] it was my fate to be sent to boarding-school before i had time to lay in a store of the associations that are the common property of happier philadelphians of my generation. i do not know if i was ever taken, as j. and other privileged children were, to the pennsylvania hospital on summer evenings to see william penn step down from his pedestal when he heard the clock strike six, or to the philadelphia library to wait until benjamin franklin, hearing the same summons, left his high niche for a neighbouring saloon. i cannot recall the firemen's fights and the cries of negroes selling pop-corn and ice-cream through the streets that fill some philadelphia reminiscences i have read. i cannot say if i ever went anywhere by the omnibus sleigh in winter, or to west philadelphia by the stage at any time of the year. i never coasted down the hills of germantown, i never skated on the schuylkill. when my contemporaries compare notes of these and many more delightful things in the amazing, romantic, incredible philadelphia they grew up in, it annoys me to find myself out of it all, sharing none of their recollections, save one and that the most trivial. for, from the vagueness of the remote past, no event emerges so clearly as the periodical visit of "crazy norah," a poor, harmless, half-witted wanderer, who wore a man's hat and top boots, with bits of ribbon scattered over her dress, and who, on her aimless rounds, drifted into all the philadelphia kitchens to the fearful joy of the children; and my memory may be less of her personally than of much talk of her helped by her resemblance, or so i fancied, to a picture of meg merrilies in a collection of engravings of walter scott's heroines owned by an uncle, and almost the first book i can remember. ii but great as was my loss, i fancy my memories of old philadelphia gain in vividness for being so few. one of the most vivid is of the interminable drive in the slow horse-car which was the longest part of the journey to and from my convent school,--which is the longest part of any journey i ever made, not to be endured at the time but for the chanting over and over to myself of all the odds and ends of verse i had got by heart, from the dramas of _little miss muffett_ and _little jack horner_ to poe's _bells_ and tennyson's _lady of shalott_--but in memory a drive to be rejoiced in, for nothing could have been more characteristic of philadelphia as it was then. the convent was in torresdale on the pennsylvania railroad, and the pennsylvania depot--philadelphia had as yet no stations and terminals--was in the distant, unknown quarter of frankford. i believe it is used as a freight station now and i have sometimes thought that, for sentiment's sake, i should like to make a pilgrimage to it over the once well-travelled road. but the modern trolley has deserted the straight course of the unadventurous horse-car of my day and i doubt if ever again i could find my way back. the old horse-car went, without turn or twist, along third street. i started from the corner of spruce, having got as far as that by the slower, more infrequent spruce street car, and after i had passed the fine old houses where philadelphians--not aliens--lived, a good part of the route lay through a busy business section. but there has stayed with me as my chief impression of the endless street a sense of eternal calm. no matter how much solid work was being done, no matter how many fortunes were being made and unmade, it was always placid on the surface, uneventful and unruffled. the car, jingling along in leisurely fashion, was the one sign of animation. [illustration: the pennsylvania hospital from the grounds] or often, in spring and summer, i went by boat, from--so false is memory--i cannot say what wharf, up the delaware. this was a pleasanter journey and every bit as leisurely and as characteristic in its way of philadelphia life. for though i might catch the early afternoon boat, it was sure to be full of business men returning from their offices to their houses on the river. philadelphians did not wait for the main line to be invented to settle in the suburbs. they have always had a fancy for the near country ever since penn lived in state at pennsbury, and logan at stenton; ever since bartram planted his garden on the banks of the schuylkill, and arnold brought peggy shippen as his bride to mount pleasant; ever since all the colonial country houses we are so proud of were built. i have the haziest memory of the places where the boat stopped between philadelphia and torresdale and of the people who got out there. but i cannot help remembering torresdale for it was as prominent a stopping-place in my journey through youth as it is in the journey up the delaware. the convent was my home for years, and i had many friends in the houses down by the riverside and scattered over the near country. their names are among the most familiar in my youthful recollections: the macalisters, the grants--one of my brothers named after the father--the hopkins--another of my brothers marrying in the family--the fishers, keatings, steadmans, kings, bories, whelans. it was not often i could go or come without meeting somebody i knew on board. i am a cockney myself, i love the town, but i can understand that philadelphians whose homes were in the country, especially if that country lay along the shores of the delaware, liked to get back early enough to profit by it; that, busy and full of affairs as they might be, they not only liked but managed to, shows how far hustling was from the old philadelphia scheme of things. nowadays the motor brings the country into town and town into the country. but the miles between town and country were then lengthened into leagues by the leisurely boat and the leisurely horse-car which, as i look back, seem to set the pace of life in philadelphia when i was young. iii at first my holidays were spent mostly at the convent. my father, with the young widower's embarrassment when confronted by his motherless children, solved the problem the existence of my sister and myself was to him by putting us where he knew we were safe and well out of his way. i do not blame him. what is a man to do when he finds himself with two little girls on his clumsy masculine hands? but the result was he had no house of his own to bring us to when the other girls hurried joyfully home at christmas and easter and for the long summer holiday. it hurt as i used to watch them walking briskly down the long path on the way to the station. and yet, i scored in the end, for philadelphia was the more marvellous to me, visiting it rarely, than it could have been to children to whom it was an everyday affair. [illustration: "eleventh and spruce"] for years my grandfather's house was the scene of the occasional visit. he lived in spruce street above eleventh--the typical philadelphia street, straight and narrow, on either side rows of red brick houses, each with white marble steps, white shutters below and green shutters above, and along the red brick pavement rows of trees which made philadelphia the green country town of penn's desire, but the philadelphian's life a burden in the springtime before the coming of the sparrows. philadelphia, as i think of it in the old days at the season when the leaves were growing green, is always heavy with the odour of the evil-smelling ailantus and full of measuring worms falling upon me from every tree. my fear of "crazy norah" is hardly less clear in my early memories than the terror these worms were to the dear fragile little aunt who had cared for me in my first motherless years, and who still, during my holidays, kept a watchful eye on me to see that i put my "gums" on if i went out in the rain and that i had the money in my pocket to stop at dexter's for a plate of ice-cream. i can recall as if it were yesterday, her shrieks one easter sunday when she came home from church and found a green horror on her new spring bonnet and another on her petticoat, and her miserable certainty all through the early sunday dinner that many more were crawling over her somewhere. but, indeed, the philadelphians of to-day can never know from what loathsome creatures the sparrows have delivered them. my grandfather's house was as typical as the street--one of the quite modest four-story brick houses that were thought unseemly sky-scrapers and fire-traps when they were first built in philadelphia. i can never go by the old house of many memories--for sale, alas! the last time i passed and still for sale according to the last news to reach me even as i correct my proofs--without seeing myself as i used to be, arriving from the convent, small, plain, unbecomingly dressed and conscious of it, with my pretty, always-becomingly-dressed because nothing was unbecoming to her, not-in-the-least-shy sister, both standing in the vestibule between the inevitable philadelphia two front doors, the outer one as inevitably open all day long. and i see myself, when, in answer to our ring, the servant had opened the inner one as well, entering in a fresh access of shyness the wide lofty hall, with the front and back parlours to the right; philadelphians had no drawing-rooms then but were content with parlours, as penn had been who knew them by no other name. compared to the rich philadelphian's house to-day, my grandfather's looks very unpretending, but when houses like it, with two big parlours separated by folding doors, first became the fashion in philadelphia, they passed for palaces with philadelphians who disapproved of display, and the "tradesmen" living soberly in them were rebuked for aspiring to the luxury of princes. i cannot imagine why, for the old colonial houses are, many of them, as lofty and more spacious, though it was the simple spaciousness of my grandfather's and the loftiness of its ceilings that gave it charm. [illustration: drawing room at cliveden] my grandfather's two parlours, big as they were, would strike nobody to-day as palatial. it needs the glamour time throws over them for me to discover princely luxury in the rosewood and reps masterpieces of a deplorable period with which they were furnished, or in their decoration of beaded cushions and worsted-work mats and tidies, the lavish gifts of a devoted family. but i cannot remember the parlours and forget the respect with which they once inspired me. i own to a lingering affection for their crowning touch of ugliness, an ottoman with a top of the fashionable berlin work of the day--a white arum lily, done by the superior talent of the fancy store, on a red ground filled in by the industrious giver. it stood between the two front windows, so that we might have the additional rapture of seeing it a second time in the mirror which hung behind it. opposite, between the two windows of the back parlour, was a "rogers group" on a blue stand; and a replica, with variations, of both the ottoman and the "rogers group" could have been found in every other philadelphia front and back parlour. i recall also the three or four family portraits which i held in tremendous awe, however i may feel about them now; and the immensely high vases, unique creations that could not possibly have been designed for any purpose save to ornament the philadelphia mantelpiece; and the transparent lamp-shade, decorated with pictures of cats and children and landscapes, that at night, when the gas was lit, helped to keep me awake until i could escape to bed; and the lustre chandeliers hanging from the ceiling--what joy when one of the long prisms came loose and i could capture it and, looking through it, walk across the parlours and up the stairs straight into the splendid dangers of rainbow land! i had no time for these splendours on my arrival, nor, fortunately for me, was i left long to the tortures of my shyness. at the end of the hall, facing me, was the wide flight of stairs leading to the upper stories, and on the first landing, at their turning just where a few more steps led beyond into the back-building dining-room, my grandmother, in her white cap and purple ribbons, stood waiting. in my memory she and that landing are inseparable. whenever the door bell rang, she was out there at the first sound, ready to say "come right up, my dear!" to whichever one of her innumerable progeny it might he. to her right, filling an ample space in the windings of the back stairs, was the inexhaustible pantry which i knew, as well as she, we should presently visit together. though there could not have been in philadelphia or anywhere quite such another grandmother, even if most philadelphians feel precisely the same way about theirs, she was typical too, like the house and the street. she belonged to the generation of philadelphia women who took to old age almost as soon as they were mothers, put on caps and large easy shoes, invented an elderly dress from which they never deviated for the rest of their lives, except to exchange cashmere for silk, the everyday cap for one of fine lace and wider ribbons, on occasions of ceremony, and who as promptly forgot the world outside of their household and their family. i do not believe my grandmother had an interest in anybody except her children, or in anything except their affairs; though this did not mean that she gave up society when it was to their advantage that she should not. in her stiff silks and costly caps, she presided at every dinner, reception, and party given at home, as conscientiously as, in her sables and demure velvet bonnet, she made and returned calls in the season. my other memories are of comfortable, spacious rooms, good, solid, old-fashioned furniture, a few more old and some better-forgotten new family portraits on the walls, the engraving of gilbert stuart's washington over the dining-room mantelpiece, the sofa or couch in almost every room for the philadelphia nap before dinner, the two cheerful kitchens where, if the servants were amiable, i sometimes played, and, above all, the most enchanting back-yard that ever was or could be--we were not so elegant in those days as to call it a garden. iv since it has been the fashion to revive everything old in philadelphia, most philadelphians are not happy until they have their garden, as their forefathers had, and very charming they often make it in the suburbs. but in town my admiration has been asked for gardens that would have been lost in my grandfather's back-yard, and for a few meagre plants springing up about a cold paved square that would have been condemned as weeds in his luxuriant flower beds. the kindly magnifying glasses of memory cannot convert the spruce street yard into a rival of edward shippen's garden in second street where the old chronicles say there were orchards and a herd of deer, or of bartram's with its trees and plants collected from far and wide, or of any of the old philadelphia gardens in the days when in philadelphia no house, no public building, almost no church, could exist without a green space and great trees and many flowers about it, and when philadelphians loved their gardens so well, and hated so to leave them, that there is the story of one at least who came back after death to haunt the shady walks and fragrant lawns that were fairer to her than the fairest elysian fields in the land beyond the grave. much of the old beauty had gone before i was born, much was going as i grew from childhood to youth. my uncle, charles godfrey leland, has described the philadelphia garden of his early years, "with vines twined over arbours, where the magnolia, honeysuckle and rose spread rich perfume of summer nights, and where the humming bird rested, and scarlet tanager, or oriole, with the yellow and blue bird flitted in sunshine or in shade." though i go back to days before the sparrows had driven away not only the worms but all others of their own race, i recall no orioles and scarlet tanagers, no yellow and blue birds. philadelphia's one magnolia tree stood in front of the old dundas house at broad and walnut. all the same, my grandfather's was a back-yard of enchantment. a narrow brick-paved path led past the kitchens; on one side, close to the wall dividing my grandfather's yard from the next door neighbour's, was a border of roses and johnny-jump-ups and shrubs--the shrubs my grandmother used to pick for me, crush a little in her fingers, and tie up in a corner of my handkerchief, which was the philadelphia way--the most effective way that ever was--to make them give out their sweetness. beyond the kitchens, where the yard broadened into a large open space, the path enclosed, with a wider border of roses, two big grass plots which were shaded by fruit trees, all pink and white in the springtime. wistaria hung in purple showers over the high walls. i am sure lilacs bloomed at the kitchen door, and a vine of isabella grapes--the very name has an old philadelphia flavour and fragrance--covered the verandah that ran across the entire second story of the back-building. if sometimes this delectable back-yard was cold and bare, in my memory it is more apt to be sweet and gay with roses, shrubs and johnny-jump-ups,--summer and its pleasures oftener waiting on me there: probably because my visits to my grandfather's were more frequent in the summer time. but i have vague memories of winter days, when the rose bushes were done up in straw, and wooden steps covered the marble in front, and ashes were strewn over the icy pavement, and snow was piled waist-high in the gutter. v from the verandah there was a pleasant vista, up and down, of the same back-yards and the same back buildings, just as from the front windows there was a pleasant vista, up and down, of the same red-brick fronts, the same white marble steps, the same white and green shutters,--only one house daring upon originality, and this was bennett's, the ready-made clothes man, whose unusually large garden filled the opposite corner of eleventh and spruce with big country-like trees over to which i looked from my bedroom window. as a child, instinctively i got to know that inside every house, within sight and beyond, i would find the same front and back parlours, the same back-building dining-room, the same number of bedrooms, the same engraving of george washington over the dining-room mantelpiece, the same big red cedar chest in the third story hall and, in summer, the same parlours turned into cool grey cellars with the same matting on the floor, the same linen covers on the chairs, the same curtainless windows and carefully closed shutters, the same white gauze over mirrors and chandeliers--to light upon an item for gauze "to cover pictures and glass" in washington's household accounts while he lived in philadelphia is one of the things it is worth searching the old archives for. [illustration: back-yards, st. peter's spire in the distance] instinctively, i got to know too that, in every one of these well-regulated interiors where there was a little girl, she must, like me, be striving to be neither seen nor heard all the long morning, and sitting primly at the front window all the long afternoon, and that, if she ever played at home it was, like me, with measured steps and modulated voice: at all times cultivating the calm of manner expected of her when she, in her turn, would have just such a red brick house and just such a delectable back-yard of her own. thus, while the long months at the convent kept me busy cultivating every spiritual grace, during the occasional holiday at eleventh and spruce i was well drilled in the philadelphia virtues. chapter iii: a child in philadelphia--continued i naturally, i could not live in spruce street and not believe, as every philadelphian should and once did, that no other kind of a house except the spruce street house was fit for a philadelphian to live in. the philadelphian, from infancy, was convinced by his surroundings and bringing-up that there was but one way of doing things decently and respectably and that was the philadelphia way, nor can my prolonged exile relieve me from the sense of crime at times when i catch myself doing things not just as philadelphians used to do them. i was safe from any such crime in my grandfather's house. all philadelphia might have been let in without fear. had skeletons been concealed in the capacious cupboards, they would have been of the approved philadelphia pattern. my grandfather was not at all of montaigne's opinion that order in the management of life is sottish, but looked upon it rather as "heaven's first law." his day's programme was the same as in every red brick house with white marble steps and a back-yard full of roses and shrubs and johnny-jump-ups. everything at eleventh and spruce was done according to the same philadelphia rules at the same hour, from the washing of the family linen on monday, when sunday's beef was eaten cold for dinner, to the washing of the front on saturday morning, when philadelphia streets from end to end were all mops and maids, rivers and lakes. when my grandfather, with his family on their knees around him, began the day by reading morning prayers in the back-building dining-room, he could have had the satisfaction of knowing that every other philadelphia head of a family was engaged in the same edifying duty, but i hope, for every other philadelphia family's sake, with a trifle less awe-inspiring solemnity. after being present once at my grandfather's prayers, nobody needed to be assured that life was earnest. he did not shed his solemnity when he rose from his knees, nor when he had finished his breakfast of scrapple and buckwheat cakes and left the breakfast table. he was as solemn in his progress through the streets to the philadelphia bank, at fourth and chestnut, of which he was president, and having said so much perhaps i might as well add his name, thomas robins, for in his day he was widely known and it is a satisfaction to remember, as widely appreciated both in and out of philadelphia. his clothes were always of the most admirable cut and fit and of a fashion becoming to his years, he carried a substantial cane with a gold top, his stock was never laid aside for a frivolous modern cravat, his silk hat was as indispensable, and his slow walk had a dignity royalty might have envied. he was a handsome old man and a noticeable figure even in philadelphia streets at the hour when john welsh from the corner, and biddles and cadwalladers and whartons and peppers and lewises and a host of other handsome old philadelphians with good philadelphia names from the near neighborhood, were starting downtown in clothes as irreproachable and with a gait no less dignified. the foreigner's idea of the american is of a slouchy, free-and-easy man for ever cracking jokes. but slouchiness and jokes had no place in the dictionary or the deportment of my grandfather and his contemporaries, at a period when philadelphia supplied men like john welsh for its country to send as representatives abroad and there carry on the traditions of franklin and john adams and jefferson. my father--edward robins--inherited more than his share of this old-fashioned philadelphia manner, making a ceremony of the morning walk to his office and the sunday walk to church. but it has been lost by younger generations, more's the pity. in memory i would not have my grandfather a shade less solemn, though at the time his solemnity put me on anything but easy terms with him. ii the respectful bang of the front door upon my grandfather's dignified back after breakfast was the signal for the family to relax. the cloth was at once cleared, my grandmother and my aunts--like all philadelphia mothers and daughters--brought their work-baskets into the dining-room and sat and gossiped there until it was time for my grandmother to go and see the butcher and the provision dealer, or for my aunts to make those formal calls for which the morning then was the unpardonable hour. [illustration: independence square and the state house] it seems to me, in looking back, as if my grandmother could never have gone out of the house except on an errand to the provision man, such an important part did it play in her daily round of duties. she never went to market. that was not the philadelphia woman's business, it was the philadelphia man's. my grandfather, at the time of which i write, must have grown too old for the task, which was no light one, for it meant getting up at unholy hours every wednesday and every saturday, leaving the rest of the family in their comfortable beds, and being back again in time for prayers and eight o'clock breakfast. i cannot say how this division of daily labour was brought about. the century before, a short time as things go in philadelphia, it was the other way round and the young philadelphia woman at her marketing was one of the sights strangers in the town were taken to see. but in my time it was so much the man's right that as a child i believed there was something essentially masculine in going to market, just as there was in making the mayonnaise for the salad at dinner. a philadelphia man valued his salad too highly to trust its preparation to a woman. it was almost a shock to me when my father allowed my motherly little aunt to relieve him of the responsibility in the spruce street house. and later on, when he re-married and again lived in a house of his own, and my step-mother made a mayonnaise quite equal to his or to any mere man's, not even to her would he shift the early marketing,--his presence in the twelfth street market as essential on wednesday and saturday mornings as in the stock exchange every day--and his conscientiousness was the more astonishing as his genius was by no means for domesticity. philadelphia women respected man's duties and rights in domestic, as in all, matters. i remember an elderly philadelphian, who was stopping at blossom's hotel in chester, where all americans thirty years ago began their english tour, telling me the many sauces on the side table had looked so good she would have liked to try them and, on my asking her why in the world she had not, saying they had not been offered to her and she thought perhaps they were for the gentlemen. only a philadelphian among americans could have given that answer. towards three o'clock in the spruce street house, my grandmother would be found, her cap carefully removed, stretched full-length upon the sofa in the dining-room. the picture would not be complete if i left out my father's rage because the dining-room was used for her before-dinner nap as for almost every purpose of domestic life by the women of the family. i have often wondered where he got such an un-philadelphia idea. in every house where there was a grandmother, she was taking her nap at the same hour on the same sofa in the same dining-room. i could never see the harm. it was the most comfortable room in the house, without the isolation of the bedroom or the formality of the parlours. at four, my grandfather returned from his day's work, the family re-assembled, holding him in sufficient awe never to be late, and dinner was served. the hour was part of the leisurely life of philadelphia as ordered in spruce street. philadelphians had dined at four during a hundred years and more, and my grandfather, who rarely condescended to the frivolity of change, continued to dine at four, as he continued to wear a stock, until the end of his life. it was no doubt because of the contrast with convent fare that the dinner in my recollection remains the most wonderful and elaborate i have ever eaten, though i rack my brains in vain to recall any of its special features except the figs and prunes on the high dessert dishes, altogether the most luscious figs and prunes ever grown and dried, and the decanter at my grandfather's place from which he dropped into his glass the few drops of brandy he drank with his water while everybody else drank their water undiluted. when friends came to dinner, i recall also the philadelphia decanter of madeira, though otherwise no greater ceremony. dinner was always as solemn an affair in my grandfather's house as morning prayers or any act of daily life over which he presided, the whole house, at all times when he left it, relapsing into dressing-gown and slippered ease after the full-dress decorum his presence required of it. the eight o'clock tea is a more definite function in my memory, perhaps because the hours of waiting for it crept by so slowly. after dinner, the aunts, my father, the one uncle who lived at home, vanished i never knew where, though no doubt philadelphia supplied some amusement or occupation for the forlorn wreck four o'clock dinner made of the afternoon. but the interval was spent by my grandfather and grandmother at one of the front parlour windows, the old-fashioned philadelphia afghan over their knees, their hands folded, while i, alone, my sister having had the independence to vanish with the grown-ups, sat at the other, not daring to break the silence in which they looked out into the drowsy street for the people who seldom came and the events that never happened; nothing disturbing the calm of spruce street save the sunday afternoon invasion of the colored people in their sunday clothes from every near alley. it gives me a pang now to pass and see the window empty that once was always filled, in the hour before twilight, by those two dear grey heads. iii as i grew a little older, i had the courage to bring a book to the window. it was there i read _the lamplighter_ which i confuse now with the memory of our own lamplighter making his rounds; and _the initials_ with a haughty hilda for heroine--she must have been haughty for all real heroines then were; and _queechy_ and _the wide, wide world_ and _faith gartney's girlhood_, against whose sentiment i am glad to say i revolted. and mixed up with these were mrs. southworth's _lost heiress_ and the anonymous _routledge_, light books for whose presence i cannot account in my grandfather's serious house. does anybody read _routledge_ now? has anybody now ever heard of it? what trash it was, but, after the improving romances with a religious moral of the convent library, after wiseman's edifying _fabiola_ and newman's scholarly--beyond my years--_callista_, how i revelled in it, with what a choking throat i galloped through the lovesick chapters! i could recite pages of it to myself to relieve the dreariness of those long drives in the third street car, or the long waiting in the dreary station. to this day i remember the last sentence--"with his arm around my waist and my face hidden on his shoulder, i told him of the love, folly and pride that had so long kept me from him." could _queechy_, could _faith gartney's girlhood_ have been more sentimental than that? i dare not look up the old books to see, lest their charm as well as their sentiment should fade in the light of a more critical age. then scott and dickens, miss edgeworth, more often _holiday house_, filled the hours before tea. after all, the old division of the day, the young generation would be ashamed to go back to, had its uses. [illustration: christ church interior] iv the tea, when announced, was worth waiting, or putting down the most entrancing book, for. had i my way i would make philadelphia dine again at four o'clock for the sake of the tea--of the frizzled beef that only philadelphia ever frizzled to a turn, the smoked salmon that only philadelphia ever smoked as an art, the maryland biscuits that ought to be called philadelphia biscuits for they were never half so good in their native land, the home-made preserves put up in that sunshiny kitchen where lilacs bloomed at the door. after all this long quarter of a century, the smell of beef frizzling would take me back to eleventh and spruce on a winter evening as straight as the fragrance of the flowering bean carries me to pompeii in the early springtime, or of garlic to the little sunlit towns of provence at any season of the year. the tea was a triumph of simplicity, but when there were guests it became a feast. as a rule, it was the meal to which the children and grandchildren who did not live in the spruce street house were invited, and loved best to be invited. for on these occasions my grandmother could be relied upon to provide stewed oysters, the masterpiece of margaret, her old grey-haired cook; and oyster croquettes from augustine's--my grandfather would as soon have begun the day without prayers as my grandmother have given a feast without the help of augustine, that caterer of colour who was for years supreme in philadelphia; brandy peaches that, like the preserves, had been put up at home, the brandy poured in with unexpected lavishness for so temperate a household; and little round cakes with white icing on top--what dear little ghosts from out a far past they seemed when, after a quarter of a century in a land where people know nothing of the delights of little round cakes with white icing on top, i ate them again at philadelphia feasts. if the solemn, dignified grandfather at one end of the table kept our enjoyment within the bounds of ceremony, we felt no restraint with the little old grandmother who beamed upon us from the other, as she poured out the tea and coffee with hands trembling so that, in her later years, the man servant,--usually coloured and not to philadelphia as yet known as butler or footman,--always stood close by to catch the tea or coffee pot when it fell, which it never did. v i recall more formal family reunions, above all the golden wedding, as impressive as a court function, the two old people enthroned at the far end of the front parlour, the sons and daughters and grandchildren approaching in a solemn line--an embarrassed line when it came to the youngest, always shy in the awful presence of the grandfather--and offering, each in turn, their gifts. we were by no means a remarkable family, to the unprejudiced we may have seemed a commonplace one, my forefathers evidently having decided that leaving england for america was a feat remarkable enough to satisfy the ambitions of any one family and having then proceeded to rest comfortably on their respectable laurels, but we took each other with great seriousness. the oldest aunt, who was married and lived in new york, received on her annual visit to spruce street the homage due to a princess royal, and no king or emperor could have caused more of a flutter than my grandfather when he honoured one of his children with a visit. family anniversaries were scrupulously observed, the legend of family affection was kept up as conscientiously, whatever it cost us in discomfort, and there were times when we paid heavily. i would have run many miles to escape one uncle who, when he met me in the street, would stop to ask how i was, and how we all were at home, and then would stand twisting his moustache in visible agony, trying to think what the affectionate intimacy between us that did not exist required him to say, while i thanked my stars that we were in the street and not in a house where he would have felt constrained to kiss me. we were horribly exact in this matter of kissing. there was a family legend of another uncle from new york who once, when he came over for some family meeting, was so eager to do his duty by his nieces that he kissed not only all of them--no light task--but two or three neighbours' little girls into the bargain. i think, however, that every philadelphia family took itself as seriously and that our scruples were not a monopoly brought with us from virginia and maryland. in a town where family names are handed down from generation to generation, so that a family often will boast, as ours did, not only a "jr." but a "3d," and lose no opportunity to let the world know it, family feeling is not likely to be allowed to wilt and die. every public holiday also was a family affair to be observed with the rigours of the family feast. christmas for me, when i did not celebrate it at the convent with midnight mass and a _crã¨che_ in the chapel and kind nuns trying to make me forget i had not gone home like other little girls, took me to the spruce street house in time to look on at the succession of uncles and aunts who dropped in on christmas eve and went away laden with bundles, and carrying in some safe pocket a collection of envelopes with a crisp new greenback in each, the sum varying from one hundred dollars to five according to the age of the child or grandchild whose name was on the envelope--my grandfather gave with the fine patriarchal air he maintained in all family relations. the family appropriation of thanksgiving day and washington's birthday i did not grasp until after i left school, for while i was at the convent they were both spent there, where they dwindled into insignificance compared to reverend mother's feast and its glories. as a rule, i must have been at the convent as well for the fourth of july, though i retain one jubilant vision of myself and a bag of torpedoes in the back-yard, solemnizing a little celebration among the roses. and i have larger visions of military parades in broiling sunshine and of the city troop filling the quiet streets with their gorgeousness which awed me long before the knowledge of their historic origin and uniform inspired me with reverence. vi other duties and pleasures and observances that for most philadelphia children were scattered through the interminable year, were crowded into my short holiday: visits to the dentist, to dr. hopkins, dr. white's assistant, it being a test of philadelphia respectability to have one's teeth seen to by dr. white or one of his assistants or students, and the regular appointment was as much of obligation for me as mass on sunday; visits to the academy of fine arts in the old chestnut street building, as i remember set back at the end of a court that made of it a place apart, a consecrated place which i entered with as little anticipation of amusement as st. joseph's church hidden in willing's alley, and was the more surprised therefore to be entertained, as i must have been, by benjamin west, for of no other painter there have i the faintest recollection; visits to the academy of natural sciences, where i liked the rows upon rows of stuffed birds, and the strange things in bottles, and the colossal skeletons that filled me with the same delicious shivers as the stories of afreets and genii in _the arabian nights_; visits to fairmount park, leagues away, houses left behind before it was reached, where the mysterious machinery of the waterworks was as terrifying as the skeletons, and i thought it much pleasanter outside under the blue sky; visits to the theatre--the most wonderful visits of all, for they took me out into the night that i knew only from stolen vigils in the convent dormitory, or glimpses from the spruce street windows. romance was in the dimly-lit streets, in the stars above, in the town after dark, which i was warned i was never to brave alone until i can laugh now to think how terrified i was the first time i came home late by myself, in my terror jumping into a street-car and claiming the protection of a contemptuous young woman whom work had not allowed to draw a conventional line between day and night. [illustration: classic fairmount] i have never got rid of that suggestion of romance, not so much in the theatre itself as in the going to it, and, to this day, a matinã©e in broad daylight will bring back a little of the old thrill. but nothing can bring back to any theatre the glitter, the brilliancy, the splendour of the old chestnut, the old walnut, the old arch, then already dingy with age i have no doubt, but transfigured by my childhood's ecstasies in them. nothing can persuade me that any plays have been, or could be, written to surpass in beauty, pathos and humour, _solon shingle_, and _arrah-na-pogue_, and _our american cousin_, and _the black crook_, and _ours_, though i have forgotten all but their names; that in opera clara louise kellogg ever had a rival; that in gaiety and wit _la grande duchesse_ and _la belle hã©lã¨ne_ could be eclipsed; or that any actors could compete with sothern and booth and mrs. drew and the davenports, and charlotte cushman as _meg merrilies_--there was a bit of good old melodramatic acting to make a small convent girl's flesh creep! shakespeare was redeemed by booth from the dulness of the convent reading-book and entered gloriously into my convent life. for one happy winter, it was not i who led the long procession down to the refectory, though nobody could have suspected it, but the ghost of hamlet's father, with, close behind me, in gloom absorbed, the prince of denmark, mistaken by the unknowing for the little girl, my friend, whose father, with more than the usual father's amiable endurance, had taken me with her and her sister to see the play of _hamlet_ during the christmas holidays. [illustration: down pine street] the theatre has become part of the modern school course. if an actor like forbes-robertson gives a farewell performance of _hamlet_, or a manager like beerbohm tree produces a patriotic melodrama, or the company from the thã©ã¢tre franã§ais perform one of the rare classics that the young person may be taken to, i have seen a london theatre filled with school girls and boys. from what i hear i might imagine the theatre and the opera to be the most serious studies of every philadelphia school. at the convent i should have envied the modern students could i have foreseen their liberty, but they have more reason to envy me. the gilt has been rubbed too soon off their gingerbread, too soon has the tinsel of their theatre been tarnished. my spartan training gave me a theatre that can never cease to be a wonderland, just as it endowed me with a philadelphia that will endure, until this world knows me no more, as a beautiful, peaceful town where roses bloom in the sunny back-yards, and people live with dignity behind the plain red brick fronts of its long, straight streets. chapter iv: at the convent i as the theatre, in my memory, still gives the crowning glory to my holiday in philadelphia, so, in looking back, the brief holiday seems the spectacle, the romance, the supreme moment, of my early years. the scene of my every-day life was that convent of the sacred heart at torresdale which was the end of the interminable ride in the third street horse-car and the shorter ride in the pennsylvania railroad train. the philadelphian who did not live in the convent would have seen it the other way round, for the convent was unlike enough to philadelphia to suggest the romance of the unusual. only in one or two respects did it provide me with facts that every proper philadelphian was brought up to know, and let me say again that because i had to find out the others--the more characteristically philadelphia facts--for myself, i think they probably made a stronger impression upon me than upon the philadelphian guiltless of ever straying, or of ever having been allowed to stray, from the approved philadelphia path. ii when the ladies of the sacred heart decided to open a convent in philadelphia, an uncertain enterprise if it is considered how un-catholic philadelphia was, they began in a fairly modest way by taking a large house at torresdale, with lawns and gardens and woods and a great old-fashioned barn, the country seat of a philadelphian whose name i have forgotten. it stood to the west of the railroad, at a discreet distance from the little cluster of houses by the riverside that alone meant torresdale to the philadelphians who lived in them. the house, i can now see, was typical as i first knew it, the sort the philadelphian built for himself in the suburbs at a period too removed from colonial days for it to have the beauty of detail and historic interest of the colonial house, and yet near enough to them for dignity of proportion and spaciousness to be desirable, if not essential to a philadelphian's comfort. a wide, lofty hall ran from the front door to the back, on either side were two large airy rooms with space between for the broad main stairway, a noble structure, and the carefully concealed back stairway--half-way up which in my time was the little infirmary window where, at half past ten every morning, sister odille dispensed pills and powders to those in need of them. along the entire front of the house was a broad porch,--the indispensable philadelphia piazza--its roof supported by a row of substantial columns over which roses and honeysuckle clambered fragrantly and luxuriantly in the june sunshine. the house was painted a cheerful yellow that went well with the white of the woodwork about the windows and the porch: not a very beautiful type of house, but pleasant, substantial, luxurious, and making as little outward show of its luxury as the plain red brick town house of the wealthy philadelphian. how comfortable a type of house it was to live in, i know from experience of another, not a school, within sight, a ten minutes' walk across the fields, and like it in design and arrangement and even colour, in everything except size,--which my father took one summer: to me a most memorable summer as it was the first i spent outside the convent limits from the beginning to the end of the long holiday. the jerry-builder had had no part in putting up the solid, well-constructed walls which stood firm against winter storms and winds, and were no less a protection from the torrid heat of a philadelphia summer. but fashion can leave architecture no more alone than dress. already, the newer group of houses down by the delaware were built of the brown stone which, to my mind, dates the beginning of the philadelphian's fall from architectural grace, the beginning of his distrust in william penn's plans for his well-being and of his foolish hankering after the fleshpots of new york. [illustration: loudoun, main street germantown] the convent, before i came to it, had been a victim to the brown stone fashion. with success, the pleasant old country house had grown too small for the school into which it had been converted, and a southern wing had been added: a long, low building with the chapel at the far end, all built in brown stone and in a style that passed for gothic and that a thousand times i could have wished based upon any other model. for the upper room in the wing, ambitiously christened by somebody gothic hall, had a high pointed roof that made it an ice-house in winter and, for our sins, it was used as the dormitory of the sacred heart where i slept. i can recall mornings when the water was frozen in our pitchers while the big stove, in the middle of the high-pitched room, burned red hot as if to mock at us as, with numbed fingers, we struggled to make our beds and wash ourselves and button and hook on our clothes. and the builders had so contrived that summer turned our fine gothic dormitory into a fiery furnace. how many june nights, contrary to all the rules, have i hung out of the little, horribly gothic window at the head of my alcove, gasping in the warm darkness that was so sweet and stifling with the fragrance of the flowers in madame huguet's garden just below. i had not been long at the convent before another brown stone wing extended to the north and two stories were added to the main building which, for the sake of harmony, was now painted brown from top to bottom. in a niche on this new faã§ade, a statue of the sacred heart was set, and all semblance to the old country house was gone, except for the broad porch without and the well-proportioned rooms within. but these, and later improvements, additions and alterations cannot make me forget the convent as it was when i first came to it, growing up about the simple, solidly-built, spacious yellow house that was once the philadelphian's ideal of suburban comfort and so like the house where i spent my most memorable summer, so like, save for the size and the colour, my great-grandfather ambrose white's old house on the turnpike at chestnut hill, so like innumerable other country houses of the same date where i visited. iii the convent rule and discipline could not alter the changing of the seasons as philadelphia ordered them. they might appear to us mainly regulated by feasts and fasts--all saints and all souls, the milestones on the road to christmas; lent and the month of st. joseph heralding the approach of spring; the month of mary and the month of the sacred heart, ascension and corpus-christi, as ardent and splendid as the spring and summer days they graced. but, all the same, each season came laden with the pleasures held in common by all fortunate philadelphia children who had the freedom of the country or the countrified suburbs. the school year began with the fall, when any night might bring the first frost and the first tingle in the air--champagne to quicken the blood in a school girl's veins, and make the sitting still through the long study and class hours a torture. the woods shone with gold; the virginia creeper flamed on the front porch; sickel pears fell, ripe and luscious, from the tree close to the chapel where it was against the law to go and pick them up but where no law in the world could have barred the way; chestnuts and hickory nuts and the walnuts that stained my fingers black to open offered a substantial dessert after as substantial a dinner as ever children were served with. but those were the joyful years when hunger never could be satisfied and digestion was equal to any surfeit of raw chestnuts--or raw turnips for that matter, if the season supplied no lighter dainties, or of next to anything that could be picked up and eaten. i know i drew the line only at the huge, white, oversweet mulberries strewing the grass by the swings in mulberry lane, that favourite scene of the war to the knife we waged under the name of old man and bands, primitive games not to be outdone by the tennis and hockey of the more sophisticated modern school girl. the minute the refectory was left for the noonday hour of recreation on a brisk autumn day, there was a wild scamper to the woods where, just beyond the gate that led into them, the hoary old chestnut trees spread their shade and dropped their fruit on either side the hill between the poisonous valley, a thrill in its deadly name, and the graveyard, few crosses then in the green enclosure which now, alas! is too well filled. the shadow of death lay so lightly upon us that i recall to-day only the delicious rustle of eager feet through the fallen leaves, and the banging of stone upon stone as hickory nuts cracked between them, i feel only the delicious pricking of the chestnut burrs in the happy, hardened fingers of the school girl. and these, anyway, are memories i share with every philadelphian who, as a child, wandered in the suburbs or the near country when the woods were gold and scarlet, and the way through them was carpeted with leaves hiding rich stores of nuts for the seeker after treasure. but no philadelphia child in the shelter of her own house could know the meaning of the philadelphia winter as i knew it in the convent, half frozen in that airy dormitory of the sacred heart, shivering in shawl and hood through early mass in the icy chapel, still huddled in my shawl at my desk or scurrying as fast as discipline would wink at through the windy passages. the heating arrangements, somehow, never succeeded in coping with the extreme cold of a severe winter in the large rooms and halls of the new wings, and i must confess that we were often most miserably uncomfortable. i cannot but wonder what the pampered school girls of the present generation in the same convent would say to such discomfort. but it did us no harm. indeed, though i shiver at the memory, i am sure it did us good. we came out the healthier and hardier for it, much as the englishman does from his cold house, the coldest in the world. the old conditions of a hardier life, that either killed or cured, did far more to make a vigorous people than all the new-fangled eugenics ever can. if i had little of the comfort of the philadelphia child in the philadelphia house, i shared with him the outdoor pleasures which winter provided by way of compensation--the country white under snow for weeks and weeks, snowballs to be made and snow houses built, sliding to be had on the frozen lake, and coasting down the long hill just beyond the gate into the woods, when there were sleds to coast on. and what excitement in the marvellous snow-storms that have vanished with other marvels of my youth--the storms that put the new blizzard to shame, when the snow drifts were mountains high, and it took all the men on the farm, with big john at their head, to clear a way through the near paths and roads. i recall one storm in particular when my father, who had been making his periodical visit to my sister and myself, left the convent at six, was snowed up in his train, and never reached the dingy depot in frankford until three the next morning, and when for days we got out of the house only for a solemn ten minutes' walk each noon on the wide front porch, where it was a shocking breach of discipline to be seen at all other times except on thursday and sunday, the convent visiting days. of the inspiriting rigours of a philadelphia winter i was never in ignorance. in the snow drifts and storms of winter big john and his men were not more helpless than in the floods and slush that began with the first soft breath of the philadelphia spring. wearing our big shapeless overshoes, we waded through the puddles and jumped over the streams in the convent paths and roads as, in town, philadelphia children, with their "gums" on, jumped over the streams and waded through the puddles in the abominably paved streets. but then hope too began when the first spaces of green were uncovered by the melting snow. the first spring-beauty in the sunny spaces of the woods, the first flowery frost in the orchard, the first blooming of the tulip trees, were among the great events of the year. and what joy now in the new hunt!--what treasure of spring-beauties everywhere in the woods as the sun grew warmer, of shyer, retired hepaticas, of white violets running wild in the swampy fields beyond the lake, of sweet trailing arbutus, of jacks-in-the-pulpit flourishing best in the damp thickets of the poisonous valley into which i never wandered without a tremor not merely because it was a forbidden adventure, but because, though i passed through it unscathed, i had seen so often the horrible and unsightly red rash one whiff from over its bushes and trees could bring out on the faces and hands of my schoolmates with a skin more sensitive than mine. games lost their charm in the spring sunshine and our one pleasure was in the hunt, no longer for chestnuts and walnuts and hickory nuts, but solely for flowers, bringing back great bunches wilting in our hot little hands, to place before the shrine that aroused the warmest fervours of our devotion or was tended by the nun of our special adoration. [illustration: entrance to fairmount and the washington statue] and before we knew it, the spring-beauties and hepaticas and white violets and jacks-in-the-pulpit disappeared from the woods, and the flowery frost from the orchard, and the great blossoms from the tulip trees, and summer was upon us--blazing summer when we lay perspiring on our little beds up there in gothic hall where a few months before we shivered and shook, perspiration streamed from our faces on our school books at the study hour, more a burden than ever as we drooped and drowsed in the heat;--blazing summer when the fragrance of the roses hung heavy over madame huguet's garden and mingled with the too sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle about the columns of the porch and over every door;--blazing summer when all day long meadows and gardens and lawns swooned under the pitiless sunshine and we, who had braved the winter cold undismayed, never put as much as our noses out of doors until the hour of sunset;--blazing summer when for many years i saw the other girls going home, the gaiety of sea and mountain and change awaiting them, while my sister and i stayed on, desolate at heart despite the efforts of the nuns to help us forget, feeling forlornly forsaken as we watched the green burnt up into brown and the summer flowers wilt and die, and the drought turn the roads to dust, and all nature parched as we parched with it. the holiday dragged terribly and, reversing the usual order of things, i counted the days until school would begin again. however, at least i can say that i saw the philadelphia summer in its full terrors as every philadelphia child ever born, for whom wealth or chance opens no gate of escape, must see it and did see it of old. and so for me in the convent the seasons were the same as for the child in philadelphia and its suburbs. and i learnt how cold philadelphia can be, and how hot--if penn, safe in england, was grateful for the greater nearness of his town to the sun, not a philadelphian on the spot, sweltering through its midsummer heat, has ever yet shared his gratitude. and i learnt how beautiful philadelphia is as it grows mild again after winter has done its worst, or as it cools off in the friendlier autumn sun. and not to know these facts is not to know philadelphia. iv in the convent regulation of daily life lay the unconquerable difference. philadelphia has its laws and traditions that guide the philadelphian through every hour and duty of the day, and the philadelphian, who from the cradle does not obey these traditions and laws, can never be quite as other philadelphians. the sacred heart is a french order, and the nuns imported their laws and traditions from france, qualified, modified, perhaps, on the way, but still with an unmistakable foreign flavour and tendency that could not pass unquestioned in a town where the first article of faith is that everybody should do precisely what everybody else does. i remember when the rhodes scholars were first sent from america to oxford a friend of mine professed serious concern for the future of the university should they introduce buckwheat cakes on oxford breakfast tables. and, really, he was not as funny as he thought. a man is a good deal what his food makes him. the macaroni-fed italian is not as the sausage-and-sauerkraut-fed german, nor the hindu who thrives on rice as the irishman bred upon potatoes. never was a town more concerned with the question of food than philadelphia and i now see quite plainly that i, beginning my day at the convent on coffee and rolls, could not have been as the correct philadelphia child beginning the day in philadelphia or the suburbs on scrapple and buckwheat cakes and maple syrup. thus, the line of separation was drawn while i was still in short skirts with my hair cropped close. the convent day continued, as it began, with differences. i sat down at noon to the substantial french breakfast which at the convent, as a partial concession to american ideals, became dinner. at half past three, like a little french girl, i had my _goã»ter_, for which even the french name was retained--how well i remember the big, napkin-lined basket, full of hunks of good gingerbread, or big crackers, or sweet rolls, passed round by sister duffy, probably the most generous of all generous irishwomen, who would have slipped an extra piece into every little hand if she could, but who was so shockingly cross-eyed that we got an idea of her as a disagreeable old thing, an ogress, always watching to see if we took more than our appointed share. quite recently i argued it all out again with the few old sisters left to greet me on my first and only visit to the convent during thirty years and, purely for the sake of the sentiment of other days. i refused to believe them when they insisted that sister duffy, who now lies at peace in the little graveyard on the hillside in the woods, wasn't cross at all, but as tender as any sister who ever waited on hungry little girls! i would have given a great deal could she have come back, cross-eyes and all, with her big basket of gingerbread to make me feel at home again, as i could not in the visitors' dining-room where my _goã»ter_ was set out on a neatly spread table, even though on one side of me was "marie" of _our convent days_, my friend who had been prince of denmark in our booth-stricken period, and on the other miss repplier, the chronicler of our childish adventures. it was the first time we three had sat there together since more years than i am willing to count, and i think we were too conscious that youth now was no longer of the company not to feel the sadness as keenly as the pleasure of the reunion in our old home. _goã»ter_, with its associations, has sent me wandering far from the daily routine which ended, in the matter of meals, with a supper of meat and potatoes and i hardly know what, at half past six, when little philadelphia girls were probably just finishing their cambric tea and bread-and-butter, and even the buns from dexter's when these had been added as a special treat or reward. how could we, upon so much heavier fare, have seen things, how could we have looked upon life, just as those other little girls did? v we did not play, any more than we ate, like the child in philadelphia or its suburbs. one memory of our playtime i have common to all philadelphia children of my generation: the memory of signor blitz, on a more than usually blissful reverend mother's feast, taking rabbits out of our hats and bowls of gold-fish out of his sleeve, and holding a long conversation with the immortal bobby, the most prodigious puppet that ever conversed with any professional ventriloquist. but this was a rare ecstasy never repeated. [illustration: main street, germantown] what games the children in rittenhouse square and the lanes of germantown had, i cannot record, but of one thing i am sure: they did not go to the tune and the words of "_sur le pont d'avignon_," or "_qu' est-ce qui passe ici si tard_," or "_il ã©tait un avocat_." nor, i fancy, were "_malbrough s'en va-t'en guerre_" and "_au clair de la lune, mon ami pierrot_," the songs heard in the philadelphia nursery. nor is it likely that "_c'est le mois de marie_," which we sang as lustily all through may as the devout in france sing it in every church and every cathedral from one end of their land to the other, was the canticle of pious little catholic children celebrating the month of mary at st. joseph's or st. patrick's. nor outside the convent could the bishop on his pastoral rounds have been welcomed with the "_vive! vive! vive! monseigneur au sacrã© coeur, quel bonheur!_" which, the title appropriately changed, was our form of welcome to every distinguished visitor. and, singing these songs and canticles, how could the associations and memories we were laying up for ourselves be the same as those of philadelphia children whose ears and voices were trained on "juanita" and "listen to the mocking bird," or, it may be, "marching through georgia" and "way down upon the swanee river"? these things may make subtle distinctions, but they are distinctions that can never be overcome or outgrown. in study hours, as in playtime and at meals, we were seldom long out of this french atmosphere. french class was only shorter than english. if we were permitted to talk at breakfast, it was not at all that we might amuse ourselves, but that we might practise our french which did not amuse us in the least. many of the nuns were french, often, it is true, french from louisiana or canada, but their english was not one bit more fluent on that account. altogether, there was less of philadelphia than of france in the discipline, the devotions, and the relaxations of the convent. vi but, of all the differences, the most fundamental, i think, came from the fact that the convent was a convent and taught us to accept the conventual, the monastic interpretation of life. we were there in, not only a french, but a cloistered atmosphere--the atmosphere that philadelphia least of all towns could understand. the friends had attained to peace and unworldliness by staying in their own homes and fulfilling their duty as fathers and mothers of families, as men and women of business. but the nuns saw no way to achieve this end except by shutting themselves out of the world and avoiding its temptations. the ladies of the sacred heart are cloistered. they leave the convent grounds only to journey from one of their houses to another, for care is taken that they do not, by staying over long in one school, form too strong an attachment to place or person. where would be the use of being a nun if you were not made to understand the value of sacrifice? their pupils are, for the time, as strictly cloistered. not for us were the walks abroad by which most girls at boarding school keep up with the times--or get ahead of them. we were as closely confined to the convent grounds as the nuns, except during the holidays or when a friend or relation begged for us a special outing. it was not a confinement depending on high stone walls and big gates with clanging iron chains and bars. but the wood fences running with the board walk above the railroad and about the woods and the fields and the gardens made us no less prisoners--willing and happy prisoners as we might be, and were. this gave us, or gave me at any rate, a curious idea of the convent as a place entirely apart, a place that had nothing to do with the near town or the suburb in which it stood--a blessed oasis in the sad wilderness of the world. there is no question that, as a result, i felt myself in anticipation a stranger in the wilderness into which i knew i must one day go from the oasis, and in which i used to imagine i should be as much of an exile as the children of israel in the desert. of course i was not quite that when the time came, but that for an interval i was convinced i must be explains how unlike in atmosphere the convent was to eleventh and spruce. in all sorts of little ways i was confirmed in this belief by life and its duties at the convent. for all that concerned me nearly, for all that was essential to existence here below, philadelphia seemed to me as remote as timbuctoo. i got insensibly to think of myself first not as a philadelphian, not as an american, but as a "child of the sacred heart,"--the first question under all circumstances was what i should do, not as a philadelphian, but as a child of the sacred heart. [illustration: arch street meeting] i cannot say how much the mere name of the thing represented--the honour and the privilege--and there was not a girl who had been for any time a pupil who did not prize it as i did. and we were not given the chance to forget or belittle it. we were impressed with the importance of showing our appreciation of the distinction providence had reserved for us--of showing it not merely by our increased faith and devotion, but by our bearing and conduct. we might be slack about our lessons. that was all right at a period when slackness prevailed in girls' schools and it was unfeminine, if not unladylike, to be too learned. but we were not let off from the diligent cultivation of our manners. our faith and devotion were attended to in a daily half hour of religious instruction. but sunday was not too holy a day for the politeness class that was held every week as surely as sunday came round, in which we were taught all the mysteries of a deportment that might have given tips to the great turveydrop himself,--how to sit, how to walk, how to carry ourselves under all circumstances, how to pick up a handkerchief a passer-by might drop--an unspeakable martyrdom of a class when each unfortunate student, in turn, went through her paces with the eyes of all the school upon her and to the sound of the stifled giggles of the boldest. we never met one of our mistresses in the corridors that we did not drop a laboured curtsey--a shy, deplorably awkward curtsey when i met the reverend mother, mother boudreau, a large, portly, dignified nun from louisiana and a model of deportment, who inspired me with a respectful fear i never have had for any other mortal. we could not answer a plain "yes" or "no" to our mistresses, but the "madam" must always politely follow. "remember" was a frequent warning, "remember that wherever, or with whom, you may be, to behave like children of the sacred heart!" a child of the sacred heart, we were often told, should be known by her manners. and so impressed were we with this precept that i remember a half-witted, but harmless, elderly woman whom the nuns, in their goodness, had kept on as a "parlour boarder" after her school days were over, telling us solemnly that when she was in new york and went out shopping with her sister, the young men behind the counter at stewart's would all look at her with admiring eyes and whisper to each other, "is it not easy to see that miss c. is a child of the sacred heart?" [illustration: the train shed, broad street station] seriously, the training did give something that nothing else could, and an admirable training it was for which girls to-day might exchange more than one brain-bewildering course at college and be none the worse for it. in my own case, i admit, i should not mind having had more of the other training, as it has turned out that my work in life is of the sort where a quick intelligence counts for more than an elegant deportment. but i can find no fault with the convent for neglect. girls then were not educated to work. if you had asked any girl anywhere what was woman's mission, she would have answered promptly--had she been truthful--"to find a husband as soon as possible;" if she were a convent girl,--a child of the sacred heart--she would have added, "or else to become a nun." her own struggles to fit herself for any other career the inconsiderate fates might drive her into, so far from doing her any harm, were the healthiest and most bracing of tonics. granted an average mind, she could teach herself through necessity just the important things school could not teach her through a routine she didn't see the use of. she emerged from the ordeal not only heroically but successfully, which was more to the point. a young graduate from bryn mawr said to me some few days ago that when she looked at her mother and the women of her mother's generation and realized all they had accomplished without what is now called education, she wondered whether the girls of her generation, who had the benefit of all the excess of education going, would or could accomplish more, or as much. to tell the truth, i wonder myself. but then it may be said that i, belonging to that older generation, am naturally prejudiced. vii there are moments when, reflecting on all i lost as a philadelphian, i am half tempted to regret my long years of seclusion, busy about my soul and my manners, at the convent. a year or so would not have much mattered one way or the other. i led, however, no other life save the convent life until i was seventeen. i knew no other standpoint save the convent standpoint. but the temptation to regret flies as quickly as it comes. i loved the life too well at the time, i love it too well in the retrospect, to have wanted then, or to want now, to do without it. it was a happy life to live, though i would not have been a school girl had i not, with the school girl's joy in the morbid, liked nothing better than to pose as the unhappiest of mortals--to be a school girl was to be misunderstood i would have vowed, had i, in my safe oasis, ever heard the expression or had the knowledge to guess at its meaning. i loved every stone in the house, brown and ugly as every stone might be, i loved every tree in the woods whether or no it dropped pleasant things to devour, i loved every hour of the day whatever might be its task. i had a quick memory, study was no great trouble to me, and i enjoyed every class and recitation. i enjoyed getting into mischief--i wore once only the ribbon for good conduct--and i enjoyed being punished for it. in a word, i got a good deal out of my life, if it was not exactly what a girl was sent to school to get. and it is as happy a life to remember, with many picturesque graces and absurdities, joys and sorrows, that an uninterrupted existence at eleventh and spruce could not have given. i have no desire to talk sentimental nonsense about my school days having been my happiest. that sort of talk is usually twaddle. it was not as school that i loved the convent, though as school it had its unrivalled attractions; it was as home. when the time came to go from it i suffered that sharp pang felt by most girls on leaving home for school. i remember how i, who affected a sublime scorn for the cry-baby, blubbered like one myself when i was faced with the immediate prospect of life in philadelphia. how well i recall my despair--how vividly i see the foolish scene i made in the empty refectory, shadowy in the dusk of the june evening, where i was rehearsing the valedictory of the graduating class which i had been chosen to recite, and where, after the first few lines i broke down to my shame, and sniffled and gurgled and sobbed in the lap of the beloved mistress who was doing her best to comfort me, and also to keep me from disgracing her, as i should have done by any such scene on the great day itself. if the convent stands for so much in my memory, it would be ungrateful to regret the years i spent in it. the sole reason would be my loss, not as a student, but as a philadelphian, for this loss was the price i paid. but the older i grow, the better i realize that to the loss i owe an immeasurable gain. for as a child i never got so accustomed to philadelphia as not to see it at all. the thing we know too well is often the thing we see least clearly, or we should not need the philosopher to remind us that that is best which nearest lieth. all through my childhood and early youth i saw philadelphia chiefly from the outside, and so saw it with more awe and wonder and lasting delight than those philadelphians who, in childhood and early youth, saw it only from the inside,--too near for it to come together into the picture that tells. chapter v: transitional i and so it was with a great fear in my heart that, in the course of time and after i had learned as little as it was decent for philadelphia girls to learn in the days before bryn mawr, i left the convent altogether for philadelphia. i can smile now in recalling the old fear, but it was no smiling matter at seventeen: a weeping matter rather, and many were the tears i shed in secret over the prospect before me. my holidays had not revealed philadelphia to me as a place of evil and many dangers. but as i was to live there, it represented the world,--the sinful world, worse, the unknown world, to battle with whose temptations my life and training at the convent had been the preparation. [illustration: st peter's, interior] it added to the danger that sin could wear so peaceful an aspect and temptation keep so comfortably out of sight. during an interval, longer than i cared to have it, for i did not "come out" at once as a philadelphia girl should and at the convent i had made few philadelphia friends, my personal knowledge of philadelphia did not go much deeper than its house fronts. for the most part they bore the closest family resemblance to those of eleventh and spruce, with the same suggestion of order and repose in their well-washed marble steps and neatly-drawn blinds. my father had then moved to third street near spruce, and there rented a red brick house, one-half, or one-third, the size of my grandfather's, but very like it in every other way, to the roses in the tiny back-yard and to the daily family routine except that, with a courageous defiance of tradition i do not know how we came by, we dined at the new dinner hour of six and said our prayers in the privacy of our bedrooms. the stock exchange was only a minute away, and yet, at our end, third street had not lost its character as a respectable residential street. we had for neighbours old miss grelaud and the bullitts and, round the corner in fourth street, the wisters and bories and schaumbergs,--with what bated breath philadelphia talked of the beauty and talents of miss emily schaumberg, as she still was!--and many other philadelphia families who had never lived anywhere else. life went on as silently and placidly and regularly as at the convent. i seemed merely to have exchanged one sort of monastic peace for another and the loudest sound i ever heard, the jingling of my old friend the horse-car, was not so loud as to disturb it. if i walked up spruce street, or as far as pine and up pine, silence and peace enfolded me. peace breathed, exuded from the red brick houses with their white marble steps, their white shutters below and green above, their pleasant line of trees shading the red brick pavement. the occasional brown stone front broke the uniformity with such brutal discord that i might have imagined the devil i knew was waiting for me somewhere lurked behind it, and have seen in its pretentious aping of new york fashion the sin in which philadelphia, as the sinful world, must abound. i cannot say why it seemed to me, and still seems, so odious, for there were other interruptions to the monotony i delighted in--the beautiful open spaces and great trees about the pennsylvania hospital and st. peter's; the old mint which, with its severe classical faã§ade, seemed to reproach the frivolity of the chestnut street store windows on every side of it; general paterson's square grey house with long high-walled garden at thirteenth and locust; the big yellow dundas house at broad and walnut, with its green enclosure and the magnolia for whose blossoming i learnt to watch with the coming of spring; that other garden with wide-spreading trees opposite my grandfather's at eleventh and spruce: old friends these quickly grew to be, kindly landmarks on the way when i took the walks that were so solitary in those early days, through streets where it was seldom i met anybody i knew, for the convent had made me a good deal of a stranger in my native town,--where it was seldom, indeed, i met anybody at all. ii when i went out, i usually turned in the direction of spruce and pine, for to turn in the other, towards walnut, was to be at once in the business part of the town where philadelphia women preferred not to be seen, having no desire to bridge over the wide gulf of propriety that then yawned between the sex and business. except for the character of the buildings and the signs at the doors, i might not have been conscious of the embarrassing difference between this and my more familiar haunts. bankers' and stock-brokers' offices were on every side, but the third street car did not jingle any louder as it passed, my way was not more crowded, peace still enveloped me. i gathered from my father, who was a broker, that the stock exchange, when buying and selling had to be done on the spot and not by telephone as in our degenerate days, was now and then a scene of animation, and it might be of noise and disorder, more especially at christmas, when a brisker business was done in penny whistles and trumpets than in stocks and shares. but the animation overflowed into third street only at moments of panic, to us welcome as moments of prosperity for they kept my father busy--we thrived on panics--and then, once or twice, i saw staid philadelphians come as near running as i ever knew them to in the open street. [illustration: the pennsylvania hospital from pine street] now and then youth got the better of me and i sought adventure in the unadventurous monotony of walnut street where the lawyers had their offices, the courts not having as yet migrated up to broad street. it was usually lost in heavy legal slumber and if my intrusion was bold, at least nobody was about to resent it. nor could there be a doubt of the eminent respectability into which i intruded. the recommendation to philadelphia of its lawyers was not the high esteem in which they were held throughout the country, but their social standing at home--family gave distinction to the law, not the law to family. approved philadelphia names adorned the signs at almost every office door and not for some years was the evil day to dawn when the well-known philadelphia families who inherited the right of the law would be forced to fight for it with the alien and the jew. for me, i think i am at an age when i may own that the irreproachable names on the signs were not the principal attraction. sometimes, from one of the somnolent offices, a friendly figure would step into the somnolent street to lighten me on my way, and it was pleasanter to walk up walnut in company than alone. when i went back the other day, after many years and many changes for philadelphia and myself, i found most of the familiar signs gone, but at one door i was met by a welcome ghost--but, was it the ghost of that friendly figure or of my lonely youth grasping at romance or its shadow? how many years must pass, how many experiences be gone through, before a question like that can be asked! if i followed third street beyond walnut to chestnut, i was in the region of great banks and trust companies and newspaper offices and the old state house and the courts. i had not had the experience, or the training, to realize what architectural monstrosities most of the new, big, heavy stone buildings were, nor the curiosity to investigate what went on inside of them, but after the quiet red brick houses they seemed to have business written all over them and the street, compared to spruce and walnut, appeared to my unsophisticated eyes so thronged that i did not have to be told it was no place for me. it was plain that most women felt as i did, so careful were they to efface themselves. i remember meeting but few on chestnut street below eighth until mr. childs began to devote his leisure moments and loose change to the innocent amusement of presenting a cup and saucer to every woman who would come to get it, and as most women in philadelphia, or out of it, are eager to grab anything they do not have to pay for, many visited him in the _ledger_ office at sixth and chestnut. [illustration: second street market] as i shrank from doing what no other woman did, and, as the business end of chestnut street did not offer me the same temptation as walnut, i never got to know it well,--in fact i got to know it so little that my ignorance would seem extraordinary in anybody save a philadelphian, and it remained as strange to me as the street of a foreign town. i could not have said just where my grandfather's bank was, not once during that period did i set my foot across the threshold of the state house, unwilling as i am to confess it. but perhaps i might as well make a full confession while i am about it, for the truth will have to come out sooner or later. let me say then, disgraceful as i feel it to be, that though i spent two years at least in the third street house, with so much of the beauty of philadelphia's beautiful past at my door, it was not until some time afterwards, when we had gone to live up at thirteenth and spruce, that i began to appreciate the beauty as well as my folly in not having appreciated it sooner. st. peter's church and the pennsylvania hospital i could not ignore, many of my walks leading me past them. but i was several years older before i saw christ church, inside or out. the existence of the old second street market was unknown to me; had i been asked i no doubt would have said that the old swedes church was miles off; i was unconscious that i was surrounded by houses of colonial date; i was blind to the meaning and dignity of great gables turned to the street, and stately eighteenth century doorways, and dormer windows, and old ironwork, and a patchwork of red and black brick; i was indifferent to the interest these things might have given to every step i took at a time when, too often, every step seemed forlornly barren of interest or its possibility. into the old philadelphia library on fifth street i did penetrate once or twice, and once or twice sat in its quiet secluded alcoves dipping into musty volumes: a mere accident it must have been, my daily reading being provided for at the easy-going, friendly, pleasantly dingy, much more modern mercantile library in tenth street. but the memory of these visits, few as they were, is one of the strongest my third street days have left with me, and i think, or i hope, i must have felt the charm of the old town if i may not have realized that i did, for i can never look back to myself as i was then without seeing it as the background to all my comings and goings--a background that lends colour to my colourless life. iii i can understand my ignorance and blindness and indifference, if i cannot forgive them. all my long eleven years at the convent i had had the virtue of obedience duly impressed upon me, and, though there custom led me easily into the temptation of disobedience, when i returned to philadelphia i was at first too frightened and bewildered to defy philadelphia's laws written and especially unwritten, for in these i was immediately concerned. i was the more bewildered because i had come away from the convent comfortably convinced of my own importance, and it was disconcerting to discover that philadelphia, so far from sharing the conviction, dismissed me as a person of no importance whatever. i had also my natural indolence and moral cowardice to reckon with. i have never been given to taking the initiative when i can avoid it and it is one of my great grievances that, good and thorough american as i am, i should have been denied my rightful share of american go. anyway, i did not have to stay long in philadelphia to learn for myself that the philadelphia law of laws obliged every philadelphian to do as every other philadelphian did, and that every philadelphian was too much occupied in evading what was not the thing in the present to bother to cultivate a sentiment for the past. moreover, i had to contend against what the philadelphians love to call the philadelphia inertia, while all the time they talk about it they keep giving substantial proofs of how little reason there is for the talk. the philadelphia inertia only means that it is not good form in philadelphia to betray emotion on any occasion or under any circumstance. the coolness, or indifference, of philadelphians at moments and crises of great passion and excitement has always astonished the outsider. if you do not understand the philadelphia way, as i did not then, you take the philadelphian's talk literally and believe the beautiful philadelphia calm to be more than surface deep, as i did who had not the sense as yet to see that, even if this inertia was real, it was my business to get the better of it and to develop for myself the energy i imagined my town and its people to be without. i have often thought that the philadelphia calm is a little like the london climate that either conquers you or leaves you the stronger for having conquered it. iv if one of philadelphia's unwritten laws closed my eyes to what was most worth looking at when i took my walks abroad, another, no less stringent, limited those walks to a small section of the town. on the map philadelphia might stretch over a vast area with the possibility of spreading indefinitely, but for social purposes it was shut in to the east and the west by the delaware and the schuylkill, to the north and the south by a single line of the old rhyming list of the streets: "chestnut, walnut, spruce and pine." i have not the antiquarian knowledge to say who drew that rigid line, or when what had been all right for washington and provosts of the university and no end of distinguished people became all wrong for ordinary mortals--i have heard the line ridiculed, but never explained. no geographical boundary has been, or could be, more arbitrary, but there it was, there it is, and the philadelphian who crosses it risks his good name. nor can the stranger, though unwarned, disregard it with impunity. i remember when i met mrs. alexander gilchrist, the first friend i made in london, and she told me the number of the house away out north twenty-second street where she lived for two years in philadelphia, i had a moment of philadelphia uncertainty as to whether her literary distinction could outbalance her social indiscretion. philadelphia never had a doubt, but was serenely unconscious of her presence during her two years there. and yet she had then edited and published, with the help of the rossettis, her husband's _life of blake_ which had brought her fame in england, and her up-town house must have been one of the most interesting to visit. walt whitman was a daily guest and few american men of letters passed through philadelphia without finding their way to it. philadelphia, however, would scruple going to heaven were heaven north of market street. it is an absurd prejudice, but i am not sure if i have got rid of it now or if i ever shall get rid of it, and when i was too young to see its absurdity i would as soon have questioned the infallibility of the pope. it was decreed that nobody should go north of market or south of pine; therefore i must not go; the reason, probably, why i never went to christ church--a pew had not been in my family for generations to excuse my presence in north second street--why i never, even by accident, passed the old swedes or the second street market. it was bad enough to cross the line when i could not help myself. i am amused now--though my sensitive youth found no amusement in it--when i think of my annoyance because my great-grandfather, on my mother's side, old ambrose white whose summer home was in chestnut hill, lived not many blocks from the meeting house and the christ church burial ground where franklin lies, in one of those fine old arch street houses in which friends had lived for generations since there had been arch street houses to live in. besides, mass and vespers in the cathedral led me to logan square, to my dismay that religion should lead where it was as much as my reputation was worth to be met. i have wondered since if it was as compromising for the philadelphian from north of market street to be found in rittenhouse square. [illustration: fourth and arch streets meeting house] outwardly i could see no startling difference between the forbidden philadelphia and my philadelphia--"there is not such great odds, brother toby, betwixt good and evil as the world imagines," i might have said with mr. shandy had i known that mr. shandy said it or that there was a mr. shandy to say anything so wise. the philadelphia rows of red brick houses, white marble steps, white shutters below and green above, rows of trees shading them, were much the same north of market street and south of pine, except that south of pine the red brick houses shrank and the white marble and white shutters grew shabby, and north of market their uniformity was more often broken by brown stone fronts which, together with the greater width of many of the streets, gave a richer and more prosperous air than we could boast down our way. but it was not for philadelphians, of all people, to question why, and it must have been two or three years later, when i was less awed by philadelphia, that i went up town of my own free will and out of sheer defiance. i can remember the time when an innocent visit to so harmless a place as girard college appeared to me in the light of outrageous daring. that is the way in my generation we were taught and learned our duty in philadelphia. my excursions to the suburbs, except to torresdale, were few, which was my loss for no other town's suburbs are more beautiful, and they were not on philadelphia's index. time and the alien had not yet driven the philadelphian out to the main line as an alternative to "chestnut, walnut, spruce and pine," but many had country houses there; germantown was popular, chestnut hill and torresdale were beyond reproach. my father, however, who cultivated most of philadelphia's prejudices, was unexpectedly heterodox in this particular. he could not stand the suburbs--poor man, he came to spending suburban summers in the end--and of them all he held germantown most sweepingly in disfavour. i cannot remember that he gave a reason for his dislike. it may be that its grey-stone houses offended him as an infidelity to philadelphia's red brick austerity. but he could never speak of it with patience and from him i got the idea that it was the abyss of the undesirable. one of the biggest surprises of my life was, when i came to look at it with my own eyes, to find it as desirable a place as beauty and history can make. v the shopping i had not the money to do would have kept me within a more exclusive radius, for a shopping expedition restricted the philadelphian who had any respect for herself to chestnut street between eighth and fifteenth. probably i was almost the only philadelphian who knew there were plenty of cheap stores in second street, but that i bought the first silk dress i ever possessed there was one of the little indiscretions i had the sense to keep to myself. a bargain in eighth street might be disclosed as a clever achievement, if not repeated too often. the old philadelphia name and the historic record of lippincott's, for generations among the most successful philadelphia publishers, would have permitted a periodical excursion into market street, even if unlimited latitude, anyway, had not been granted to wholesale houses in the choice of a street. the well-known reliability of strawbridge and clothier might warrant certain purchases up-town and a furniture dealer as reliable, whose name and address i regret have escaped me, sanction the housekeeper's penetrating still further north. but it was safer, everything considered, to keep to chestnut street, and on chestnut street to stores approved by long patronage--you were hall-marked "common" if you did not, and the wrong name on the inside of your hat or under the flap of your envelope might be your social undoing. the self-respecting philadelphian would not have bought her needles and cotton anywhere save at mustin's, her ribbons anywhere save at allen's. she would have scorned the visiting card not engraved by dreka. she would have gone exclusively to bailey's or caldwell's for her jewels and silver; to darlington's or homer and colladay's for her gloves and dresses; to sheppard's for her linen; to porter and coates, after lippincott's, for her books; to earle's for her pictures;--prints were such an exotic taste that gebbie and barrie could afford to hide in walnut street, and the collector of books such a rarity that tenth, or was it ninth? was as good as any other street for the old book store where i had so unpleasant an experience that i could not well forget it though i have forgotten its proprietor's name. a sign in the window said that old books were bought, and one day, my purse as usual empty but my heart full of hope, i carried there two black-bound, gilt-edged french books of the kind nobody dreams of reading that i had brought home triumphantly as prizes from the convent: but i and my poor treasures were dismissed with such contempt and ridicule that my spirit was broken and i could not summon up pluck to carry them to leary's, in ninth street, who were more liberal even than charles lamb in their definition, and to whom anything printed and bound was a book to be bought and sold. if hunger overtook the shopper, she would have eaten her oyster stew only at jones's on eleventh street or burns's on fifteenth; or if the heat exhausted her, she would have cooled off on ice-cream only at sautter's or dexter's, on soda-water only at wyeth's or hubbell's. the hours for shopping were as circumscribed as the district. to be seen on chestnut street late in the afternoon, if not unpardonable, was certainly not quite the thing. vi shopping without money had no charm and could never help to dispose of my interminable hours. the placid beauty of the shopless streets was of a kind to appeal more to age than youth. i wonder to this day at the time i allowed to pass before i shook off my respect for philadelphia conventions sufficiently to relieve the dulness of my life by straying from the philadelphia beaten track. the most daring break at first was a stroll on sunday afternoon over to west philadelphia and to woodland's. later, when, with a friend, i went on long tramps through the park, by the wissahickon, to chestnut hill, it was looked upon as no less unladylike on our part than the new generation's cigarette and demand for the vote on theirs. but if i did my duty, i was sadly bored by it. often i turned homeward with that cruel aching of the heart the young know so well, longing for something, anything, to happen on the way to interrupt, to disorganize, to shatter to pieces the daily routine of life. i still shrink from the sharp pain of those cool, splendid october days when philadelphia was aglow and quiveringly alive, and with every breath of the brisk air came the desire to be up and away and doing--but away where in philadelphia?--doing what in philadelphia? i still shrink from the sharp pain of the first langourous days of spring when every philadelphia back-yard was full of perfume and every philadelphia street a golden green avenue leading direct to happiness could i have found the way along its bewildering straightness. [illustration: johnson house, germantown] if youth only knew! there was everywhere to go, everything to do, every happiness to claim. philadelphia waited, the promised land of action and romance, had i not been hide-bound by philadelphia conventions, absorbed in philadelphia ideals, disdaining all others with the intolerance of my years. according to these conventions and ideals, there was but one adventure for the philadelphia girl who had finished her education and arrived at the appointed age--the social adventure of coming out. chapter vi: the social adventure i let me say at once that i know no adventure is more important for the philadelphian, and that mine was scarcely worth the name as these things go in philadelphia. it is the one adventure that should be roses all the way, but for me it was next to no roses at all. to begin with, i was poor. my father had lost his money in the years of upheaval following the civil war and had never got it back again. nowadays this would not matter. a girl of seventeen, when she comes home from school, can turn round, find something to do, and support herself. she could in the old days too, if she was thrown on her own resources. i had friends no older than myself who taught, or were in the mint--that harbour of refuge for the young or old philadelphia lady in reduced circumstances. but my trouble was that i was not supposed to be thrown on my own resources. a philadelphia father would have felt the social structure totter had he permitted his daughter to work as long as he was alive to work for her. when he had many daughters and luck went against him, the advantage of this attitude was less obvious to them than to him. exemplary as was the theory, which i applaud my father for acting up to since it happened to be his, it had its inconvenience when put into practice. to be guarded from the hardship of labour by the devoted father did not always put money into the daughter's pocket. [illustration: the customs house] had i been more at home in philadelphia, my poverty might not have stood so much in my light. a hundred years before gouverneur morris had praised philadelphia, which in its respect for "virtuous poverty" he thought so much more generous than other capitals where social splendour was indispensable, and in this the town had not changed. it was to philadelphia's credit that a girl's social success did not depend on the length of her dressmaker's bill or the scale of her entertaining. more than one as poor as i would have a different story to tell. but i suffered from having had no social training or apprenticeship. the convent had been concerned in preparing me for society in the next world, not in this, and i had stayed in the convent too long to make the many friendships that do more than most things to launch a girl on her social career--too long, for that matter, to know what society meant. it was a good thing that i did not know, did not realize what was ahead of me, that i allowed myself to be led like a philadelphian to the slaughter, for a little experience of society is good for everybody. unless men are to live like brutes--or like monks--they must establish some sort of social relations, and if the social game is played at all, it should be according to the rules. nowhere are the rules so rigorous as in philadelphia, nowhere in america based upon more inexorable, as well as dignified, traditions, and i do not doubt that because of the stumbling blocks in my path, i learned more about them than the philadelphia girl whose path was rose-strewn. were history my mission, it would be amusing to trace these traditions to their source--first through the social life of the friends who, however, are so exclusive that should this part of the story ever be told, whether as romance or history, it must come from the inside; and then, through the gaieties of the world's people who flatter themselves they are as exclusive, and who have the name for it, and whose exclusiveness is wholesale license compared to that of the friends:--through the two distinct societies that have lived and flourished side by side ever since philadelphia was. but my concern is solely with the gaieties as i, individually, shared in them. now that i have outlived the discomforts of the experience, i can flatter myself that, in my small, insignificant fashion, i was helping to carry on old and fine traditions. ii the most serious of these discomforts arose from the question of clothes, a terrifying question under the existing conditions in the third street house, involving more industrious dress-making upstairs in the third story front bedroom than i cared about, and a waste of energies that should have been directed into more profitable channels. i sewed badly and was conscious of it. at the convent, except for the necessity of darning my stockings, i had been as free from this sort of toiling as a lily of the field, and yet i too had gone arrayed, if hardly with the same conspicuous success, and, in my awkward hands, the white tarlatan--who wears tarlatan now?--and the cheap silk from second street, which composed my coming out trousseau, were not growing into such things of beauty as to reconcile me to my new task. [illustration: under broad street station at fifteenth street] as unpleasant were the preliminary lessons in dancing forced upon me by my family when, in my pride of recent graduation with honours, it offended me to be thought by anybody in need of learning anything. one evening every week during a few months, two or three friends and cousins joined me in the third street parlour to be drilled into dancing shape for coming out by madame martin, the large, portly frenchwoman who, in the same crinoline and heelless, sidelaced shoes, taught generations of philadelphia children to dance. even the convent could not do without her, though there, to avoid the sinfulness of "round dances," we had, under her tuition, waltzed and polkaed hand in hand, a method which my family feared, if not corrected, might lead to my disgrace. i seem rather a pathetic figure as i see myself obediently stitching and practising my steps without an idea of the true meaning and magnitude of the adventure i was getting ready for, or a chance of being set about it in the right way. that right way would have been for somebody to give a party or a dance or a reception especially for me to come out at. but nobody among my friends and relations was obliging enough to accept the responsibility, and at home my father could not get so far as to think of it. he would have needed too disastrous a panic in third street to provide the money. madame martin's lessons were already an extravagance and when, on top of them, he had gone so far as to pay for my subscription to the dancing class, and, in a cabless town, for the carriage, fortunately shared with friends, to go to it in, he had done all his bank account allowed him to do to start me in life. it would be as useful to explain that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west as to tell a philadelphian that the dancing class to which i refer was not of the variety presided over by madame martin, but one to which philadelphians went to make use of just such lessons as i had been struggling with for weeks. the origin of its name i never knew, i never asked, the dancing class being one of the philadelphia institutions the philadelphian took for granted: then, as it always had been and still is, i believe, a distinguished social function of the year. to belong to it was indispensable to the philadelphian with social pretensions. it was held every other monday, if i remember--to think i should have a doubt on a subject of such importance!-and the first of the series was given so early in the winter that with it the season may be said to have opened. perhaps this fact helped my family to decide that it was at the dancing class i had best make my first appearance. iii youth is brave out of sheer ignorance. when the moment came, it never occurred to me to hesitate or to consider the manner of my introduction to the world. i was content that my brother should be my sole chaperon. i rather liked myself in my home-made white tarlatan, feeling very much dressed in my first low neck. i entertained no misgivings as to the fate awaiting me, imagining it as inevitable for a girl who was "out" to dance and have a good time as for a bird to fly once its wings were spread. if there were men to dance with, what more was needed?--it never having entered into my silly head that it was the girl's sad fate to have to wait for the man to ask her, and that sometimes the brute didn't. i had to go no further than the dressing-room at the natatorium, where the dancing class then met, to learn that society was not so simple as i thought. i have since been to many strange lands among many strange people, but never have i felt so much of a stranger as when i, a philadelphian born, doing conscientiously what philadelphia expected of me, was suddenly dropped down into the midst of a lot of philadelphia girls engaged in the same duty. there was a freemasonry among them i could not help feeling right away--the freemasonry that went deeper than the chance of birth and the companionship of duty--the freemasonry that came from their all having grown up together since their perambulator days in rittenhouse square, having learned to dance together, gone to children's parties together, studied at miss irwin's school together, spent the summer by the sea and in the mountains together, in a word, from their having done everything together until they were united by close bonds, the closer for being undefinable, that i, convent bred, with not an idea, not a habit, not a point of view, in common with them, could not break through. i never have got quite over the feeling, though time has modified it. there is no loneliness like the loneliness in a crowd, doubly so if all the others in the crowd know each other. in the dressing-room that first evening it was so overwhelming to discover myself entirely out of it where i should have been entirely in, that, without the stay and support of my friend, of old the prince of denmark to my ghost of hamlet's father, and her sister, who had come out under more favourable conditions, i do not think i could have gone a step further in the great social adventure. as it was, with my heart in my boots, my hand trembling on my brother's arm, to the music of hassler's band, i entered the big bare hall of the natatorium, and was out with no more fuss and with nobody particularly excited about it save myself. [illustration: the philadelphia club, thirteenth and walnut streets] things were a little better once away from the dressing-room. my brother was gay, had been out for two or three years, knew everybody. if he could not introduce me to the women he could introduce the men to me, and the freemasonry existing among them from their all having gone to the episcopal academy and the university of pennsylvania together, from their all having played cricket and baseball and football, or gone hunting together, from their all belonging to the same clubs, was not the kind from which i need suffer. besides, those were the days when it was easy for the philadelphia girl to get to know men, to make friends of them, without the philadelphia gossip pouncing upon her and the philadelphia father asking them their intentions--they could call upon her as often as they liked and the philadelphia father would retreat from the front and back parlours, she could go out alone with them and the philadelphia father would not interfere, knowing they had been brought up to see in themselves her protectors, especially appointed to look out for her. some signs of change i might have discerned had i been observant. more than the five o'clock tea affectation was to come of the new coquetting with english fashions. enough had already come for me to know that if my brother now and then asked me to go to the theatre, it was not for the pleasure of my company, but because a girl he wanted to take would not accept if he did not provide a companion for the sake of the proprieties. i am sure the old philadelphia way was the most sensible. certainly it was the most helpful if you happened to be a girl coming out with next to no friends among the women in what ought to have been your own set, with no chaperon to see that you made them, and, at the dancing class, with no hostess to keep a protecting eye on you but, instead, patronesses too absorbed in their triumphs to notice the less fortunate straggling far behind. well, anyway, if honesty forbids me to call myself a success, it is a satisfaction to remember that i did not have to play the wall-flower, which i would have thought the most terrible disaster that could befall me. to have to sit out the german alone would have been to sink to such depths of shame that i never afterwards could have held up my head. it was astonishing what mountains of despair we made of these social molehills! i can still see the sad faces of the girls in a row against the wall, with their air of announcing to all whom it might concern: "here we are, at your service, come and rescue us!" but there was another dreadful custom that did give me away only too often. when a man asked a girl beforehand to dance the german, philadelphia expected him to send her a bunch of roses: always the same roses--boston buds, weren't they called?--and from pennock's on chestnut street if he knew what was what. to take your place roseless was to proclaim that you had not been asked until the eleventh hour. it was not pleasant. however, if i went sometimes without the roses, i always had the partner. i had even moments of triumph as when, one dizzy evening before the assembled dancing class, i danced with willie white. it is not indiscreet to mention so great a person by name and, in doing so, not presuming to use it so familiarly--he was the dancing class, as far as i know, he had no other occupation; and his name was _willie_, not _william_, not _mr._ white. willie, as philadelphians said it, was a title of honour, like the coeur de lion or the petit caporal bestowed upon other great men--the measure of the estimate in which social philadelphia held him. bean nash in the pump room at bath was no mightier power than willie white in the dancing class at the natatorium. he ruled it, and ruled it magnificently: an autocrat, a tyrant, under whose yoke social philadelphia was eager to thrust its neck. what he said was law, whom he approved could enter, whom he objected to was without redress, his recognition of the philadelphian's claims to admission was a social passport. he saw to everything, he led the german, and i do not suppose there was a girl who, at her first dancing class her first winter, did not, at her first chance, take him out in the german as her solemn initiation. that is how i came to enjoy my triumph, and i do not remember repeating it for he never condescended to take me out in return. but still, i can say that once i danced with willie white at the dancing class--and did i once see shelley plain? iv there were other powers, as i was made quickly to understand--not only the powers that all biddles, cadwalladers, rushes, ingersolls, whartons, in a word all members of approved philadelphia families were by philadelphia right, but a few who had risen even higher than that splendid throng and were accepted as their leaders. it was not one of the most brilliant periods in the social history of philadelphia. mrs. rush had had no successor, no woman presided over what could have been given the name of salon as she had. even the wistar parties, exclusively for men, discontinued during the upheaval of the civil war, had not yet been revived. but, notwithstanding the comparative quiet and depression, there were a few shining social lights. had i been asked in the year of my coming out who was the greatest woman in the world, i should have answered, without hesitation, mrs. bowie. she, too, may be mentioned by name without indiscretion for she, too, has become historical. she was far from beautiful at the date to which i refer, she was no longer in her first youth, was inclined to stoutness and i fear had not learned how to fight it as women who would be in the fashion must learn to-day. she was not rich and the fact is worth recording, so characteristic is it of philadelphia. the names of leaders of society in near new york usually had millions attached to them, those there allowed to lead paid a solid price for it in their entertaining. but mrs. bowie's power depended upon her personal fascination--with family of course to back it--which was said to be irresistible. and yet not to know her was to be unknown. intimacy with her was to have arrived. at least a bowing acquaintance, an occasional invitation to her house, was essential to success or its dawning. she entertained modestly as far as i could gather from my experience,--as far as i can now depend on my memory--gave no balls, no big dinners; if there were select little dinners, i was too young and insignificant to hear of them. i never got farther than the afternoon tea to which everybody was invited once every winter, a comfortless crush in her small house, with next to nothing to eat and drink as things to eat and drink go according to the lavish philadelphia standard. but that did not matter. nothing mattered except to be there, to be seen there. i was tremendously pleased with myself the first time the distinction was mine, though of my presence in her house mrs. bowie was no doubt amiably unconscious. i never knew her to recognize me out of it, though i sometimes met her when she came informally to see one of my aunts who was her friend, or to give me the smile at the dancing class that would have raised my drooping spirits. the only notice she ever spared me there was to express to my brother--who naturally, brother-like, made me uncomfortable by reporting it to me--her opinion of my poor, unpretentious, home-made, second street silk as an example of the absurdity of a long train to dance in, which shows how completely she had forgotten who i was. her chief rival, if so exalted a personage could have a rival, was mrs. connor, from whom also a smile, a recognition, was equivalent to social promotion. her fascination did not have to be explained. she was an unqualified beauty, though the vision i have retained is of beauty in high-necked blue velvet and chinchilla, which i could not have enjoyed at the dancing class or any evening party. i realise as i write that in the details of philadelphia's social history i would come out badly from too rigid an examination. v to mrs. connor's i was never asked with or without the crowd. but other houses were opened to me, other invitations came, for, if i had not friends, my family had. my white tarlatan and my second street silk had grown shabby before the winter was half over. at many parties i got to know what a delightful thing a philadelphia party was, and if i had gone to one instead of many i should have known as well. philadelphia had a standard for its parties as for everything, and to deviate from this standard, to attempt originality, to invent the "freak" entertainments of new york, would have been excessively bad form. the same card printed by dreka requested the pleasure of your company to the same philadelphia house--the philadelphia hostess would not have stooped to invite you to the continental or the girard, the lapierre house or the colonnade, which were the bellevue and the ritz of my day--where you danced in the same spacious front and back parlours, with the same crash on the floor, to the same music by hassler's band: where you ate the same terrapin, croquettes, chicken salad, oysters, boned turkey, ice cream, little round cakes with white icing on top, and drank the same fish-house punch provided by the same augustine; where the same cotillon began at the same hour with the same figures and the same favours and the same partners; where there was the same dressing-room in the second story front and the same philadelphia girls who froze me on my arrival and on my departure. there was no getting away from the same people in philadelphia. that was the worst of it. the town was big enough for a chance to meet different people in different houses every evening in the week, but by that arbitrary boundary of "chestnut, walnut, spruce and pine," it has made itself socially into a village with the pettiness and limitations of village life. i have never wondered that philadelphians are as cordial to strangers as everybody who ever came to philadelphia knows them to be--that philadelphia doors are as hospitable as thackeray once described them. philadelphians have reason to rejoice and make the most of it when occasionally they see a face they have not been seeing regularly at every party they have been to, and hear talk they have not listened to all their lives. [illustration: the new ritz-carlton; the finishing touches; the walnut street addition has since been made] sometimes it was to the afternoon reception the card engraved by dreka invited me, and then again it was to meet the same people and--in the barbarous mode of the day--to eat the same croquettes, chicken salad, terrapin, boned turkey, ice-cream, and little round cakes with white icing on top, and to drink the same punch from augustine's at five o'clock in the afternoon, and at least risk digestion in a good cause. but rarely did the card engraved by dreka invite me to dinner, and i could not have been invited to anything i liked better. i have always thought dinner the most civilized form of entertainment. it may have been an entertainment philadelphia preferred to reserve for my elders, and, if i am not mistaken, the most formal dinners, or dinners with any pretence to being public, were then usually men's affairs, just as the saturday club, and the wistar parties had been, and the clover club, and the fish-house club were: from them women being as religiously excluded as from the dinners of the city companies in london, or from certain monasteries in italy and the east. indeed, as i look back, it seems to me that woman's social presence was correct only in private houses and at private gatherings. nothing took away my breath so completely on going back to philadelphia after my long absence as the country clubs where men and women now meet and share their amusements, if it was not the concession of a dining-room to women by a club like the union league that, of old, was in my esteem as essentially masculine as the philadelphia lady thought the sauces at blossom's hotel in chester. but there were plenty of other things to do which i did with less rather than more thoroughness. i paid midday visits, wondering why duty should have set me so irksome a task. i received with friends on new year's day--an amazing day when men paid off their social debts and made, at some houses, their one call of the year, joining together by twos and threes and fours to charter a carriage, or they would never have got through their round, armed with all their courage either to refuse positively or to accept everywhere the glass of madeira or punch and the usual masterpiece from augustine's. it was another barbarous custom, but an old philadelphia custom, and philadelphia has lost so many old customs that i could have wished this one spared. i went to the concerts of the orpheus club. i went to the opera and the theatre when i was asked, which was not often. i passed with the proper degree of self-consciousness the philadelphia club at thirteenth and walnut, the same row of faces always looking out over newspapers and magazines from the same row of windows. and i did a great many things that were pleasant and a great many more that were unpleasant, conscientiously rejecting nothing social i was told to do when the opportunity to do it came my way. but it all counted for nothing weighed in the balance with the one thing i did not do--i never went to the assembly. chapter vii: the social adventure: the assembly i i am too good a philadelphian to begin to talk about the assembly in the middle of a chapter. it holds a place apart in the social life of philadelphia of which annually it is the supreme moment, and in my record of my experiences of this life, however imperfect, i can treat it with no less consideration. it must have a chapter apart. to go to the assembly was the one thing of all others i wanted to do, not only on the general principle that the thing one wants most is the thing one cannot have, but because to go to the assembly was the thing of all others i ought to have done. there could be no question of that. you were not really out in philadelphia if you did not go; only the friends could afford not to. and americans from other towns felt much the same way about it, they felt they were not anybody if they were not invited, and they moved heaven and earth for an invitation, and prized it, when received, as highly as a pedigree. a few honoured guests were always at the assembly. [illustration: the hall, stenton] philadelphians who are not on the assembly list may pretend to laugh at it, to despise it, to sneer at the snobbishness of people who endeavour to draw a social line in a country where everybody is as good as everybody else and where those on the right side may look down but those on the wrong will not be induced to look up. and not one among those who laugh and sneer would not jump at the chance to get in, were it given them, at the risk of being transformed into snobs themselves. for the assembly places the philadelphian as nothing else can. it gives him what the german gets from his quarterings or the briton from an invitation to court. the dancing class had its high social standard, it required grandfathers as credentials before admission could be granted, the archives of the historical society of pennsylvania supplied no more authoritative assurance of philadelphia respectability than its subscription list, but the dancing class was lax in its standard compared to the assembly. i am not sure what was the number, what the quality, of ancestors the assembly exacted, but i know that it was as inexorable in its exactions as the council of ten. it would have been easier for troops of camels to pass through the eye of a needle than for one philadelphian north of market street to get through the assembly door. i am told that matters are worse to-day when philadelphia society has increased in numbers until new limits must be set to the assembly lest it perish of its own unwieldiness. the applicants must produce not only forefathers but fathers and mothers on the list, and the philadelphian whose name was there more than a century and a half ago cannot make good his rights if his parents neglected to establish theirs. and to be refused is not merely humiliation, but humiliation with philadelphia for witness, and the misery and shame that are the burden of the humiliated. it is foolish, i admit, society is too light a matter to suffer for; it is cruel, for the social wound goes deep. but were it ten times more foolish, ten times more cruel, i would not have it otherwise. philadelphians preserve their state house, their colonial mansions and churches; why should they not be as careful of their assembly, since it has as historic a background and as fine colonial and revolutionary traditions? they are proud of having their names among those who signed the declaration of independence; why should they not take equal--or greater--pride in figuring among the mccalls and willings and shippens and sims and any number of others on the first assembly lists, since these are earlier in date? besides, to such an extremity have the changes of the last quarter of a century driven the philadelphian that he must make a good fight for survival in his own town. when i think of how mere wealth is taking possession of "chestnut, walnut, spruce and pine," how uptown is marrying into it, how the jew and the alien are forcing their way in, i see in loyalty to the traditions of the assembly of philadelphian's strongest defence of the social rights which are his by inheritance. should he let go, what would there be for him to catch on to again? [illustration: "proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof"] it would be different if what philadelphia was getting in exchange were finer, or as fine. but it is not. the old exclusiveness, with its follies, was better, more amusing, than the new tendency to do away with everything that gave philadelphia society its character. it was the charm and the strength of philadelphia society that it had a character of its own and was not just like boston or new york or baltimore society. nobody, however remote was their mission from social matters, could visit philadelphia without being impressed by this difference, whether it was to discover, with john adams, that philadelphians had their particular way of being a happy, elegant, tranquil, polite people, or, with so unlikely an observer as matthew arnold, that "the leading families in philadelphia were much thought of," and that philadelphia names saying nothing to an englishman said everything to every american. who you were counted in philadelphia, as what you knew in boston, or what you were worth in new york, and there was not an american of old who did not accept the fact and respect it. philadelphia society clung to the philadelphia surface of tranquillity, of untroubled repose whatever might be going on beneath it, and in my time i would not like to say how disturbing and agitating were the scandals and intrigues that were said to be going on. they were rarely made public. it was not in philadelphia as in london where next to everybody you meet has been or is about to be divorced, though it might be that next to everybody you met was not making it a practice to keep to the straight and narrow path, to be as innocent as everybody looked. logan square could have told tales, if the divorce court could not. [illustration: bed room, stenton, the home of james logan] but now philadelphia has strayed from its characteristic exclusiveness; gone far to get rid of even the air of tranquillity. with the modern "peggy shippen" and "sally wister" alert to give away its affairs in the columns of the daily paper, it could not keep its secrets to itself if it wanted to. and it does not seem to want to--that is the saddest part of the whole sad transformation. it rather likes the world outside to know what it is doing and, worse, it takes that world as its model. its aim apparently is to show that it can be as like every other town as two peas, so that, drinking tea to music at the bellevue, dancing at the ritz, lunching and dining and playing golf and polo at the country clubs, the visitor can comfortably forget he is not at home but in philadelphia. the youth of philadelphia have become eager to desert the episcopal academy and the university for groton or st. paul's, harvard or yale, in order that they may be trained to be not philadelphians but, as they imagine, men of the world, forgetting the distinction there has hitherto been in being plain philadelphians. at the moment when in far older towns of europe people are striving to recover their character by reviving local costumes, language, and customs, philadelphians are deliberately throwing theirs away with their old traditions. the assembly is one of their few rare possessions left, and strict as they are with it in one way, in another they are playing fast and loose with it, holding it, as if it were a mere modern dance, at a fashionable hotel. ii if i now regret, as i do, never having gone to the assembly, it is because of all that it represents, all that makes it a classic. but at the time, my regret, though as keen, was because of more personal reasons. i could have borne the historic side of my loss with equanimity, it was the social side of it that broke my heart. i have had many bad quarters of an hour in my life, but few as poignant as that which followed the appearance at our front door of the coloured man who distributed the cards for the assembly--far too precious to be trusted to the post--and who came to leave one for my brother. it was an injustice that oppressed me with a sense of my wrongs as a woman and might have set me window-smashing had window-smashing as a protest been invented. why should the assembly be so much easier for men? my brother had but to put on the dress suit he had worn it did not matter how many years, and as he was, like every other american young man, at work and an independent person altogether--a millionaire i saw in him--the price of the card in an annual subscription was his affair and nobody else's. but, in my case the price was not my affair. i had not a cent to call my own, i was not at work, i was denied the right to work, and, the assembly coming fairly late in the season, my white tarlatan and second street silk showed wear and tear that unfitted them for the most important social function of the winter. philadelphia women dressed simply, it is true; that used to be one of the ways the quaker influence showed itself; they boasted then that their restraint in dress distinguished them from other american women. but simplicity does not mean cheapness or indifference. the friends took infinite pains with their soft brown and silvery grey silks, with their delicate fichus and canton shawls. the well-dressed philadelphia woman knows what she has to pay for the elegance of her simplicity. and the assembly has always called for the finest she could achieve, from the day when franklin was made to feel the cost to him if his daughter was to have what she needed to go out "in decency" with the washingtons in philadelphia. [illustration: the tunnel in the park] i had the common sense to understand my position and not to be misled by the poverty-stricken, but irresistible nancies and dollies who were enjoying a vogue in the novels of the day and who encircled empty bank accounts and big families with the halo of romance. to read about the struggles with poverty of the irresistible young heroine might be amusing, but i had no special use for them as a personal experience. it would have been preposterous for me to think for a moment that, without a decent gown, i could go to the assembly and, to do myself justice, i did not think it. but by this time i knew what coming out and being out meant and, therefore, i appreciated the social drawback it must be for me not to be able to go. it explained, as nothing hitherto had, how far i was from being caught up in the whirl, and it is only the whirl that keeps one going in society--that makes society a delightful profession, and i think i realized this truth better than the people so extravagantly in the philadelphia whirl as to have no time to think about it. all that winter i never got to the point of being less concerned as to where the next invitation was to come from than as to how i was to accept all that did come. there is no use denying that i was disappointed and suffered from the disappointment. one pays a heavier price for the first foolish illusion lost than for all the others put together, no matter how serious they are. iii when the season was over, i had as little hope of keeping up in other essential ways. if society then adjourned from philadelphia because the heat made it impossible to stay at home, it was only to start a new philadelphia on the porch of howland's hotel at long branch or, as it was just then beginning to do, at bar harbor and in the camps of the adirondacks, or, above all, at narragansett. "it may be accepted as an incontrovertible truth," janvier says in one of his philadelphia stories, "that a philadelphian of a certain class who missed coming to the pier for august would refuse to believe, for that year at least, in the alternation of the four seasons; while an enforced absence from that damply delightful watering-place for two successive summers very probably would lead to a rejection of the entire copernican system." if philadelphians went abroad, which was much more exceptional then than now, it was to meet each other. i know hotels in london to-day where, if you go in the afternoon, it is just like an afternoon reception in philadelphia, and hotels in paris where at certain seasons you find nobody but philadelphians talking philadelphia, though the philadelphian has not disappeared who does not want to travel because he finds philadelphia good enough for him. and it has always been like that. but i could not follow philadelphia society in the summer time any more than i could go with it to the assembly in the winter. i had reason to consider myself fortunate if i travelled as far as mount airy or chestnut hill out of the red brick oven philadelphia used to be--is now and ever shall be!--from june to september. it was an event if i got off with the crowd--the linen-dustered, wilting-collared crowds; surely we are not so demoralized by the heat nowadays?--to cape may or atlantic city, to enjoy the land breeze blowing, from over the jersey swamps, clouds of mosquitoes before it so that nobody could stir out of doors without gloves and a veil. these, however, were not the summer joys society demanded of me. the further i went into the social game, the less i got from it, and i had decided that for the poor it was not worth the candle at the end of the first year, or was it the second? that i should be uncertain shows how little my heart was in the business of going out. [illustration: the boat houses on the schuylkill] i did not necessarily give up every amusement because i did not go out. in fact, i cannot recall a dance that amused me as much as many a boating party on the schuylkill in the gold of the june afternoon, or many a walking party through the park in the starlit summer night. there also remained, had i chosen, the staid entertainment of the women who, for one reason or other, had retired from the gayer round, and whose amusements consisted of more intimate receptions, teas, without number, sewing societies. and it was the period when philadelphia was waking up to the charms of the higher education for women,--to the dissipations of "culture." i had friends who filled their time by studying for the examinations harvard had at last condescended to allow them to pass, or try to pass; others found their sober recreation by qualifying themselves as teachers and teaching in a large society formed to impart learning by correspondence: all these women keeping their occupation to themselves as much as possible, not wishing to make a public scandal in philadelphia which had not accustomed itself to the spectacle of women working unless compelled to;--all this quite outside of the university set, which must have existed, if i did not know it, as the bryn mawr set exists to-day, but which, as far as my experience went, was then never heard of except by the fortunate and privileged few who belonged to it. but this new amusement required effort, and experience had not made me in love with the amusement that had to be striven for, that had to be paid for by exertion of any kind. there was an interval when philadelphia would have been searched in vain for another idler as confirmed as i. having found nothing to do, i proceeded to do it with all my might. i stood in no need of the poet's command to lean and loaf at my ease, though i am afraid i leaned and loafed so well as to neglect the other half of his precept and to forget to invite my soul. to those years i now look back as to so much good time lost in a working life all too short at the best. chapter viii: a question of creed i i may not have understood at the time, but i must have been vaguely conscious that if so often i felt myself a stranger in my native town, it was not only because of the long years i had been shut up in boarding-school, but because that boarding-school happened to be a convent. there were schools in philadelphia and schools out of it as useful as rittenhouse square in laying the foundation for profitable friendships. miss irwin's furnished almost as good social credentials as a colonial governor in the family. but a philadelphia convent did the other thing as successfully. it was not the convent as a convent that was objected to. in paris, it could lend distinction: the fact that, at the mature age of six, i spent a year at conflans, might have served me as a social asset. in louisiana, or maryland, a philadelphia girl could see its door close upon her, and not despair of social salvation. everything depended upon where the convent was. in some places, it had a social standing, in others it had none, and philadelphia was one of the others. in france, in louisiana, in maryland, to be a catholic was to be at the top of the social scale, approved by society; in pennsylvania, it was to be at the bottom, despised by society. this was another philadelphia fact i accepted on faith. it was not until i began to think about philadelphia that i saw how consistent philadelphians were in their inconsistency. their position in the matter was what their past had made it, and the inconsistency is in their greater liberality to-day. for pennsylvania has never been catholic, has never had an aristocratic catholic tradition like england: to the friends there, all the aristocracy of the traditional kind belongs. the people--the world's people--who rushed to pennsylvania to secure for themselves the religious liberty william penn offered indiscriminately to everybody, found they could not enjoy it if catholics were to profit by it with them. they had not been there any time when, as one of the early friends had the wit to see and to say, they "were surfeited with liberty," and the friends, who refused to all sects alike the privilege of expressing their religious fervour in wood piles for witches and prison cells for heretics, could not succeed in depriving them of their healthy religious prejudice which, they might not have been able to explain why, concentrated itself upon the catholic. episcopalians approved of a doctrine of freedom that meant they could build their own churches where they would. presbyterians and baptists objected so little to each other that, for a while, they could share the same pulpit. moravians put up their monasteries where it suited them best. mennonites took possession of germantown. german mystics were allowed to search in peace for the woman in white and wait hopefully for the millennium on the banks of the wissahickon. later on whitefield set the whole town of philadelphia to singing psalms, and philadelphia refrained from interfering with what must have been an intolerable nuisance. even jews were welcome--their names are among early legislators and on early assembly lists. catholics, alone, they all agreed, had no right to any portion of penn's gift, and popular opinion is often stronger than the law. whatever ill will they had to spare from the catholics, they reserved for the friends to whom they owed everything--if pennsylvania was "a dear pennsylvania" to penn, a good part of the blame lay with the "drunken crew of priests" and the "turbulent churchmen" whom he denounced in one of those letters to logan, which are among the saddest ever written and published to the world. after religious passions had run their course, the religious prejudice against the catholic was handed down as social prejudice, which was all it was in my day when philadelphians, who would question the social standing of a catholic in philadelphia simply because he was a catholic, could accept him without question in the catholic town of baltimore or new orleans simply because he was one. the catholic continued to pay a heavy price socially for his religion in philadelphia where it was not the thing to be a catholic, where it never had been the thing, where it got to be less the thing as successive irish emigrations crowded the catholic churches. i fancy at the period of which i am writing philadelphians, if asked, would have said that catholicism was for irish servants--for the illiterate. i remember a book called _kate vincent_ i used to read at a protestant uncle's, where it may purposely have been placed in my way. does anybody else remember it?--a story of school life with a heroine of a school girl who, in the serene confidence of her sixteen or seventeen summers, refuted all the learned doctors of the church by convicting a poor little irish slavey of ignorance for praying to the blessed virgin and the saints. i think i must have forgotten it with many foolish books for children read in my childhood had not kate vincent been so like philadelphians in her calm superiority, though, fortunately, philadelphians did not share her proselytising fervour. they went to the other extreme of lofty indifference and for them the catholic churches in their town did not exist any more than the streets of little two-story houses south of pine, a region into which they would not have thought of penetrating except to look up somebody who worked for them. ii i might have learned as much during my holidays at my grandfather's had i been given to reflection during my early years. my father was a convert with the convert's proverbial ardour. he had been baptised in the convent chapel with my sister and myself--i was eight years old at the time--and many who were present declared it the most touching ceremony they had ever seen. however, to the family, who had not seen it, it was anything but touching. they were all good members of the episcopal church and had been since they landed in virginia; moreover, one of my father's brothers was an episcopal clergyman and head master of the episcopal academy, philadelphia's bed-rock of religious respectability. the baptism was only conditional, for the catholic church baptizes conditionally those who have been baptized in any church before, but even so it must have been trying to them as a precaution insolently superfluous. i do not remember that anything was ever said, or suggested, or hinted. but there was an undercurrent of disapproval that, child as i was, i felt, though i could not have put it into words. one thing plain was that when we children went off to our church with my father, we were going where nobody else in my grandfather's house went, except the servants, and that, for some incomprehensible reason, it was rather an odd sort of thing for us to do, making us different from most people we knew in philadelphia. [illustration: the pulpit, st. peter's] nor had i the chance to lose sight of this difference at the convent. the education i was getting there, when not devoted to launching my soul into paradise, was preparing me for the struggle against the temptations of the world which, from all i heard about it, i pictured as a horrible gulf of evil yawning at the convent gate, ready to swallow me up the minute that gate shut behind me. to face it was an ordeal so alarming in anticipation that there was an interval when i convinced myself it would be infinitely safer, by becoming a nun, not to face it at all. if i stopped to give the world a name, it was bound to be philadelphia, the place in which i was destined to live upon leaving the convent. i knew that it was protestant, as we often prayed for the conversion of its people, i the harder because they included my relations who if not converted could, my catechism taught me, be saved only so as by the invincible ignorance with which i hardly felt it polite to credit them. to what other conclusion could i come, arguing logically, than that philadelphia was the horrible gulf of evil yawning for me, and that in this gulf protestants swarmed, scattering temptation along the path of the catholic who walked alone among them?--an idea of philadelphia that probably would have surprised nobody more than the nuns who were training me for my life of struggle in it. the gulf of the world did not seem so evil once it swallowed me up, but that socially the catholic walked in it alone, there could be no mistake. when eventually i left school and began going out on my modest scale, i could not fail to see that the people i met in church were not, as a rule, the people i met at the dancing class, or at parties, or at receptions, or on that abominable round of morning calls, and this was the more surprising because philadelphians of the "chestnut, walnut, spruce and pine" set were accustomed to meeting each other wherever they went. except for the small group of those philadelphia families of french descent with french names who were not descendants of the huguenots, and here and there a convert like my father, and an occasional native philadelphian who, unaccountably, had always been a catholic, the congregation, whether i went to the cathedral or st. john's, to st. joseph's or st. patrick's, was chiefly irish, as also were the priests when they were not italians. fashion sent the philadelphian to the episcopal church. it could not have been otherwise in a town as true to tradition as philadelphia had not ceased to be in my young days. no sooner had episcopalians settled in philadelphia than, by their greater grandeur of dress and manner, they showed the greater social aspirations they had brought with them from the other side--the englishman's confidence in the social superiority of the church of england to all religion outside of it. presbyterians are said to have had a pretty fancy in matters of wigs and powdered and frizzled hair, which may also have been symbolic, for they followed a close fashionable second. baptists and methodists, on the contrary, affected to despise dress and, while i cannot say if the one fact has anything to do with the other, i knew fewer baptists and methodists than catholics. by my time the belief that no one could be "a gentleman" outside the church of england, or its american offshoot, was stronger than ever, and fashion required a pew at st. mark's or holy trinity or st. james's, if ancient lineage did not claim one at st. peter's or christ church; though old-fashioned people like my grandfather and grandmother might cling blamelessly to st. andrew's which was highly respectable, if not fashionable, and new-fashioned people might brave criticism with the ritualists at st. clement's. as for catholics, a pew down at st. joseph's in willing's alley or, worse still, up town at the cathedral in logan square, put them out of the reckoning, at a hopeless disadvantage socially, however better off they might be for it spiritually. that the cathedral was in logan square was in itself a social offence of a kind that society could not tolerate. at the correct churches every function, every meeting, every sunday-school, every pious re-union, as well as every service, became a fashionable duty; and at the church door after service on sunday, a man with whom one had danced the night before might be picked up to walk on walnut street with, which was a social observance only less indispensable than attendance at the assembly and the dancing class. [illustration: the cathedral, logan square] i recall the excitement of girls of my age, their feeling that they had got to the top of everything, the first time they took this sacramental walk, if not with a man which was the crowning glory, at least with a woman who was prominent, or successful, in society. but i believe i could count the times i joined in the walnut street procession on sunday morning. as long as i lived in third street, my usual choice of a church lay between st. joseph's, the jesuit church in willing's alley with its air of retirement, and st. mary's on fourth street, where the orphans used to come from seventh and spruce and sometimes sing an anthem that, for any save musical reasons, i delighted in, and where we had a pew. after we moved from third street, our pew was at the cathedral, more distinguished from the clerical standpoint, for there we sat under the bishop. no matter which our church, high mass was long: i could not have got to the appointed part of walnut street in time, had i found at the door the companion to go there with me. there was nothing to do but to walk home alone or sedately at my father's side, and one's father, however correct he might be under other circumstances, was not the right person for these occasions. on sundays i could not conceal from myself that i was socially at a discount. the reflection that this was where i, as a catholic, scored, should have consoled me, for if the episcopalian was performing a social duty when he went to church, i, as a catholic, was making a social sacrifice, and sacrifice of some sort is of the essence of religion. iii if i could but have taken the trouble to be interested, it must also have occurred to me to wonder why st. joseph's, where i went so often, was hidden in an obscure alley. in philadelphia, the town of straight streets crossing each other at right angles, it is not easy for a building of the kind to keep out of sight. but not one man in a hundred, not one in a thousand, who, passing along third street, looked up willing's alley, dreamt for a minute that somewhere in that alley, embedded in a network of brokers' and railroad offices, carefully concealing every trace of itself, was a church with a large congregation. most churches in philadelphia, as everywhere, like to display themselves prominently with an elaborate faã§ade, or a lofty steeple, or a green enclosure, or a graveyard full of monuments. st. peter's, close by, fills a whole block. christ church stands flush with the pavement. the simplest meeting-house, by the beautiful trees that overshadow it or the high walls that enclose it or the bit of green at its door, will not let the passer-by forget it. but st. joseph's, evidently, did not want to be seen, did not want to be remembered; evidently hesitated to show that its doors were wide and hospitably open to all the world in the beautiful fashion of the catholic church. there was something furtive about it, an air of mystery, it was almost as if one were keeping a clandestine appointment with religion when one turned from the street into the humble alley, and from the alley into the silence of the sanctuary. [illustration: christ church, from second street] perhaps i thought less about this mysterious aloofness because, once in the church, i felt so much at home. i do not mind owning now, though i would not have owned it then for a good deal, that after my return from the convent, i had the uncomfortable feeling of being a stranger not only in my town, but in my family. i had been in the convent eleven years and until this day when i look back to my childhood, it is the convent i remember as home. st. joseph's seemed a part of the convent, therefore of home, that had strayed into the town by mistake. in some ways it was not like the convent, greatly to my discomfort. the chapel there was dainty in detail, exquisitely kept, the altars fresh with flowers from the convent garden, and for congregation the nuns and the girls modestly and demurely veiled. but nothing was dainty about st. joseph's,--men are as untidy in running a church as in keeping a house--it was not well kept, the flowers were artificial and tawdry, and the congregation was largely made up of shabby old irishwomen. the priests--jesuits--were mostly italian, with those unpleasant habits of italian priests that are a shock to the convent-bred american when she first goes to italy. they had, however, the virtue of old friends, their faces were familiar, i had known them for years at the convent which they had frequently visited and where, by special grace, they had refrained from some of the unpleasant habits that offended me at st. joseph's. there was father de maria, tall, thin, with a wonderful shock of white hair, a fine ascetic face and a kindly smile, not adapted to shine in children's society--too much of a scholar i fancied though i may have been wrong--and with an effect of severity which i do not think he meant, but which had kept me at a safe distance when he came to see us at torresdale. but he had come, i could not remember the time when i had not known him, and that was in his favour. there was father ardea, a small, shrinking, dark man, from whom also it was more comfortable to keep at a safe distance, so little had he to say and such a trick of looking at you with an "eh? eh?" of expectation, as if he relied upon you to supply the talk he had not at his own command. but i could have forgiven him worse, so pleasant a duty did he make of confession. his penances were light and his only comment was "eh? eh? my child? but you didn't mean it! you didn't mean it!" until i longed to accuse myself of the seven deadly sins with the unpardonable sin thrown in, just to see if he would still assure me that i didn't mean it. there was father bobbelin--our corruption i fancy of barbelin--a frenchman, short and fat, sandy-haired, with a round smiling face: the most welcome of all. he was always very snuffy, and always ready to hand round his snuff-box if talk languished when he went out to walk with us, which i liked better than father ardea's embarrassing "eh? eh?" it was to father bobbelin an inexhaustible joke, and the only other i knew him to venture upon resulted in so unheard-of a breach of discipline that ever after we saw less of him and his snuff-box. he was walking with us down mulberry avenue one afternoon, the little girls clustered about him as they were always sure to be, and the nun in charge a little behind with the bigger, more sedate girls. when we got to the end of the avenue, the carriage gate leading straight out into the world was open as it had never been before, as it never was again. father bobbelin's fat shoulders shook with laughter. he opened the gate wider. "now, children," he said, "here's your chance. run for it!" and we did, we ran as if for our lives, though no children could have loved their school better or wanted less to get away from it. one or two ran as far as the railroad, the most adventurous crossed it, and were making full tilt for the river before all were caught and brought back and sent to bed in disgrace. after that father bobbelin visited us only in our class-room. and there were other priests whose names escape me, but not their home-like faces. now and then jesuits who gave missions and who had conducted the retreats at the convent, appeared at st. joseph's,--father smarius, the huge dutchman, so enormous they used to tell us at the convent that he had never seen his feet for twenty years, who had baptized my father and his family in the convent chapel; and father boudreau, the silent, shy little louisianian, whom i remember so well coming with father smarius one june day to bless, and sprinkle holy water over that big yellow and white house close to the convent which my father had taken for the summer; and father glackmeyer, and father coghlan, and with them others whose presence helped the more to fill st. joseph's with the intimate convent atmosphere. iv these old friends and old associations took away from the uneasiness it might otherwise have given me to find the church, for which i had exchanged the convent chapel, hidden up an alley as if its existence were a sin. but overlook it as i might, this was the one important fact about st. joseph's which, otherwise, had no particular interest. it did not count as architecture, it boasted of no beauty of decoration: an inconspicuous, commonplace building from every point of view, of which i consequently retain but the vaguest memory. as i write, i can see, as if it were before me, the convent chapel, its every nook and corner, almost its every stone, this altar here, that picture there, the confessional in the screened-off space where visitors sat, the dark step close to the altar railing where i carried my wrongs and my sorrows. but try as i may, i cannot see st. joseph's as it was, cannot see any detail, nothing save the general shabbiness and untidiness that shocked my convent-bred eyes. could it have appealed by its beauty, like the old cathedrals of europe, or, for that matter, like the old churches of philadelphia, no doubt i should be able to recall it as vividly as the convent chapel. because i cannot, because it impressed me so superficially, i regret the more that i had not the sense to appreciate the interest it borrowed from the romance of history and the beauty of suffering--the history of the catholic religion in philadelphia which i might have read in this careful hiding of its temple; the suffering of the scapegoat among churches, obliged to keep out of sight, atoning for their intolerance in a desert of secrecy, letting no man know where its prayers were said or its services held. catholics had to practise their religion like criminals skulking from the law. members of a protestant church might dispute among themselves to the point of blows, but they never thought of interfering with the members of any other church, except the catholic, against which they could all cheerfully join. there were times when the friends, most tolerant of men, were influenced by this general hostility, and i rather think the worst moment in penn's life was when he was forced to protest against the scandal of the mass in his town of brotherly love. [illustration: first presbyterian church, seventh street and washington square] the marvel is that catholics ventured out of their hiding-places as soon as they did. they had emerged so successfully by revolutionary times that the stranger in philadelphia could find his way to "the romish chapel" and enjoy the luxury of knowing that he was not as these poor wretches who fingered their beads and chanted latin not a word of which they understood. the jesuits have the wisdom of their reputation. when they built their church the colonies had for some years been the united states, and hatred was less outspoken, and persecution was more intermittent, but they believed discretion to be the better part of valour and the truest security in not challenging attack. that is why they built st. joseph's in willing's alley where the visitor with a dramatic sense must be as thrilled by it as by the secret chapels and underground passages in old elizabethan mansions and scott's novels. philadelphia gave the jesuits a proof of their wisdom when, within a quarter of a century, young america, in a playful moment, burnt down as much as it could of st. michael's and st. augustine's; churches which had been built bravely and hopefully in open places. young america believed in a healthy reminder to catholics, that, if they had not been disturbed for some time, it was not because they did not deserve to be. philadelphia had got beyond the exciting stage of intolerance before i was born. there were no delicious tremors to be had when i heard mass at st. joseph's or went to vespers at st. mary's. there was no ear alert for a warning of the approach of the enemy, no eye strained for the first wisp of smoke or burst of flame. with churches and convents everywhere--convents intruding even upon walnut street and rittenhouse square--with a big cathedral in town and a big seminary at villanova, catholics were in a fair way to forget it had ever been as dangerous for them as for the early christians to venture from their catacombs. their religion had become a tame affair, holding out no prospect of the martyr's crown. only the social prejudice survived, but it was the more bitter to fight because, whether the end was victory or defeat, it appeared so inglorious a struggle to be engaged in. one good result there was of this social ostracism. i leave myself out of the argument. religion, i have often heard it said, is a matter of temperament. as this story of my relations to philadelphia seems to be resolving itself into a general confession, i must at least confess my certainty that i have not and never had the necessary temperament, that, moreover, the necessary temperament is not to be had by any effort of will power, depending rather upon "the influence of the unknown powers." but i am not totally blind, nor was i in the old days when, many as were the things i did not see, my eyes were still open to the effect of social opposition on catholics with the temperament. it made them more devout, at times more defiant. i know churches that are in themselves alone a reward for faith and fidelity--who would not be a catholic in the dim religious light of chartres cathedral, or in the sombre splendours of seville and barcelona? but st. joseph's and st. mary's, st. patrick's and st. john's gave no such reward, nor did the cathedral in its far-away imitation of the jesuit churches of italy and france. in these arid, unemotional interiors, emotion could not kindle piety which, if not fed by more spiritual stuff, was bound to flicker and go out. this is why the philadelphian who, in those unattractive churches and in spite of the social price paid, remained faithful, was the most devout catholic i have ever met at home or in my wanderings. v for his spiritual welfare, it might have been better had the conditions remained as i knew them. but even at that period, the signs of weakening in the social barrier must have jumped to my eyes had i had eyes for the fine shades. catholics among themselves had begun to put up social barriers, so much further had philadelphia travelled on the road to liberty. religiously, one of their churches was as good as another, but not socially. st. mark's, from its superior episcopal heights, might look down equally upon st. patrick's and st. john's, but the catholic with a pew at st. john's did not at all look upon the catholic with a seat at st. patrick's as on the same social level as himself. st. patrick's name alone was sufficient to attract an irish congregation, and the irish who then flocked to philadelphia were not the flower of ireland's aristocracy. st. john's, by some unnamed right, claimed the catholics of social pretensions--the excellence of its music may have strengthened its claim. i know that my father, who was a religious man, did not object to having the comfort of religion strengthened by the charms of gounod's mass well sung, and, at the last, he drifted from the cathedral to st. john's. [illustration: old swedes' church] the cathedral necessarily was above such distinctions, as a cathedral should be, and it harboured an overflow from st. patrick's and st. john's both. but it was the cathedral, rather than st. john's, that did most to weaken the foundations of the social prejudice against the catholic. the bishop there was bishop wood, and bishop wood, like my father a convert, was no irish emigrant, no italian missionary, but came from the same old family of philadelphia friends as j. some people think that quakerism and catholicism are more in sympathy with each other than with other creeds because neither recognizes any half way, each going to a logical extreme. whether bishop wood thought so, i am far from sure, but he had himself gone from one extreme to the other when he became a catholic, and the religious step had its social bearing. with his splendid presence and splendid voice, he must have added dignity to every service at the cathedral, but he did more than that: in philadelphia eyes he gave it the sanction of philadelphia respectability. the catholic was no longer quite without philadelphia's social pale. i had no opportunity, because of my long absence, to watch the gradual breakdown, but i saw that the barrier had fallen when i got back to philadelphia. never again will philadelphia children think they are doing an odd thing when they go to mass, never again need the philadelphia girl fresh from the convent fancy herself alone in the yawning gulf of evil that opens at the convent gate. i should not be surprised if an eligible man from the dancing class or assembly list can to-day be picked up at the door of more than one catholic church for the sunday walk on walnut street. st. john's has risen, new and resplendent, if ugly, from its ashes; st. patrick's has blossomed forth from its architectural insignificance into an imposing romanesque structure. the cathedral has been new swept and garnished--not so large perhaps as i once saw it, for i have been to st. paul's and st. peter's and many a jesuit church in the meanwhile, but more ornate, with altars and decorations that i knew not, and with mr. henry thouron's design on one wall as a promise of further beauty to come. the difference confronted me at every step--and saddened me, though i could not deny that it meant improvement. but the change, as change, displeased me in a philadelphia that ceases to be my philadelphia when it ceases to preserve its old standards and prejudices as jealously as its old monuments. for the sake of the character i loved, i could wish philadelphia as far as ever from hope of salvation by anything save its own invincible ignorance. chapter ix: the first awakening i i had been out, i do not remember how long, but long enough to confirm my belief in the philadelphia way of doing things as the only way, when i found that philadelphia was involved in an enterprise for which its history might give the reason but could furnish no precedent. to philadelphians who were older than i, or who had been in philadelphia while i was getting through the business of education at the convent, the centennial exposition probably did not come as so great a surprise. having since had experience of how these matters are ordered, i can understand that there must have been some years of leading up to it. but i seem to have heard of it first within no time of its opening, and just as i had got used to the idea that philadelphia must go on for ever doing things as it always had done them, because to do them otherwise would not be right or proper. the result was that, at the moment, i saw in the centennial chiefly a violent upheaval shaking the universe to the foundations, with philadelphia emerging, changed, transformed, unrecognizable, plunging head-foremost into new-fangled amusements, adding new duties to the philadelphian's once all-sufficing duty of being a philadelphian, inventing new attractions to draw to its drowsy streets people from the four quarters of the globe, and, more astounding, giving itself up to these innovations with zest. [illustration: independence hall: the original desk on which the declaration of independence was signed and the chair used by the president of congress, john hancock, in 1776 (both on platform)] i looked on at the preparations,--as at most things, to my infinite boredom,--from outside: a perspective from which they appeared to me little more than a new form of social diversion. for they kept my gayer friends, who were well on the inside, busy going to centennial balls at the academy of music in the colonial dress which was as essential for admission as a colonial name or a colonial family tree, while i stayed at home and, seeing what lovely creatures powder and patches and paniers made of philadelphia girls with no more pretence to good looks than i, felt a little as i did when the coloured dignitary rang at our front door with the assembly card that was not for me. and between the balls, the same friends were immersed in centennial societies and centennial committees and centennial meetings and centennial subscriptions and centennial petitions, philadelphia women for the first time admitted, and pining for admission, into public affairs; while i was so far apart from it all that i remember but one incident in connection with the centennial orgy of work, and this as trivial as could be. when we moved into the third street house we had found in possession a cat who left us in no doubt of her disapproval of our intrusion, but who tolerated us because of the convenience of the ground floor windows from which to watch for her enemies among the dogs of the neighbourhood, and for the comfort of certain cupboards upstairs during the infancy of her kittens. she kept us at a respectful distance and we never ventured upon any liberties with her. those of our friends who did, heedless of her growls, were sure to regret it. our family doctor carried the marks of her teeth on his hand for many a day. it happened that once, when two centennial canvassers called, she was the first to greet them and was unfavourably impressed by the voluminous furs in which they were wrapped. when i came downstairs she was holding the hall, her eyes flaming, her tail five times its natural size, and i understood the prudence of non-interference. the canvassers had retreated to the vestibule between the two front doors and, as i opened the inner door, another glance at the flaming eyes and indignant tail completed their defeat and they fled without explaining the object of their visit. i must indeed have been removed from the centennial delirium and turmoil to have retained this absurd encounter as one of my most vivid memories. ii upon the centennial itself i looked at closer quarters. i was as removed from it officially, but not quite so penniless less and friendless as never to have the chance to visit it. inexperienced and untravelled as i was, it opened for me vistas hitherto undreamed of and stirred my interest as nothing in philadelphia had until then. as i recall it, that long summer is, as it was at the time, a bewildering jumble of first impressions and revelations--philadelphia all chaos and confusion, functions and formalities, spectacles and sensations--buildings philadelphia could not have conceived of in its sanity covering acres of its beautiful park, a whole shanty town of huge hotels and cheap restaurants and side-shows sprung up on its outskirts--marvels in the buildings, amazing, foreign, unbelievable marvels, the arabian nights rolled into one--interminable drives in horribly crowded street-cars to reach them--lunches of vienna rolls and vienna coffee in vienna cafã©s, as unlike jones's on eleventh street or burns's on fifteenth as i could imagine--dinners in french restaurants that, after belmont and strawberry mansion, struck me as typically parisian though i do not suppose they were parisian in the least--the flaring and glaring of millions of gas lamps under philadelphia's tranquil skies--a delightful feeling of triumph that philadelphia was the first american town to do what london had done, what paris had done, and to do it so splendidly--burning heat, philadelphia apparently bent on proving to the unhappy visitor what the native knew too well, that, when it has a mind to, it can be the most intolerably hot place in the world--sweltering, demoralized crowds--unexpected descents upon a household as quiet as ours of friends not seen for years and relations never heard of--brilliant autumn days--an atmosphere of activity, excitement and exultation that made it good to be alive and in the midst of centennial celebrations without bothering to seek in them a more serious end than a season's amusement. [illustration: philadelphia from belmont] iii but, without bothering, i could not escape a dim perception that philadelphia had not turned itself topsy-turvy to amuse me and the world. things were in the air i could not get away from. the very words centennial and colonial were too new in my vocabulary not to start me thinking, little given as i was to thinking when i could save myself the trouble. and however lightly i might be inclined to take the whole affair, the rest of philadelphia was so far from underestimating it that probably the younger generation, used to big international expositions and having seen the wonders of the centennial eclipsed in paris and chicago and st. louis and its pleasures rivalled in an ordinary summer playground like coney island or willow grove, must wonder at the innocence of philadelphia in making such a fuss over such an everyday affair. but in the eighteen-seventies the big international exposition was not an everyday affair. europe had held only one or two, america had held none, philadelphia had to find out the way for itself, with the whole country watching, ready to jeer at the sleepy old town if it went wrong. as i look back, though i realize that the centennial buildings were not architectural masterpieces--how could i help realising it with memorial hall still out there in the park as reminder?--though i realise that philadelphia prosperity did not date from the centennial, that philadelphians had not lived in a slough of inertia and ignorance until the centennial pulled them out of it: all the same, i can see how fine an achievement it was, and how successful in jerking philadelphians from their comfortable rut of indifference to everything going on outside of philadelphia, or to whether there was an outside for things to go on in. i know that i was conscious of the jerk in my little corner of the rut. the centennial, for one thing, gave me my first object lesson in patriotism. there was no special training for the patriot when i was young--no school drilling, with flags, to national music. an american was an american, not a russian jew, a slovak, or a pole, and patriotism was supposed to follow as a matter of course. it did, but i fancy with many, as with me, after a passive, unintelligent sort of fashion. i knew about the declaration of independence, but had anybody asked for my opinion of it, i doubtless should have dismissed it as a dull page in a dull history book, a difficult passage to get by heart. but i could not go on thinking of it in that way when so remote an occasion as its hundredth birthday was sending philadelphia off its head in this mad carnival of excitement. in little, as in big, matters i was constantly brought up against the fact that things did not exist simply because they were, but because something had been. an old time-worn story that amused the philadelphian in its day is of the american from another town, who, after listening to much philadelphia talk, interrupted to ask: "but what is a biddle?" i am afraid i should have been puzzled to answer. for a biddle was a biddle, just as spruce street was spruce street, just as philadelphia was philadelphia. that had been enough in all conscience for the philadelphian, but the centennial would not let it be enough for me any longer. my first hint that philadelphia and spruce street and a biddle needed a past to justify the esteem in which we held them, came from the spectacle of mrs. gillespie towering supreme above philadelphians with far more familiar names than hers at every centennial ball and in every centennial society, the central figure in the centennial preparations and in the centennial itself. i did not know her personally, but that made no difference. there was no blotting out her powerful presence, she pervaded the centennial atmosphere. she remains in the foreground of my centennial memories, a tall, gaunt woman, not especially gracious, apparently without a doubt of her right to her conspicuous position, ready to resent the effrontery of the sceptic who challenged it had there been a sceptic so daring, anything but popular, and yet her rule accepted unquestioningly for no better reason than because she was the descendant of benjamin franklin, and i could not help knowing that she was his descendant, for nobody could mention her without dragging in his name. it revolutionized my ideas of school and school books, no less than of philadelphia. i had learned the story of benjamin franklin and the kite, just as i had learned the story of george washington and the cherry tree, and of general marion and the sweet potatoes, and other anecdotes of heroes invented to torment the young. and now here was franklin turning out to be not merely the hero of an anecdote that bored every right-minded school-girl to death, but a person of such consequence that his descendant in the third or fourth generation had the right to lord it over philadelphia. there was no getting away from that any more than there was from mrs. gillespie herself and, incidentally, it suggested a new reason for biddles and cadwalladers and whartons and morrises and norrises and logans and philadelphia families with their names on the assembly list. that they were the resplendent creatures philadelphia thought them was not so elementary a fact as the shining of the sun in the heavens; they owed it to their ancestors just as mrs. gillespie owed her splendour to franklin; and an ancestor immediately became the first necessity in philadelphia. [illustration: the dining room, stenton] the man who is preoccupied with his ancestors has a terrible faculty of becoming a snob, and philadelphians for a while concerned themselves with little else. they devoted every hour of leisure to the study of genealogy, they besieged the historical society in search of inconsiderate ancestors who had neglected to make conspicuous figures of themselves and so had to be hunted up, they left no stone unturned to prove their colonial descent. it must have been this period that my brother, grant robins, irritated with our forefathers for their mistake in settling in virginia half a century before there was a philadelphia to settle in and then making a half-way halt in maryland, hurried down to the eastern shore to get together what material he could to keep us in countenance in the town of my grandfather's adoption. it was soothing to find more than one robins among the earliest settlers of virginia and mixed up with virginia affairs at an agreeably early date. but what wouldn't i have given to see our name in a little square on one of the early maps of the city of philadelphia as i have since seen j.'s? and the interest in ancestors spread, and no englishman could ever have been so eager to prove that he came over with the conqueror as every american was to show that he dated back to william penn, or the first virginia company, or the dutch, or the mayflower; no order of merit or legion of honour could have conferred more glory on an american than a colonial governor in the family; no aristocracy was more exclusive than the american founded on the new societies of colonial dames and sons and daughters of pennsylvania and of every other state. it was preposterous, i grant, in a country whose first article of faith is that all men are born equal, but americans could have stood a more severe attack of snobbishness in those days, the prevailing attitude of americans at home being not much less irreverent than that of the innocents abroad. in philadelphia it was not so much irreverence as indifference. the habit of philadelphians to depreciate their town and themselves, inordinate as, actually, was their pride in both, had not been thrown off. why they ever got into the habit remains to me and to every philadelphian a problem. some think it was because the rest of the country depreciated them; some attribute it to quaker influence, though how and why they cannot say; and some see in it the result of the philadelphia exclusiveness that reduces the social life of philadelphia to one small group in one small section of the town so that it is as small as village life, and has the village love of scandal, the village preoccupation with petty gossip, the little things at the front door blotting out the big things beyond. a more plausible reason is that philadelphians were so innately sure of themselves--so sure that philadelphia was _the_ town and philadelphians _the_ aristocracy of the world--that they could afford to be indifferent. but whatever the cause, this indifference, this depreciation, was worse than a blunder, it was a loss in a town with a past so well worth looking into and being proud of and taking care of. a few philadelphians had interested themselves in their past, otherwise the historical society would not have existed, but they were distressingly few. i can honestly say that up to the time of the centennial it had never entered into my mind that the past in philadelphia had a value for every philadelphian and that it was every philadelphian's duty to help preserve any record that might survive of it--that the state house, the old churches, the old streets where i took my daily walks were a possession philadelphia should do its best not to part with--and i was such a mere re-echo of philadelphia ideas and prejudices that i know most philadelphians were as ignorant and as heedless. but almost the first effort of the new dames and sons and daughters was to protect the old architecture, the outward sign and symbol of age and the aristocracy of age, and they made so much noise in doing so that even i heard it, even i became conscious of a research as keen for a past, or a genealogy in the familiar streets and the familiar buildings as in the archives of historical societies. if the centennial had done no more for philadelphia than to put philadelphians to this work, it would have done enough. but it did do more. the pride of family, dismissed by many as pure snobbishness, awoke the sort of patriotism that philadelphia, with all america, was most in need of if the real american was not to be swept away before the hordes of aliens beginning then to invade his country. in my opinion, the colonial dames, for all their follies, are doing far more to keep up the right american spirit than the flaunting of the stars and stripes in the alien's face and the lavishing upon him of the government's paternal attention. the question is how long they can avoid the pitfall of exaggeration. iv if there was one thing in those days i knew less of than the past in philadelphia, it was the present outside of it. of my own country my knowledge was limited to an occasional trip to new york, an occasional visit to richmond and annapolis, an occasional summer month in cape may and atlantic city. travelling is not for the poor. rich philadelphians travelled more, but from no keen desire to see their native land. the end of the journey was usually a social function in washington or baltimore, in new york or boston, upon which their presence conferred distinction, though they would rather have dispensed with it than let it interfere with the always more important social functions at home. or else the heat of summer drove them to those seashore and mountain resorts where they could count upon being with other philadelphians, and the winter cold sent them in lent to florida, when it began to be possible to carry all philadelphia there with them. [illustration: down the aisle at christ church] my knowledge of the rest of the world was more limited. i had been in france, but when i was such a child that i remembered little of it except the nuns in the convent at paris where i went to school, and the garden of the tuileries i looked across to from the hotel meurice. nor had going abroad as yet been made a habit in philadelphia. there was nothing against the philadelphian going who chose to and who had the money. it defied no social law. on the contrary, it was to his social credit, though not indispensable as the grand tour was to the englishman in the eighteenth century. i remember when my grandfather followed the correct tourist route through england, france, and switzerland, his children considered it an event of sufficient importance to be commemorated by printing, for family circulation, an elaborately got up volume of the eminently commonplace letters he had written home--a tribute, it is due to him to add, that met with his great astonishment and complete disapproval. i can recall my admiration for those of my friends who made the journey and my regret that i had made it when i was too young to get any glory out of it; also, my delight in the trumpery little alabaster figures from naples and carved wood from geneva and filigree jewellery from the rue de rivoli they brought me back from their journey: the wholesale distribution of presents on his return being the heavy tax the traveller abroad paid for the distinction of having crossed the atlantic--a tax, i believe, that has sensibly been done away with since the philadelphian's discovery of the german bath, the london season, and the economy of europe as reasons for going abroad every summer. i was scarcely more familiar with the foreigner than with his country. philadelphia had irish in plenty, as many germans as beer saloons, or so i gathered from the names over the saloon doors, and enough italians to sell it fruit and black its boots at street corners. but otherwise, beyond a rare chinaman with a pigtail and a rarer englishman on tour, the foreigner was seldom seen in philadelphia streets or in philadelphia parlours. in early days philadelphia had been the first place the distinguished foreigner in the country made for. it was the most important town and, for a time, the capital. but after washington claimed the diplomat and new york strode ahead in commerce and size and shipping, philadelphia was too near each for the traveller to stop on his way between them, unless he was an actor, a lecturer, or somebody who could make money out of philadelphia. i feel sorry for the sophisticated young philadelphian of to-day who cannot know the emotion that was mine when, of a sudden, the centennial dumped down "abroad" right into philadelphia, and the foreigner was rampant. the modern youth saunters into a world's fair as casually as into a market street or sixth avenue department store, but never had the monotony of my life been broken by an experience so extraordinary as when the easy-going street-car carried me out of my world of red brick into the heart of england, and france, and germany, and italy, and spain, and china, and japan, where i rubbed elbows with yellow orientals in brilliant silks, and with soldiers in amazing uniforms--i who had seen our sober united states soldiers only on parade--and with people who, if they wore ordinary clothes, spoke all the languages under the sun. it was extraordinary even to meet so many americans who were not philadelphians, all talking american with to me a foreign accent, extraordinary to see such familiar things as china, glass, silks, stuffs, furniture, carpets, transformed into the unfamiliar, unlike anything i had ever seen in chestnut street windows or on chestnut street counters, so extraordinary that the most insignificant details magnified themselves into miracles, to the mere froth on top of the cup of vienna coffee, to the fatuous song of a little frenchman in a side-show, so that to this day, if i could turn a tune, i could still sing the "ah! ah! nicolas!" of its foolish refrain. v travelling, i should have seen all the centennial had to show and a thousand times more, but slowly and by degrees, losing the sense of the miraculous with each new marvel. the centennial came as one comprehensive revelation--overwhelming evidence that the philadelphia way was not the only way. and this i think was a good thing for me, just as for philadelphia it was a healthy stimulus. but the centennial did not give me a new belief in exchange for the old; it did nothing to alter my life, nothing to turn my sluggish ambition into active channels. and big as it was, it was not as big as philadelphia thought. i do believe that philadelphians who had helped to make it the splendid success it proved, looked upon it as no less epoch-making than the declaration of independence which it commemorated. but epoch-making as it unquestionably was, it was not so epoch-making as all that. for some years philadelphians had a way of saying "before" and "after" the centennial, much as southerners used to talk of "before" and "after" the war: with the difference that for philadelphians all the good dated from "after." but manufacturing and commerce had been heard of "before." cramp's shipyard did not wait for its first commission until the centennial, neither did baldwin's locomotive works, nor the factories in kensington; philadelphia was not so dead commercially that it was out of mere compliment important railroads made it the chief centre on their route. all large international expositions are bound to do good by the increased knowledge that comes with them of what the world is producing and by the incentive this knowledge is to competition, and as the centennial was the first held in america it probably accomplished more for the country than those that followed. but i do not have to be an authority on manufacture and commerce to see that they flourished before the centennial; i have learned enough about art since to know that its existence was not first revealed to philadelphia by the centennial. the exhibition had an influence on art which i am far from undervaluing. its galleries of paintings and prints, drawings and sculptures, were an aid in innumerable ways to artists and students who previously had had no facilities for seeing a representative collection. it threw light on the arts of design for the manufacturer. but we knew a thing or two about beauty down in philadelphia before 1876, though beauty was a subject to which we had ceased to pay much attention, and from the centennial we borrowed too many tastes and standards that did not belong to us. it set philadelphia talking an appalling lot of rubbish about art, and the new affectation of interest was more deplorable than the old frank indifference. [illustration: the bridge across market street from broad street station] i was as ignorant of art as the child unborn, but not more ignorant than the average philadelphian. the old obligatory visits to the academy had made but a fleeting impression and i never repeated them when the obligation rested solely with me. i had never met an artist, never been in a studio. the result was that the art galleries at the centennial left me as blank and bewildered as the hall of machinery. of all the paintings, the one i remembered was luke fildes's picture of a milkmaid which i could not forget because, in a glaring, plush-framed chromo-lithograph, it reappeared promptly in philadelphia dining-and bedrooms, the most popular picture of the centennial--a popularity in which i can discern no signs of grace. nor can i discern them in the eastlake craze, in the sacrifice of reps and rosewood to morris and of berlin work to crewels, in the outbreak of spinning-wheels and milking-stools and cat's tails and japanese fans in the old simple, dignified philadelphia parlour; in the nightmare of wall-papers with dadoes going half-way up the wall and friezes coming halfway down, and every square inch crammed full of pattern; in the pretence and excess of decoration that made the early victorian ornament, we had all begun to abuse, a delight to the eye in its innocent unpretentiousness. and if to the centennial we owe the multiplication of our art schools, how many more artists have come out of them, how much more work that counts? however, the good done by the centennial is not to be sought in the solid profits and losses that can be weighed in a practical balance. it went deeper. philadelphia was the better for being impressed with the reason of its own importance which it had taken on faith, and for being reminded that the world outside of philadelphia was not a howling wilderness. i, individually, gained by the widening of my horizon and the stirring of my interest. but the centennial did not teach me how to think about, or use, what i had learned from it. when it was at an end, i returned placidly to my occupation of doing nothing. chapter x: the miracle of work i in the story of my life in philadelphia, and my love for the town which grew with my knowledge of it, my beginning to work was more than an awakening: it was an important crisis. for work first made me know philadelphia as it is under the surface of calm and the beauty of age, first made me realize how much it offers besides the social adventure. personally, the centennial had left me where it found me. it had amused me vastly, but it had inspired me with no desire to make active use of the information and hints of which it had been so prodigal. my interest had been stimulated, awakened, but i did not know philadelphia any the better for it, i did not love philadelphia any the better. i had got no further than i was in my scheme of existence, into which work, or research, or interest, on my part had not yet entered, but i had reached a point where that aimless scheme was an insufferable bore. from the moment i began to work, i began to see everything from the standpoint of work, and it is wonderful what a fresh and invigorating standpoint it is. i began to see that everything was not all of course and matter of fact, that everything was worth thinking about. work is sometimes said to help people to put things out of their minds, but it helps them more when it puts things into their minds, and this is what it did for me. through work i discovered philadelphia and myself together. ii it strikes me as one of the little ironies of life that for the first inducement to work, and therefore the first incentive to my knowledge and love of philadelphia, i should have been indebted to my uncle, charles godfrey leland, who, in 1880, when the centennial excitement was subsiding, settled again in philadelphia after ten years abroad, chiefly in england. philadelphia welcomed him with its usual serenity, betrayed into no expression of emotion by the home-coming of one of its most distinguished citizens who, in london, had been received with the open arms london, in expansive moments, extends to the lion from america. the contrast, no doubt, was annoying, and my uncle, of whom patience could not be said to be the predominating virtue, was accordingly annoyed and, on his side, betrayed into anything but a serene expression of his annoyance. many smaller slights irritated him further until he worked himself up into the belief that he detested philadelphia, and he was apt to be so outspoken in criticism that he succeeded in convincing me, anyway, that he did. later, when i read his _memoirs_, i found in them passages that suggest the charm of philadelphia as it has not been suggested by any other writer i know of, and that he could not have written had he not felt for the town an affection strong enough to withstand that town's easy indifference. but during the few years he spent in philadelphia after his return he was uncommonly successful in hiding his affection, a fact which did not add to his popularity. [illustration: state house yard] from his talk, i might have been expected to borrow nothing save dislike for philadelphia. but his influence did not begin and end with his talk. there never was a man--except j.--who had such a contempt for idleness and such a talent for work. he could not endure people about him who did not work and, as i was anxious to enjoy as much of his company as i could, for i had found nobody in philadelphia so entertaining, and as by work i might earn the money to pay for the independence i wanted above all things, i found myself working before i knew it. i had my doubts when he set me to drawing but, my time being wholly my own and frequently hanging drearily on my hands, my ineffectual attempts to make spirals and curves with a pencil on a piece of paper, attempts that could not by the wildest stretch of imagination be supposed to have either an artistic or a financial value, did not strike me as a disproportionate price for the pleasure and stimulus of his companionship. besides, he held the comfortable belief that anybody who willed to do it, could do anything--accomplishment, talent, genius reduced by him to a question of will. his will and mine combined, however, could not make a decorative artist of me, but he was so kind as not to throw me over for ruthlessly shattering his favourite theory. he insisted that i should write if i could not draw. i had my doubts about writing too. i have confessed that i was not given to thinking and therefore i had nothing in particular to say, nor were words to say it in at my ready disposal, for, there being one or two masters of talk in the immediate home circle, i had cultivated to the utmost my natural gift of silence. nor could i forget two literary ventures made immediately upon my leaving the convent, before the blatant conceit of the prize scholar had been knocked out of me--one, an essay on franã§ois villon, my choice of a maiden theme giving the measure of my intelligence, the second a short story re-echoing the last love tale i had read--both mss., neatly tied with brown ribbon to vouch for a masculine mind above feminine pinks and blues, confidently sent to _harper's_ and as confidently sent back with the editor's thanks and no delay. but my uncle would not let me off. i must stick at my task of writing or cease to be his companion, and so relapse into my old desert of sahara, thrown back into the colourless life of a philadelphia girl who did not go out and who had waited to marry longer than her parents thought considerate or correct. of all my sins, of none was i more guiltily conscious than my failure to oblige my family in this respect, for of none was i more frequently and uncomfortably reminded by my family. i scarcely ever went to see my grandmother at this period that from her favourite perch on the landing outside the dining-room, she did not look at me anxiously and reproachfully and ask, "any news for me, my dear?" and she did not have to tell me there was but one piece of news she cared to hear. luckily, writing, my substitute for marriage, was an occupation i was free to take up if i chose, as the work it involved met with no objection from my father. it was only when work took a girl where the world could not help seeing her at it, that the philadelphia father objected. to write in the privacy of a third-story front bedroom, or of a back parlour, seemed a ladylike way of wasting hours that might more profitably have been spent in paying calls and going to receptions. if this waste met with financial return, it could be hushed up and the world be none the wiser. the way in which my friends used to greet me after i was fairly launched is characteristic of the philadelphia attitude in the matter--"always scribbling away, i suppose?" they would say with amiable condescension. i could not dismiss my scribbling so jauntily. the record of my struggles day by day might help to keep out of the profession of journalism and book-making many a young aspirant as ardent as i was, and with as little to say and as few words to say it in. experience has taught me to feel, much as gissing felt, about the "heavy-laden who sit down to the cursed travail of the pen," but nobody could have made me feel that way then, and i am not sure i should care to have missed my struggles, exhausting and heart-rending as they were. during my apprenticeship when nothing, not so much as a newspaper paragraph, came from my mountain of labour, the philadelphia surface of calm told gloomily on my nerves. ready to lay the blame anywhere save on my sluggish brain, and moved by my uncle's vehement denunciations, i vowed to myself a hundred times that a sleepy place, a dead place, like philadelphia did not give anybody the chance to do anything. i changed my point of view when at last my "scribbling away" got into print. iii my first appearance was with a chapter out of a larger work upon which i had been engaged for months. my uncle, whose ideas were big, had insisted that i must begin straight off with a book, something monumental, a _magnum opus_; no writer was known who had not written a book; and to be known was half the battle. i was in the state of mind when i would have agreed to publish a masterpiece in hieroglyphics had he suggested it, and i arranged with him to set to work upon my book then and there, though i was decidedly puzzled to know with what it was to deal. i think he was too, my literary resources and tendencies not being of the kind that revealed themselves at a glance. but he declared that there was not a subject upon which a book could not be written if one only went about it in the right way, and in a moment of inspiration, seeking the particular subject suitable to my particular needs, he suddenly, and to me to this day altogether incomprehensibly, hit upon mischief. there, now, was a subject to make one's reputation on, none could be more original, no author had touched it--what did i think of mischief? what did i think? had i been truthful, i should have said that i thought mischief was the special attribute of the naughty child who was spanked well for it if he got his deserts. but i was not truthful. i said it was the subject of subjects, as i inclined to believe it was before i was done with it, by which time i had persuaded myself to see in it the one force that made the world go round--the incentive to evolution, the root of the philosophies of the ages, the clue to the mystery of life. my days were devoted to the study of mischief and, for the purpose, more carefully divided up and regulated than they ever had been at the convent. hours were set aside for research--i see myself and my sympathetic uncle overhauling dusty dictionaries and encyclopã¦dias at the long table in the balcony of the dusty mercantile library where nobody dreamed of disturbing us; i see him at my side during shorter visits to the philadelphia library where we were forever running up against people we knew who did disturb us most unconscionably; i see him tramping with me down south broad street to the ridgway library, that fine mausoleum of the great collections of james logan and dr. rush, where our coming awoke the attendants and exposed their awkwardness in waiting upon unexpected readers, and brought mr. lloyd smith out of his private room, excited and delighted actually to see somebody in the huge and well-appointed building besides himself and his staff. hours were reserved for reading at home, for it turned out that i could not possibly arrive at the definition of mischief without a stupendous amount of reading in a stupendous variety of books of any and all kinds from mother goose to the vedas and the koran, from darwin to eliphas levi. hours, and they were the longest, were consecrated to my writing-table, putting the results of research and reading into words, defining mischief in its all-embracing, universe-covering aspect, hewing the phrases from my unwilling brain as the blocks of marble are hewn out of the quarry. as i write, my old mss. rises before me like a ghost, a disorderly ghost, erased, rewritten, pieces added in, pieces cut out, every scratched and blotted line bearing testimony to the toil that produced it. i can see now that i would have done better to begin with a more obvious theme, coming more within my limited knowledge and vocabulary. my task was too laborious for the fine frenzy, or the inspired flights, reputed to be the reward of the literary life. it was all downright hard labour, and so coloured my whole idea of the business of writing, that i have never yet managed to sit down to my day's work without the feeling which i imagine must be the navvy's as he starts out for his day's digging in the streets. in the course of time order grew out of the chaos. a chapter of my monumental work on mischief was finished. it was made ready in a neat copy with hardly an erasure and, having an air of completeness in itself, was sent as a separate article to _lippincott's magazine_, for i decided magnanimously that, as i was a philadelphian, philadelphia should have the first chance. i had no doubts of it as a prophetic utterance, as a world-convulsing message, but the editor of _lippincott's_ had. he refused it. how it hurt, that prompt refusal! all my literary hopes came toppling over and i saw myself condemned to the old idleness and dependence. but our spirits when we are young go up as quickly as they go down. i recalled stories i had heard of great men hawking about their mss. from publisher to publisher. carlyle, i said to myself, had suffered and almost every writer of note--it was a sign of genius to be refused. therefore,--the logic of it was clear and convincing--the refusal proved me a genius! a more substantial reassurance was the publication of the same article, done over and patched up and with the fine title of _mischief in the middle ages_, in the _atlantic monthly_ a very few months later. and when, on top of this, thomas bailey aldrich, the editor of the _atlantic_, wrote and told me he would be pleased to have further articles from me; when, in answer to a letter my uncle had insisted on my writing. oliver wendell holmes promised me his interest in mischief as i proposed to define it. i saw the world at my feet where, to my sorrow, i have never seen it since that first fine moment of elation. the spectacle of myself in print set philadelphia dancing before my eyes and turned the world a bit unsteady. but it did not relieve the labour of writing. within the next year or two seven or eight chapters did get done and were published as articles in the _atlantic_, but the world is still the poorer for the _magnum opus_ that was to bring me fame. the fact was that in the making, it brought me mighty little money. my first cheque only whetted my appetite, but, in fairness to myself i must explain, through no more sordid motive than my desire to become my own bread-winner. the newspapers offered a wider scope at less expense of time and labour, and my uncle not only relaxed so far as to allow me intervals from the bigger undertaking for simpler tasks, but gave me the benefit of his experience as a newspaper man. in the old days, before he had gone to live in london, he had had the run of almost every newspaper office in town, and he opened their doors for me. thanks to his introduction, philadelphia, at this stage of my progress, conspired to put work into my hands, and writing for philadelphia papers taught me in a winter more about philadelphia than i had learned in all the years i had already spent there. i marvelled that i could have thought it dead when it was so alive. i seemed to feel it quiver under my feet at every step, shaking me into speed, and filling me with pity for the sedate pace at which my father and the philadelphians of his generation walked through its pulsating streets. iv my first newspaper commissions came from the _press_ and adventure accompanied them--the adventure of business letters in my morning's mail, of proofs, of visits to the office--adventures that far too soon became the commonplaces of my busy days as journalist. but my outlook upon life in philadelphia had, up till then, been bounded by the brick walls of a spruce street house, and the editorial office, that holds no surprise for me now, held nothing save surprise when i was first summoned to it. i was bewildered by the disorder, stunned by the noise--boys coming and going, letters and telegrams pouring in, piles of proofs mounting up on the desk, baskets overflowing with mss., floors strewn with papers, machinery throbbing close by, a heavy smell of tobacco over everything, and in the midst of the confusion--lounging, working, answering questions, tearing open letters and telegrams, correcting proof, and yet managing to talk with me,--moses p. handy, the editor, a red man in my memory of him, red hair, red beard, red cheeks, whose cordiality i could not flatter myself was due to his eagerness for my contributions, so engrossed was he in talking of the eastern shore of maryland from which he came and in which my family had made their prolonged stay on the way from virginia to philadelphia. the eastern shore may be a good place to come away from, but the native never forgets that he did come from it and he never fails to hail his fellow exile as brother. my next commission i owed to the _evening telegraph_, for which i made a remarkable journey to atlantic city: a voyage of discovery, though the report of it did not paralyse the philadelphia public. i was deeply impressed by my exercise of my faculty of observation thus tested on familiar ground, but i am afraid it left the editor indifferent, and, as in his case the eastern shore was not a friendly link between us, he expressed no desire for a second article or for a second visit. i have regretted it since, the editor being clarke davis, whom not to know was, i believe, not to have arrived so far in philadelphia journalism as i liked to think i had. [illustration: the penitentiary] a more remarkable journey followed to new york for i wish i could remember what paper; or perhaps it is just as well i cannot, the adventure adding to the reputation neither of the paper nor of myself. the object was to attend the press view of an important exhibition of paintings, and at that stage of my education i doubt if i could have told a rembrandt from a rubens, much less a kenyon cox from a church, a chase from a blum, which was more immediately to the point. i had my punishment on the spot, for my hours in the gallery may be counted the most humiliating of my life. my ignorance would not let me lose sight of it for one little second. j. had gone with me--how i came to know him i mean to tell further on--but he had no press ticket, a stern man at the door refused to admit him without one, and i was alone in my incompetency to wrestle with it as i could. had he not returned with me to philadelphia in the afternoon and devoted the interval in the train to throwing light upon my obscure and agonised notes, my copy could not have been delivered that evening as agreed. i know now that the paper would have come out all the same the next morning, but in my misery it did not seem possible that it could, and besides i was from the first, as through my many years of journalism, scrupulous to be on time with my copy and to keep to my agreements. that was my first experience in art criticism. i have tried to atone for it by years of conscientious work, but few philadelphia papers can say as much for themselves. in those i see from time to time, the art criticism usually reads as if philadelphia editors had lost nothing of their old amiability in handing it over to young ladies to get their journalistic training on. i was given also my chance in two newspaper ventures philadelphia made in the early eighteen-eighties. one was the _american_, a weekly on the lines of the new york _nation_. mr. howard jenkins, the editor, sent me books for review, and not the first baby, not the first baby's first tooth, could be as extraordinary a phenomenon as the first book sent for the purpose from the editorial office. mine, as i have never forgotten, as i never could forget, was howard pyle's _robin hood_, and when mr. jenkins wrote me that "mr. pyle's folks" were pleased with what i had written, i thought i had got to the very top of the tree of journalism. that i had got no further than a step from the bottom, and upon that had none too secure a foothold, i was reminded when the second book for review lay open before me. the other venture was _our continent_, also a weekly, but illustrated, edited by judge tourgee. of my contributions, i remember chiefly an article on shop windows, which suggests that i was busy with what i might call a more pretentious kind of reporting. my subjects and my manner of treating them may have been what they were,--of no special value to anybody but myself. but to myself i cannot exaggerate their value. i was learning from them all the time. [illustration: on the reading at sixteenth street] it was an education just to learn what a newspaper was. heretofore i had accepted it as a thing that came of itself, arriving in the morning with the milk and the rolls for breakfast. i knew as little of its origin as the town boy knew of where the milk comes from in the _punch_ story that i do not doubt was old when _punch_ was young. milk he had always seen poured from a can, our newspaper we had always had from the nearest news-agent. it was very simple. a newspaper appeared on the breakfast-table of a well-regulated philadelphia house just as the water ran when the tap was turned on in the bath-room, or the gas burned when lit by a match. but after one article, after one visit to a newspaper office, after one journey to atlantic city or new york, the newspaper did not seem so simple. i began to understand that it would not have got as far as spruce street had it not been for an army of people writing, printing, correcting proof, tearing from one end of the town--of the world--to the other; without colossal machinery throbbing night and day, without an immeasurable consumption of tobacco. i began to understand the organization required to bring the army of people and the colossal machines into such perfect harmony that the daily miracle of the newspaper on the breakfast-table might be worked--to understand too that the miracle-working organization had not been created in a day, that behind the daily paper was not merely the toiling of its staff and its machines but a long history of striving, experiment, development. i cannot say i went profoundly into the history, i was too engrossed in contributing my delightful share to the newspaper as it was, but to go superficially sufficed to show me in philadelphia a spirit of enterprise altogether new to me. i had discovered only shortly before philadelphia as the scene of the first colonial congress, and the declaration of independence, and the first big international exposition in america, and now i added to these other discoveries the fact that philadelphia had been the first american town to publish a daily paper, the last discovery bringing me face to face with benjamin franklin who, it appeared, besides flying that tiresome kite and being the ancestor of mrs. gillespie, was the first printer and publisher of the paper that set an example for all america. tranquil the philadelphian was by repute, but he rolled up his sleeves and pitched in when the moment came. philadelphia's famous calm was but skin deep over its seething mass of workers, its energy, its toiling, its triumph. when i reflected on what was going on at night in every newspaper office in town, it seemed to me as unbelievable that, on the verge of this volcano of work, philadelphians could keep on dancing at parties, at the dancing class, at the assembly, as that men and women should have danced at brussels on the eve of waterloo. and newspaper-making was one only of philadelphia's innumerable industries. that thought gave me the scale of the labour that goes to keep the machinery of life running. v of some of the other industries i got to know a little. my uncle who, as i have said, was a man of ideas and who had his fair proportion of philadelphia energy, included among his many interests the subject of education. he deplored existing systems and methods. my belief is that the systems and methods might be of the best and education would still be a mistake, vulgarizing the multitude to whom it does not belong and encouraging in them a prejudice against honest work. my uncle did not think as i do,--that i do not think now as he did frightens me as a disloyalty to his memory. but he could not overlook the distaste for manual work that had grown out of too much attention to books and as he never let his theories exhaust themselves in words, he lost no time in persuading the board of education to put this particular one to a practical test. doubts of their methods had assailed the board, but no way out of the difficulty had been suggested until he came and said, "set your children, your boys and girls, who are forgetting how to use their hands, to work at the minor arts." it struck them as a suggestion that warranted the experiment anyway, especially as the cost would be comparatively small. my uncle had been back in philadelphia not much more than a year when classes were put in his charge and a schoolroom--the school-house at broad and locust--at his disposal, and he inaugurated the study of the arts and crafts in philadelphia with the industrial art school, as he had in london with the home arts. his sole payment was the pleasure of the experiment, a pleasure which few theorists succeed in securing. i, however, was paid by the city in solid dollars and cents for the fine amateurish inefficiency with which i helped him to manage the classes, recommended by him, whose consideration was as practical for my pockets which the _atlantic_, backed by newspapers, had not filled to repletion. [illustration: locust street east from broad street] this is not the place for the history of his experiment. it is known. the school has passed from the experimental stage into a permanent institution, though in the passing my uncle has been virtually forgotten,--often the fate of the man who sets a ball of reform rolling. of all this i have elsewhere made the record. i am at present concerned with the influence the school had upon me and the unexpected extent to which it widened my knowledge of philadelphia and philadelphia activities. how philadelphia was educated was not a question that had kept me awake at nights. the philadelphia girl of my acquaintance, if a day scholar, went naturally to miss irwin's or to miss annabel's in town; if a boarder perhaps to miss chapman's at holmesburg or mrs. comegys at chestnut hill; unless her parents were converts or catholics by birth when she went instead to the convent of the sacred heart at torresdale or in walnut street. the philadelphia boy began with the episcopal academy and finished with the university of pennsylvania. friends went to the friends' school in germantown, and to swarthmore and haverford. what others did, did not matter. i had heard there were public or free schools where children could go for nothing, but nobody to my knowledge went to them. with what insolence we each of us, in our own little fraction of the world, think everybody outside of it nobody! but up in the top story rooms of the school-house at broad and locust, where my work took me two afternoons in the week, i found myself the centre of a vast network of schools! high schools, grammar schools, primary schools, scholarships, more divisions and subdivisions than i could count; with teachers--for there was a class for teachers--and pupils coming from every ward and suburb, every street and alley of the town; a school board keeping a watchful eye upon schools and teachers, not leaving me out; and all about me a vast population without one idea or interest except the education of philadelphia. and this implied, like the newspaper, a perfect organization of its own to keep the whole thing going--an organization that never could have been born in a day. the education of philadelphia had absorbed a vast population since philadelphia was: the first philadelphia children hardly escaping from their cave dwellings before they were hurried into school to have their poor little minds trained and disciplined. really, in my first days of work, life was a succession of startling discoveries about philadelphia. i could not get paid for my afternoons at the school, which i ought to have paid for considering the education they were to me, without making another discovery. the pay came monthly from the city in the form of a warrant, or so i believe it is called. as i have explained that i had never been possessed of money of my own, some allowance will be made for my stupidity in thinking it necessary to cash the warrant in person. it never occurred to me to open a bank account or to ask my father to exchange the warrant for money. i went myself to the office in the big, new, unfinished city hall--how well i remember, when i was kept waiting which was always, my conscientiousness in jotting down elaborate notes of windows and doors and upholstery and decoration: zola in france and howells at home having made realism the literary fashion, and realism, i gathered, being achieved only by way of jotting down endless notes in every situation in which i found myself; especially as j. had brought back from italy exemplary and inspiring tales of vernon lee (violet paget) and mary robinson (mme. duclaux), with whom he had worked and travelled, filling blank books with memoranda collected from the windows of every train they took and every hotel in which they stayed. i am glad i was stupid, such a good thing for me was this going in person, such a suggestive lesson in city government which i learned was as little of an automatic arrangement as education and the newspaper, and not necessarily something that all decent people should be ashamed of being mixed up with, the way my father and the old-fashioned philadelphian of his type looked upon it and every other variety of government. it was just another huge, busy, striving, toiling organization, so huge as to fit with difficulty into the enormous ugly new buildings, then recently set down for it in penn square with complete indifference to penn's plan for his green country town, or to get its work done in the maze of courts and passages and offices by the hordes of big and little officials no less preoccupied in city government than journalists in their newspaper, or teachers in their school, or--outrageous as it may sound--society in the assembly and dancing class and the things which i had been brought up to believe the beginning and end of existence on this earth. [illustration: broad street, looking south from above arch street] my new knowledge of philadelphia was widened in various other directions as time went on. my uncle's experiment, when it took practical shape, attracted attention and he was asked to lecture on it in places like the franklin institute--there was no keeping away very long from benjamin franklin in philadelphia once i got to know anything about philadelphia--and to visit institutions like moyamensing prison or kirkbride's insane asylum that he might consider the advisability of introducing his scheme of manual work for the benefit of the insane and the criminal. i usually accompanied him on these occasions, and before he had got through his rounds i had seen a number of different phases of philadelphia activity and enterprise and power of organization. i had been given some idea of the armies of doctors and nurses and scientists who had made kirkbride's a model throughout the land, while dr. albert smith had helped me to an additional insight into the hospitals that set as excellent an example. i had been given an idea of the armies of judges and juries and police and governors and warders and visiting inspectors,--of whom my father was one, with a special tenderness for murderers whom he used to take his family to visit--at moyamensing. and from the combination of all my new experiences i had gained further knowledge of the energies at work beyond the limits of "chestnut, walnut, spruce and pine" to make philadelphia what it was. vi i ought to have needed no guide to the knowledge and appreciation of these things, it may be said. i admit it. but the happy mortals who are born observant do not picture to themselves the tortures gone through by those who must have observation thrust upon them before they begin to use their eyes. i had not been born to observe, i had not been trained to observe, and to become observant i had to go through the sort of practical course mr. squeers set to his boys. his method, denounce it as you will, has its merits. the students of dotheboys hall could never have forgotten what a window is or what it means to clean it. i had grown up to accept life as a pageant for me to look on at, with no part to play in it. after my initiation into work, i could never forget, in the quietest, emptiest sections of the town, not even in placid little backwaters like clinton street and de lancey place, the machinery forever crashing and grinding and roaring to produce the pageant, to weave for philadelphia the beautiful serenity it wore like a garment. i could never forget that, insignificant as my share in the machinery might be, all the same i was contributing something to make it go. i could never be sure that everybody i met, however calm in appearance, might not be as mixed up in the great machine of work as i was beginning to be. [illustration: clinton street, with the pennsylvania hospital at its end] i had to work to learn that philadelphia had worked, and still worked, and worked so well as to be the first to have given america much that is best and most vital in the country--the first to show the right way with its schools and hospitals and libraries and newspapers and galleries and museums, the leader in the fight for liberty of conscience, the scene of the first colonial congress and the signing of the declaration of independence and the centennial exposition to commemorate it, a pioneer in science and industry and manufacture--a town upon which all the others in the land could not do better than model themselves--while all the time it maintained its fine air of calm that perplexes the stranger and misleads the native. but i had found it out, found out its greatness, before age had dimmed my perceptions and dulled my power of appreciation; and to find philadelphia out is to love it. chapter xi: the romance of work i i was still in the stage of wonder and joy at seeing myself in print, when work and philadelphia joined in the most unlooked for manner to help me tell my grandmother that "something" she was so anxiously waiting to hear. an article on philadelphia which an intelligent editor asked me to write was my introduction to j. the town that we both love first brought us together, as it now brings us back to it together after the many years that have passed since it laid the foundation of our long partnership. [illustration: the cherry street stairs near the river] i would say nothing about the article at this late date had it not added so materially to my life and to my knowledge of philadelphia. i am not proud of it as a piece of literary work. but it seems, as i recall the days of my apprenticeship, to mark the turning of the ways, to point to the new road i was destined to take. i got it out the other day, the first time in over a quarter of a century, proposing to reprint it, thinking the contrast between my impressions of philadelphia thirty years ago and my impressions of philadelphia to-day might be amusing. in memory, it had remained a brilliant performance, one any editor would be pleased to jump at, and i was astonished to find it youthful and crude, inarticulate, inadequate not only to the subject itself but to my appreciation of the subject which at the time was unbounded. i do not know whether to be more amazed at my failure in it to say what i wanted to say, or at the editor's amiability in publishing it. the article may not have lost all its eloquence for me, since between the halting lines i can read the story i did not know how to tell, but for others it would prove a dull affair and it is best left where it is, forgotten in the old files of a popular magazine. the story i read is one of a series of discoveries with a romance in each. the way the article came about was that j. had made etchings of philadelphia, and the editor, who had wisely arranged to use them, thought they could not be published without accompanying text. when he asked me, as a young philadelphian just beginning to write, to supply this text, he advised me to consult with j., whom i did not know and whose studio address he gave me. i was thrilled by the prospect, never having been in a studio nor met an artist, and when it turned out not half so simple as it looked on paper, when the first catching my artist was attended with endless delays and difficulties, it did not lessen the thrill or take away from the sense of adventure. j.'s studio, which he shared with mr. harry poore, was at the top of what was then the presbyterian building on chestnut street above thirteenth, quite new and of tremendous height at a time when the sky-scraper had not been invented nor the elevator become a necessity of philadelphia life. day after day, varying the hour with each attempt, now in the morning, now at noon, now toward evening, i toiled up those long flights of stairs, marvelling at the strange, unaccountable disclosures through half-opened studio doors, for it was a building of studios; glad of the support of my uncle who was seeing me through this, as he saw me through all my earliest literary enterprises; arriving at the top, breathless and panting, only to be informed by a notice, written on paper and pinned on the tight-locked door, that j. was out and would be back in half an hour. my uncle and i were inclined to interpret this literally, once or twice waiting trustingly on the dark landing some little while beyond the appointed time. on one occasion i believe the door was opened, when we knocked, by mr. poore who was not sure of the length of a half hour as j. reckoned it, but had an idea it might vary according to circumstances, especially now that j. was out of town. i went away not annoyed as i should be to-day, but more stirred than ever by the novelty of the adventure. [illustration: the morris house on eighth street] at last i tied j. down by an appointment, as i should have done at the start, and he, having returned to town, kept it to the minute. i think from first to last of this astonishing business i had no greater shock of astonishment than when i followed him into his studio. we were in the eighteen-eighties then, when american magazines and newspapers were making sensational copy out of the princely splendour of the london studios, above all of tadema's, leighton's, millais': palatial interiors, hung with priceless tapestries, carpeted with rare oriental rugs, shining with old brass and pottery and armour, opening upon moorish courts, reached by golden stairs, fragrant with flowers, filled with soft couches and luxurious cushions--flamboyant, exotic interiors that would not have disgraced ouida's godlike young guardsmen but that scarcely seemed to belong to men who made their living by the work of their hands. indeed, it was their splendour that misled so many incompetent young men and women of the later victorian age into the belief that art was the easiest and most luxurious short cut to wealth. but there was nothing splendid or princely about j.'s studio. it was frankly a workshop, big and empty, a few unframed drawings and life studies stuck up on the bare walls, the floors carpetless, for furniture an easel or two and a few odd rickety chairs--a room nobody would have dreamed of going into except for work. but then, my first impression of j. was of a man who did not want to do anything except work. my experience had been that people--if i leave out my uncle--worked, not because they wanted to but because they had to and that, sceptical as they might be on every other scriptural point, they were not to be shaken out of their belief in work as a curse inherited from adam. j., evidently, would have found the curse in not being allowed to work. and as new to me was the enthusiasm with which, while he showed me his prints and drawings, he began to talk about philadelphia and its beauty. it was unusual for philadelphians to talk about their town at all; if they did, it was more unusual for them to talk with enthusiasm; and the interest in it forced upon them by the centennial had been for every quality rather than its beauty. even my uncle--though later, in his _memoirs_, he wrote charmingly of the charm of philadelphia--at that time affected to admire nothing in it except the unsightly arches of the pennsylvania railroad, bridging the streets between the schuylkill and the station, and if he made the exception in their favour, it was because they reminded him of london. thanks to the centennial and the stimulus of hard work, i was not as ignorant of philadelphia as i had been, but i was not rid of the old popular fallacy that the american in search of beauty must cross the atlantic and go to europe. and here was j., in five minutes telling me more about philadelphia than i had learned in a lifetime, revealing to me in his drawings the beauty of streets and houses i had not had the wit to find out for myself, firing me with sudden enthusiasm in my turn, convincing me that nothing in the world counted but philadelphia, opening my eyes to its unsuspected resources, so that after this i could walk nowhere without visions of romance where all before had been everyday commonplace, leaving me eager and impatient to start on my next journey of discovery which was to be in his company. ii to illustrate our article--for _ours_ it had become--j. passed over the obvious picturesqueness of philadelphia--the venerable pennsylvania hospital, the beautiful state house, christ church, the old swedes, st. peter's--buildings for which philadelphia, after years of indifference, had at last been exalted by the centennial into historic monuments, the show places of the town, labelled and catalogued--buildings of which j. had already made records, having begun his work by drawing them, his plate of the state house among the first he ever etched. he now went in preference to the obscure by-ways, to the unpretending survivals of the past, so merged, so swallowed up in the present, that it needed keen eyes to detect them: old buildings stamped with age, but too humble in origin for the centennial to have resurrected; busy docks, grimy river banks, crazy old rookeries abandoned to the business and poverty that claimed them: to the strange, neglected, never-visited corners of a great town where beauty springs from the rich soil of labour and chance, neglect and decay. how little i had known of philadelphia up till then! one of the very first places to which he took me was the old second street market that, when i lived within a stone's throw of it, i had never set my eyes on--the old market that, south of pine, forces second street to widen and make space for it and that turns the gable of the little old court house directly north, breaking the long vista of the street as st. clement's and st. mary's in london break the vista of the strand--the old market that i believe the city proposes to pull down, very likely will have pulled down before these lines are in print, though there is not a philadelphian who would not go into ecstasies over as shabby and down-at-the-heel eighteenth century building if stumbled upon in an english country town. and as close to his old family home and mine j. led me into inn yards that might have come straight from the borough on the surrey side of the thames, and in and out of dark mysterious courts which he declared as "good" as the exploited french and italian courts every etcher has at one time or another made a plate of--curious nooks and by-ways i had never stopped to look at during my third street days and would have seen nothing in if i had. and i remember going with him along front street, where i should have thought myself contaminated at a time when it might have varied the dull round of my daily walks, so unlike was it to the spick and span streets i knew,--glimpses at every crossing of the delaware, philadelphia's river of commerce that philadelphians never went near unless to take the boat for torresdale or, in summers of economy, the steamer for liverpool; for several blocks, groups of seafaring men mending sails on the side-walk, mariners' boarding-houses, a mariners' church, and philadelphia here the seaport town it is and always has been; and then, successive odours of the barnyard, fish, spice, coffee, philadelphia smelling as strong of the romance of trade as any eastern bazaar. [illustration: the old coaching-inn yard] and i remember j. and i crossing the forbidden line into "up town" to find beauty, interest, picturesqueness in "market, arch, race and vine"--old houses everywhere, the old meeting-house, betsy ross' house, provost smith's, the christ church burial ground at fifth and arch where franklin is buried, narrow rambling alleys, red and black brick, and there, up on a house at the corner of front, where it is to this day, a sign going back to the years when race was still sassafras street, and so part of the original scheme of philadelphia, to which, with philadelphia docility, i had all my life believed south of market alone could claim the right. and i remember our wandering to the schuylkill, not by the neat and well-kept roads and paths of the park, but where tumbled-down houses faced it near callowhill street bridge and works of one kind or another rose from its banks near gray's ferry, and philadelphia was a town of industry, of machines, of railroads connecting it with all parts of the world,--for already to j. "the wonder of work" had made its irresistible appeal. and i remember our wandering farther, north and south, east and west--interest, beauty, picturesqueness never failing us--in the end philadelphia transformed into a vast wonderland, where in one little section people might spend their lives dancing, paying calls at noon, eating chicken salad and croquettes from augustine's, but where in every other they were striving, struggling, toiling, to carry on penn's traditions and to give to his town the greatness, power and beauty he planned for it. in these walks i had followed j. into streets and quarters of the town i had not known. but i would be leaving out half the story if i did not say how much he showed me in the streets and quarters i did know. it is with a town, i suppose, as with life out of which, philosophers say, we get just as much, or as little, as we bring to it. i had brought no curiosity, no interest, no sympathy, to philadelphia, and philadelphia therefore had given me nothing save a monotony of red brick and green shade. but now i came keen with curiosity, full of interest, aflame with sympathy, and philadelphia overwhelmed me with its gifts. oh, the difference when, having eyes, one sees! i was as surprised to learn that i had been living in the midst of beauty all my life as m. jourdain was to find he had been talking prose. down in lower spruce and all the neighbouring streets, where i had walked in loneliness longing for something to happen, something happened at every step--beautiful colonial houses, stately doorways, decorative ironwork, dormer windows, great gables facing each other at street corners, harmonious proportions--not merely a bit here and a bit there, but the old colonial town almost intact, preserved by philadelphia through many generations only to be abandoned now to the russian jew and the squalor and the dirt that the russian jew takes with him wherever he goes. in not another american town had the old streets then changed so little since colonial days, in not another were they so well worth keeping unchanged. i had not to dive into musty archives to unearth the self-evident fact that the early friends, when they left england, packed up with their liberty of conscience the love of beauty in architecture and, what was more practical, the money to pay for it; that, in a fine period of english architecture, they got good english architects,--wren said to have been of the number--to design not merely their public buildings, but their private houses; that, their founder setting the example, they carried over in their personal baggage panelling, carvings, ironwork, red and black brick, furniture, and the various details they were not likely to procure in philadelphia until philadelphians had moved from their caves and the primeval forest had been cut down; that when philadelphia could contribute its share of the work, they modified the design to suit climate, circumstances, and material, and bequeathed to us a philadelphia with so much local character that it never could be mistaken for an english town. this used to strike the intelligent foreigner as long as philadelphia was content to have a character of its own and did not bother to be in architectural or any other movements. "not a distressingly new-looking city, for the queen anne style in vogue when its prosperity began is in the main adhered to with quaker-like precision; good red brick; numerous rather narrow windows with white outside shutters, a block cornice along the top of the faã§ades and the added american feature of marble steps and entry,"--this, in a letter to william michael rossetti, was mrs. gilchrist's description of philadelphia in the late eighteen-seventies, and it is an appreciative description though most authorities would probably describe philadelphia as georgian rather than queen anne. philadelphia did more to let the old character go to rack and ruin during the years i was away from it than during the two centuries before, and is to-day repenting in miles upon miles of sham colonial. but repentance cannot wipe away the traces of sin--cannot bring back the old philadelphia i knew. [illustration: franklin's grave] i do not want to attribute too much to my new and only partially developed power of observing. had the measuring worm not retreated before the sparrow, i might perhaps have been less prepared during my walks with j. to admit the beauty of the trees lining every street, as well as of the houses they shaded. but what is the use of troubling about the might-have-been? the important thing is that, with him i did for the first time see how beautiful are our green, well-shaded streets. with him too i first saw how beautiful is their symmetry as they run in their long straight lines and cross each other at right angles. it was a symmetry i had confused with monotony, with which most philadelphians, foolishly misled, still confuse it. they would rather, for the sake of variety, that penn had left the building and growth of philadelphia to chance as the founders of other american towns did--they would rather boast with new york or boston of the disorderly picturesqueness of streets that follow old cow tracks made before the town was. but penn understood the value of order in architecture as in conduct. it is true that ruskin, the accepted prophet of my young days, did not include order among his seven lamps, but there was a good deal ruskin did not know about architecture, and a town like paris in its respect for arrangement--for order--for a thought-out plan--will teach more at a glance than all his rhapsodies. philadelphia has not the noble perspectives of the french capital nor the splendid buildings to complete them, but its despised regularity gives it the repose, the serenity, which is an essential of great art, whether the art of the painter or the engraver, the sculptor or the architect. and it gives, too, a suggestiveness, a mystery we are more apt to seek in architectural disorder and caprice. i know nobody who has pointed out this beauty in penn's design except mrs. gilchrist in the description from which i have already borrowed, and she merely hints at the truth, not grasping it. philadelphia to her was more picturesque and more foreign-looking than she expected, and her explanation is in the "long straight streets at right angles to each other, long enough and broad enough to present that always pleasing effect of vista-converging lines that stretch out indefinitely and look as if they must certainly lead somewhere very pleasant," the streets that are to the town what "the open road" is to the country,--the long, white, straight road beckoning who can say where? iii it was without the slightest intention on my part that the vista-converging lines of the streets led me direct to william penn. but i defy anybody to do a little thinking while walking through the streets of philadelphia and not be led to him, so for eternity has he stamped them with his vivid personality--not william penn, the shadowy prig of the school history, but william penn, the man with a level head, big ideas, and the will to carry them out--three things that make for genius. to the weakling of to-day the fight for liberty of conscience would loom up so gigantic a task as to fill to overflowing his little span here below. but in the fight as penn fought it, the material details could be overlooked as little as the spiritual, the comfort of the bodies of his people no more neglected than the freedom of their souls. he did not stop to preach about town-planning and garden cities, and improved housing for the workman, like the would-be reformer of to-day. with no sentimental pose as saviour of the people, no drivel about reforming and elevating and sweetening the lives of humanity, no aspiration towards "world-betterment," penn made sure that philadelphia should be the green town he thought it ought to be and that men and women, whatever their appointed task, should have decent houses to live in. he had the common-sense to understand that his colonists would be the sturdier and the better equipped for the work they had to do if they lived like men and not like beasts, and that a town as far south as philadelphia called for many gardens and much green shade. the most beautiful architecture is that which grows logically out of the needs of the people. that is why penn's city as he designed it was and is a beautiful city, to which english and german town reformers should come for the hints philadelphians are so misguided as to seek from them. i could not meet penn in his pleasant streets and miss the succession of friends who took over the responsibility of ensuring life and reality to his design, not allowing it, like wren's in london, to lapse into a half-forgotten archaeological curiosity. personally. i knew nothing of the friends and envied j. who did because he was one of them, as i never could be, as nobody, not born to it, can. i had seen them, as alas! they are seen no longer: quiet, dignified men in broad-brimmed hats, sweet-faced women in delicate greys and browns, filling our streets in the spring at the time of yearly meeting. once or twice i had seen them at home, the women in white caps and fichus, quiet and composed, sitting peacefully in their old-time parlours simple and bare but filled with priceless sheraton or chippendale. they looked, both in the open streets and at their own firesides, so placid, so detached from the world's cares, it had not occurred to me that they could be the makers of the town's beauty and the sinews of its strength. but in my new mood i could nowhere get far from them. ghosts of the early friends haunted the old streets and the old houses and, mingling with them, were ghosts of the world's people who had lost no time in coming to share their town and ungraciously abuse the privilege. the air was thick with association. j. and i walked in an atmosphere of the past, delightfully conscious of it but never troubling to reduce it to dry facts. we could not have been as young as we were and not scorn any approach to pedantry, not as lief do without ghosts as to grub them up out of the philadelphia library or the historical society. we left it to the antiquary to say just where the first friends landed and the corner-stone of their first building was laid, just in which third street house washington once danced, in which front street house bishop white once lived. it was for the belated boswell, not for us, to follow step by step the walks abroad of penn, or franklin, or any of our town's great men. it was no more necessary to be historians in order to feel the charm of the past than to be architects in order to feel the charm of the houses, and for no amount of exact knowledge would we have exchanged the romance which enveloped us. [illustration: arch street meeting] could i have put into words some of the emotion i felt in gathering together my material, what an article i would have made! but my words came with difficulty, and indeed i have never had the "ready pen" of the journalist, always i have been shy in expressing emotion of any kind. no reader could have guessed from my article my enthusiasm as i wrote it. but at least it did get written and my pleasure in it was not disturbed by doubt. i was too enthralled by what i had to say to realize that i had not managed to say it at all. iv with the publication of the article our task was at an end, but not our walks together. j. and i had got into the habit of them, it was a pleasant habit, we saw no reason to give it up. sometimes we walked with new work as an object. there were articles about philadelphia for _our continent_. we called it work--learning romany--when we both walked with my uncle up broad street to oakdale park, and through camden and beyond to the reservoir, where the gypsies camped, and made camden in my eyes, not the refuge of all in doubt, debt, or despair as its traditions have described it, but a rival in romance of bagdad or samarcand. when we walked still further, taking the train to help us out, to near country towns for the autumn fairs, never missing a side show, we called this the search for local colour, and i filled note-books with notes. sometimes we walked for no more practical purpose than pleasure in philadelphia. and we could walk for days, we could walk for miles, and exhaust neither the pleasure nor the town that i once fancied i knew by heart if i walked from market to pine and from the delaware to the schuylkill. i remember as a remarkable incident my discovery of the suburbs. with the prejudice borrowed from my father, i had cultivated for all suburbs something of the large sweeping contempt which, in the eighteen-nineties, henley and the _national observer_, carrying on the tradition of thackeray, made it the fashion to profess for the suburbs of london. west philadelphia and germantown were no less terms of opprobrium in my mouth than clapham and brixton in henley's. but henley, though it was a mistake to insist upon clapham with its beautiful common and old houses and dignified air, was expressing his splendid scorn of the second-rate, the provincial, in art and in letters. i was only expressing, parrot-like, a pose that did not belong to me, but to my father in whose outlook upon life and things there was a whimsical touch, and who carried off' his prejudices with humour. [illustration: cliveden, the chew house] i was the more foolish in this because few towns, if any, have lovelier suburbs than philadelphia. their loveliness is another part of our inheritance from william penn who set no limits to his dream of a green country town, and from the old friends who, in deference to his desire, lined not only their streets but their roads with trees. this is only as it should be, i thought when, reading the letters of john adams, i came upon his description of the road to kensington and beyond, "straight as the streets of philadelphia, on each side ... beautiful rows of trees, button-woods, oaks, walnuts, cherries, and willows." in our time, scarcely a road out of philadelphia is without the same beautiful rows, if not the same variety in the trees, and while much of the open country it ran through in john adams' day has been built up with town and suburban houses, the trees still line it on each side. everybody knows the beauty of the leafy roads of the main line, quite a correct thing to know, the main line being the refuge of the philadelphian pushed out of "chestnut, walnut, spruce and pine" by business and the russian jew combined. but the main line has not the monopoly of suburban beauty, though it may of suburban fashion. the main street in germantown, with its peaceful old grey stone houses and great overshadowing trees, has no rival at home or abroad, and i have seen as commonplace a street as walnut in west philadelphia, its uninteresting houses screened behind the two long lines of trees, become in the golden light of a summer afternoon as stately an avenue as any at versailles or st. germain. not only the trees, but the past went with us to germantown. has any other american suburb so many old houses to boast? stenton, the chew house, the johnson house, the morris house, the wistar house, wyck--are there any other colonial houses with nobler interiors, statelier furniture, sweeter gardens? i recall the pillared hall of chew house, the finely proportioned entrance and stairway of stenton, the garden of wyck as i last saw it--rather overgrown, heavy with the perfume of roses and syringa, the june sun low behind the tall trees that stand close to the wall along walnut lane;--i recall the memories clustering about those old historic homes, about every lane and road and path, and i wonder that germantown is not one of the show places of the world. but the foreigner, to whom philadelphia is a station between new york and washington or new york and chicago, has never heard of it, nor has the rest of america to whom philadelphia is the junction for atlantic city. with the exception of stenton, the old germantown houses are for use, not for show, still lived in by the families who have lived in them from the beginning, and i love them too well to want to see them overtaken by the fate of sights starred in baedeker, even while i wonder why they have escaped. at times j. and i walked in the green valley of the wissahickon, along the well-kept road past the old white taverns, with wide galleries and suppers of cat-fish and waffles, which had not lost their pleasant primitiveness to pass themselves off as rural rumpelmeyers where ladies stop for afternoon tea. can the spring be fairer anywhere than in and around philadelphia when wistaria blossoms on every wall and the country is white with dogwood? often we wandered in the wissahickon woods, by narrow footpaths up the low hillsides, so often that, wherever i may be, certain effects of brilliant sunshine filtering through the pale green of early spring foliage will send me straight back to the wissahickon and to the days when i could not walk in philadelphia or its suburbs and not strike gold at every step. and the wissahickon was but one small section of the park, of which the corrupt government philadelphia loves to rail at made the largest and fairest, at once the wildest and most wisely laid-out playground, in america. will a reform government, with all its boasting, do as much for philadelphia? i had skimmed the surface only on those boating parties up the river and those walking parties in the starlit or moonlit shade. wide undiscovered stretches lay off the beaten track, and the mansions of the park--strawberry, belmont, mount pleasant--were well stocked, not only with lemonade and cake and peanuts, with croquettes and chicken salad, but with beauty and associations for those who knew how to give the order. and, greater marvel, beauty--classic beauty--was to be had even in the fairmount water works that, after i left school, i had looked down upon as a childish entertainment provided for the holidays, beneath the consideration of my maturer years. v of all our walks, none was better than the walk to bartram's on the banks of the schuylkill beyond gray's ferry. it seemed very far then, before the trolley passed by its gate, and before the rows of little two-story houses had begun to extend towards it like the greedy tentacles of the great town. the city government had not taken it over, it was not so well looked after. the old grey stone house, with the stone tablet on its walls bearing witness that his lord was adored by john bartram, had not yet been turned into a museum. i am not sure whether the trees around it--the trees collected from far and near--were learnedly labelled as they are now. the garden had grown wild, the thicket below was a wilderness. it is right that the place should be cared for. the city could not afford to lose the beauty one of its most famous citizens, who was one of the most famous botanists of his day, built up, and his family preserved, for it, and when i returned i welcomed the sign this new care gave of philadelphia's interest, so long in the awakening. but bartram's was more beautiful in its neglect, as an old church is more beautiful before the restorer pulls down the ivy and scrapes and polishes the stone. many were the sunday afternoons j. and i spent there, and many the hours we sat talking on the little bench at the lower end of the wilderness, where we looked out on the river and planned new articles. [illustration: bartram's] when our walks together had become too strong a habit to be broken and we decided to make the habit one for life, we went back again and again to bartram's and on that same little bench, looking out upon the river, we planned work for the long years we hoped were ahead of us: perhaps seeing the future in the more glowing colours for the contrast with the past about us, the ashes of the life and beauty from which our phoenix was to soar. the work then planned carried and kept us thousands of miles away, but it belongs none the less to the old scenes, where it was inspired, and i like to think that, though the chances of this work have made us exiles for years, the memory of our life as we have lived it is inseparable from the memory of bartram's or, indeed, of philadelphia which, through work, i learned to see and to love. chapter xii: philadelphia and literature i on the principle that nothing interests a man--or a woman--so much as shop, i had no sooner begun to write than i saw philadelphia divided not between the people who could and could not go to the assembly and the dancing class, but between the people who could and could not write; and, after i began to write for illustration, between the people who could and could not paint and draw. it had never before occurred to me to look for art and literature in philadelphia. [illustration: carpenter's hall interior] at that time, you had, literally, to look for the literature to find it. philadelphia, with its usual reticence and conscientiousness in preventing any philadelphian from becoming a prophet in philadelphia, had hidden its literary, with its innumerable other, lights under a bushel, content itself to know they were there, if nobody else did. as towns, like men, are apt to be accepted at their own valuation, most americans would then have thought it about as useful to look for snakes in ireland as for literature in philadelphia. i am not sure that the philadelphian did not agree with them. recently, i have heard him, in his new zeal for philadelphia, talk as if it were the biggest literary thing on earth, the headquarters of letters in the united states, a boast which i am told indianapolis also makes and, as far as i am concerned, can keep on making undisputed, for i do not believe in measuring literature like so much sheet iron or calico. but no matter what we have come to in philadelphia, in the old days the philadelphian seldom gave his lions a chance to roar at home or paid the least attention to them if they tried to. i rather think he would have affected to share the western congressman's opinion of "them literary fellers" when the literary fellers came from his native town. but the philadelphian must have done a great deal of reading to judge by the number of public libraries in the town,--the philadelphia library, the ridgway, the mercantile, the free public library, the university library, the bryn mawr college library, the friends' germantown library, the library of the historical society, and no doubt dozens i know nothing about--and there were always collectors from the days of logan and dr. rush to those of mr. widener, george c. thomas and governor pennypacker. but the philadelphia reading man never talked books and the philadelphia collector never vaunted and advertised his treasures, as he does now that collecting is correct. the average man kept his books out of sight. i remember few in my grandfather's house, and not a bookcase from top to bottom--few in any other house except my father's. but i know that many people had books and a library set apart to read them in, and i have been astonished since to see the large collections in houses where of old i had never noticed or suspected their presence. the philadelphian was as reticent about his books and his pleasure in them as about everything else, with the result that he got the credit for neither, even at home. this had probably something to do with the fact that though, as far back as i can remember, i had had a fancy for books and for reading, i grew up with the idea that for literature, as for beauty, the atlantic had to be crossed, that it was not in the nature of things for philadelphia to have had a literary past, to claim a literary present, or to hope for a literary future. but as i had discovered my mistake about the beauty during those walks with j., so in my modest stall in the literary shop, i learned how far out i had been about the literature. it was the same story over again. i had only to get interested, and there was everything in the world to interest me. ii there was the past, for philadelphia had had a literary past, and not at all an empty past, but one full of the romance of effort and pride of achievement. because philadelphians did not begin to write the minute they landed on the banks of the delaware, some wise people argue that friends were then, as now, unliterary. but what of william penn, whose writings have become classics? what of thomas elwood, the friend of milton? what of george fox who, if unlettered, was a born writer no less than bunyan? friends did not write and publish books right off in philadelphia for the same excellent reason that other colonists did not in other colonial towns. living was an absorbing business that left them no time for writing, and printing presses and publishers' offices and book stores did not strike them as immediate necessities in the wilderness. it was not out of consideration that the early philadelphia friends bequeathed nothing to the now sadly overladen shelves of the british museum and the library of congress. when leisure came philadelphians were readier to devote it to science. according to mr. sydney fisher, pennsylvania has done more for science than any other state: a subject upon which my profound ignorance bids me be silent. but science did not keep them altogether from letters. no people ever had a greater itch for writing. look at the length of their correspondence, the minuteness of their diaries. and they broke into poetry on the slightest provocation. authorities say that no real poem appeared in america before 1800, but the blame lies not alone with philadelphia. it did what it could. boston may boast of anne bradstreet who was rhyming before most new englanders had time for reading, but so could philadelphia brag of deborah logan--if philadelphia ever bragged of anything philadelphian--and i am willing to believe there is no great difference between the two poetesses without labouring through their verses to prove myself wrong. and the philadelphian was as prolific as any other colonial in horrible doggerel to his mistress's hoops and bows, to her tears and canary birds. and as far as i know, only a philadelphian among colonial poets is immortalized in the dunciad, though possibly ralph, franklin's friend to whom the honour fell, would rather have been forgotten than remembered solely because his howls to cynthia made night hideous for pope. and where else did the young men so soon form themselves into little groups to discourse seriously upon literature and kindred matters, as they walked sedately in the woods along the schuylkill? where else was there so soon a society--a junto--devoted to learning? in innumerable ways i could see, once i could see anything, how philadelphia was preparing itself all along for literary pursuits and accomplishment. let me brag a little, if philadelphia won't. wasn't it in germantown that the first paper mill of the colonies was set up? wasn't it there that the new testament was printed in german--and went into seven editions--before any other colony had the enterprise to print it in english, so that saur's testament is now a treasure for the collector? isn't it maintained by some authorities, if others dispute it, that the first bible in english was published in philadelphia by robert aitken, at "pope's head above the coffee house, in market street"? and philadelphia issued the first american daily paper, the most important of the first american reviews, the most memorable almanac of colonial days--can any other compete with poor richard's? and philadelphia opened the first circulating library--the philadelphia library is no benevolent upstart of to-day. and philadelphia publishers were for years the most go-ahead and responsible--who did not know the names of cary, lea, blanchard, griggs, lippincott, knew nothing of the publishing trade. and philadelphia book stores, with lippincott's leading, were the best patronized. and philadelphia had the monopoly of the english book trade, with thomas wardle to direct it. and philadelphia held its own views on copyright and stuck to them in the face of opposition for years--whether right or wrong does not matter, the thing is that it cared enough to have views. there is a record for you! why the literary man had only to appear, and philadelphia was all swept and garnished for his comfort and convenience. [illustration: main street, germantown] and the literary man did appear, with amazing promptness under the circumstances. when the demand was for political writers, philadelphia supplied franklin, dickinson, and a whole host of others, until it is all the historical society of pennsylvania can do to cope with their pamphlets. when the demand was for native fiction, philadelphia produced the first american novelist, charles brockden brown, and if philadelphians do not read him in our day, shelley did in his, which ought to be as much fame as any pioneer could ask for. when the need was for an american cookery book, philadelphia presented miss leslie to the public who received her with such appreciation that, in the first edition, she is harder to find than mrs. glasse. when, with the years, the past rose in value, philadelphia gave to america an antiquary, and john watson, with his annals, set a fashion in philadelphia that had to wait a good half century for followers. and when the writer was multiplied all over the country and the reader with him, philadelphia provided the periodical, the annual, the parlour-table book, that the one wrote for and the other subscribed to--an endless succession of them: _the casket_, _the gift_, _the souvenir_, which i have no desire to disturb on their obscure shelves; the _philadelphia saturday museum_, and _burton's gentleman's magazine_, to me the emptiest of empty names; _sartain's union magazine_, which i might as well be honest and say i have never seen; _graham's_, in its prime, unrivalled, unapproached; _godey's lady's book_, offering its pages alike to the newest verse and the latest mode, the popular magazine that every american saw at his dentist's or his doctor's, edited by mrs. sarah josepha hale, for a woman, then as always, could get where she chose, if she had the mind to, without the help of arson and suicide; _peterson's_, which i recall only in its title; _lippincott's_, in my time the literary test or standard in philadelphia and scrupulously taken in by the philadelphia householder. i can see it still, lying soberly on the centre table in the back parlour of the eleventh and spruce street house, never defaced or thumbed, i fancy seldom opened, but like everything in the house, like my grandfather himself, a type, a symbol of philadelphia respectability. it was as much an obligation for the respectable philadelphia citizen to subscribe to _lippincott's_ as to belong to the historical society, to be a member of the philadelphia library, to buy books for christmas presents at lippincott's or porter and coates'. the philadelphian, who had no particular use for a book as a book or, if he had, kept the fact to himself, was content to parade it as an ornament, and no parlour was without its assortment of pretty and expensive parlour-table books, received as christmas presents, and as purely ornamental as the pictures on the wall and the vases on the mantelpiece. i know one philadelphian who carried this decorative use of books still further and nailed them to the ceiling to explain that the room they decorated was a library, which nobody would have suspected for a moment, as they were the only volumes in it. for the man who had a living to make out of literature, philadelphia was a good place, not to come away from, but to go to, and a number of american men of letters did go, though i need hardly add philadelphia made as little of the fact as possible. in philadelphia washington irving, sometimes called america's first literary man, published his books, but truth compels me to admit that he fared better when he handed them over to putnam in new york; though of late years, the lippincotts have done much to atone for the old failure by their successful issues of _the alhambra_ and _the traveller_. to philadelphia magazines, n. p. willis, and there was no more popular american writer, pledged himself for months ahead. to philadelphia, lowell came from boston to get work. poe deserted richmond and the south for philadelphia, where he contributed to philadelphia magazines, edited them, planned new ones, while philadelphia waited until he was well out of the world to know that he ever had lived there. altogether, when i came upon the scene, philadelphia had had a highly creditable literary past, and was having a highly creditable literary present, and, in pursuance of its invariable policy, was making no fuss about it. iii as i look back, the three most conspicuous figures of this literary present were charles godfrey leland, george boker and walt whitman. all three were past middle age, they had done most of their important work, they had gained an international reputation. but that of course made no difference to philadelphia. i doubt if it had heard of george boker as a man of letters, though it knew him politically and also socially, as he had not lost his interest in society and the philadelphia club. my uncle, having no use for society in philadelphia and saying so with his accustomed vigour, and not having busied himself with politics for many years, was ignored unreservedly. walt whitman, who probably would not have been considered eligible for the assembly and the dancing class had he condescended to know of their existence, did not exist socially, and it is a question if he would have collected round him his ardent worshippers from philadelphia had he not had the advantage of having been born somewhere else. if i am not mistaken, this worship had not begun in my time, when he was more apt to receive a visitor from london or boston than from philadelphia. [illustration: arch street meeting--interior] the fact that it was my good fortune to know these three men contributed considerably to my new and pleasant feeling of self-importance. when i wrote the life of my uncle a few years ago, i had much to say of him and my relations with him at this period, and i do not want to repeat myself. but i can no more leave him out of my recollections of literary philadelphia than out of my personal reminiscences. when he entered so intimately into my life he was nearer sixty than fifty, but he had lost nothing of his vigour nor of his physical beauty--tall, large, long-bearded, a fine profile, the eyes of the seer. he was fastidious in dress, with a leaning to light greys and browns, and a weakness for canes which he preferred thin and elegant. i remember his favourite was black and had an altogether unfashionable silver, ruby-eyed dragon for handle. on occasions to which it was appropriate, he wore a silk hat; on others, more informal, he exchanged it for a large soft felt--a modified cowboy hat--which suited him better, though he would not have forgiven me had i had the courage to say so to his face, his respect for the conventions, always great, having been intensified during his long residence in england. it seems superfluous to add that he could not pass unnoticed in philadelphia streets, which did not run to cowboy hats or dragon-handled canes or any deviations from the approved philadelphia dress. nor did his fancy for peering into shop windows make him less conspicuous, and as his daily walk was hardly complete if it did not lead to his buying something in the shop, were it only a five-cent bit of modern blue-and-white japanese china, this meant that before his purchase was handed over to me, as it usually was, his pleasure being not in the possession but in the buying, he had parcels to carry, a shocking breach of good manners in philadelphia. in his company therefore i became a conspicuous figure myself, and i was often his companion in the streets; but to this i had no objection, having been inconspicuous far too long for my taste. [illustration: front and callowhill] he had written his _breitmann ballads_ years before when the verse of no other american of note--unless it was longfellow's and whittier's and lowell's in the _biglow papers_--had had so wide a circulation. he had also published one or two of his gypsy books, never surpassed except by borrow. and he was engaged in endless new tasks--more gypsy papers, art in the schools, indian legends, comic ballads, essays on education, and i did not mind what since my excitement was in being admitted for the first time into the companionship of a man who devoted himself to writing, to whom writing was business, who sat down at his desk after breakfast and wrote as my father after breakfast went down to his office and bought and sold stocks, who never stopped except for his daily walk, who got back to work if there was a free hour before dinner and who, after dinner, read until he went to bed. moreover, he had brought with him the aroma, as it were, of the literary life in london. he had met many of the people who, because they had written books, were my heroes. here would have been literature enough to transfigure philadelphia had i known no other writers. iv but, through him, i did know others. first of all, george boker with whom, however, i could not pretend to friendship or more than the barest acquaintance. in the streets he was as noticeable a figure as my uncle, though given neither to cowboy hats and dragon-handled canes nor to peering into shop windows and carrying parcels. like my uncle, he was taller than the average man, and handsomer, his white hair and white military moustache giving him a more distinguished air, i fancy, in his old age than was his in his youth. his smile was of the kindliest, the characteristic i remember best. he had returned from his appointments as minister to russia and turkey and had given up active political and diplomatic life. he had written most of his poems, if not all, including the _francesca da rimini_ which lawrence barrett was shortly afterwards to put on the stage, and he impressed me as a man who had had his fill of life and work and adventure and was content to settle down to the comforts of philadelphia. he and my uncle, who had been friends from boyhood or babyhood, spent every sunday afternoon together. my uncle had large spacious rooms on the ground floor of a house in south broad street where the philadelphia art club now is, and there george boker came sunday after sunday and there, if i dropped in, i saw him. i had the discretion never to stay long, for i realized that their intimate free talk was valued too much by both for them to care to have it interrupted. i can remember nothing he ever said--i have an idea he was a man who did not talk a great deal, while my uncle did; my memory is of his kindly smile and my sense that here was one of the literary friendships i had read of in books. so, i thought, might dr. johnson and goldsmith have met and talked, or lamb and coleridge, and broad street seemed tinged with the romance that i took for granted coloured the temple in london and gough square. v through my uncle i also met walt whitman, and he impressed me still more with the romance of literature. he was so unexpected in philadelphia, for which i claim him in his last years, camden being little more than a suburb, whatever camden itself may think. i could almost have imagined that it was for the humour of the thing he came to settle where his very appearance was an offence to the proprieties. george boker was scrupulously correct. my uncle's hat and dragon-handled cane only seemed to emphasize his inborn philadelphia shrinking from eccentricity. but walt whitman, from top to toe, proclaimed the man who did not bother to think of the conventions, much less respect them. you saw it in his long white hair and long white beard, in his loose light grey clothes, in the soft white shirt unlaundered and open at the neck, in the tall, formless grey hat like no hat ever worn in philadelphia. to have been stopped by him on chestnut street--a street he loved--would have filled me with confusion and shame in the days before literature had become my shop. but once literature blocked my horizon, to be stopped by him lifted me up to the seventh heaven. if people turned to look, and philadelphians never grew quite accustomed to his presence, my pleasure was the greater. i took it for a visible sign that i was known, recognized, and accepted in the literary world. and what a triumph in streets where, of old, life had appalled me by its emptiness of incident! in one way or another i saw a good deal of walt whitman, but most frequently by the chance which increased the picturesqueness of the meeting. i called on him in the camden house described many times by many people: in my memory, a little house, the room where i was received simple and bare, the one ornament as unexpected there as walt whitman himself in philadelphia, for it was an old portrait, dark and dingy, of an ancestor; and i wondered if an ancestor so ancient as to grow dark and dingy in a frame did not make it easier to play the democrat and call every man comrade--or _camerado_, i should say, as walt whitman said, with his curious fondness for foreign words and sounds. but though i saw him at home, he is more associated in my memory with the ferry-boat for camden when my uncle and i were on our way to the gypsy's camping place near the reservoir; and with the corner of front and market and the bootblack's big chair by the italian's candy and fruit stand where he loved to sit, and where i loved to see him, though, philadelphian at heart, i trembled for his audacity; and with the market street horse-car, where he was already settled in his corner before it started and where the driver and the conductor, passing through, nodded to him and called him "walt," and where he was as happy as the modern poet in his sixty-horse-power car. he was happiest when sitting out in front with the driver, and i have rarely been as proud as the afternoon he gave up that privileged seat to stay with my uncle and myself inside. his greeting was always charming. he would take a hand of each of us, hold the two in his for a minute or so beaming upon us, never saying very much. i remember his leading us once, with our hands still in his, from the fruit-stand to the tobacconist's opposite to point out to my uncle the wooden figure of an indian at the door, for which he professed a great admiration as an example of the art of the people before they were trained in the minor arts. [illustration: the elevated at market street wharf] these chance meetings were always the best, and he told us that he thought them so, that he loved his accidental meetings with friends--there were many he prized among his most valued reminiscences. and i remember his story of longfellow having gone over to camden purposely to call on him, and not finding him at home, and their running into each other on the ferry-boat to market street, and longfellow saying that he had come from the house deeply disappointed, regretting the long quiet talk he had hoped for, but deciding that perhaps the strange chance of the meeting on the water was better. my uncle, had he been hurrying to catch a train, would still have managed to talk philosophy and art education. but i remember walt whitman also saying that the ferry and the corner of market street and the market street car were hardly places for abstract discussion, though the few things said there were the less easily forgotten for being snatched joyfully by the way. it was one day in the market street car that he and my uncle had the talk which left with me the profoundest impression. as a rule i was too engrossed in thinking what a great person i was, when in such company, to shine as a reporter. but on this occasion the subject was the school of industrial arts in which i was giving my uncle the benefit of my incompetent assistance. he asked walt whitman to come and see it, telling him a little of its aims and methods. whitman refused, amiably but positively. i cannot recall his exact words, but i gathered from them that he had no sympathy with schemes savouring of benevolence or reform, that he believed in leaving people to work out their own salvation, and this, coming as it did after i had seen for myself the terms he was on with the driver and conductor, expressed more eloquently than his verse his definition of democracy. i may be mistaken, but i thought then and have ever since that his belief in the people carried him to the point of thinking they knew better than the philanthropist what they needed and did not need. my uncle was not of accord with him and i, who am neither democrat nor philanthropist, would not pretend to decide between them. my uncle did not like walt whitman's attitude and refusal, convinced as he was of the good to the people that was to come of the reform he was initiating, though he was constitutionally incapable of meeting the people he was reforming on equal terms. the twinkle in walt whitman's eye when he refused gave me the clue to the large redeeming humour with which he looked upon a foolish world, seeing each individual in the place appointed, right in it, fitting into it, unfit for any other he did not make for himself of his own desire and courage--the humour without which the human tragedy would not be bearable. i wish i could have had more talk with whitman, i wish i had been older or more experienced, that i might have got nearer to him--or so i felt in those old days. i have now an idea that his silence was more effective than his speech, that if he had said more to any of his devoted following he might have been less of a prophet. but his tranquil presence was in itself sufficient to open a new outlook, and it reconciled me to the scheme of the universe for good or for ill. his personality impressed me far more than his poems. it seemed to me to explain them, to interpret them, as nothing else could--his few words of greeting worth pages of the critic's eloquent analysis. chapter xiii: philadelphia and literature--continued i i had glimpses into other literary vistas, but mostly from a respectful and highly appreciative distance. how i wish i could recapture even as much as the shadow of the old rapturous awe with which any man or woman who had ever made a book inspired me! [illustration: dr. furness's house, west washington square, just before it was pulled down] there was reason for awe when the man was dr. horace howard furness, the editor of shakespeare, and if philadelphia knew its duty better than to draw attention to so scholarly a performance by a philadelphian, scholars out of philadelphia, who were not hampered by philadelphia conventions, hailed it as the best edition of shakespeare there could be. i must always regret that in his case i succeeded in having no more than the glimpse. most of my literary introductions came through my uncle who, though he knew dr. furness, saw less and less of him as time went on, partly i think because of one of those small misunderstandings that are more unpardonable than the big offences--certainly they were to my uncle. dr. furness' father, old dr. furness the unitarian minister, meeting him in the street one day, asked him gaily, but i have no doubt with genuine interest, how his fad, the school, was getting on. my uncle, who could not stand having an enterprise so serious to him treated lightly by others, retorted by asking dr. furness how his fad the pulpit was getting on. the result was coolness. the chances are that dr. furness never realized the enormity of which he had been guilty, but my uncle could neither forget his jest nor forgive him and his family for it. and his heart was not softened until many years afterwards, when in far florence he heard that dr. furness wished for his return to philadelphia that he might vindicate his claim, in danger of being overlooked, as the first to have introduced the study of the minor arts into the public schools. mrs. wister was another philadelphia literary celebrity whose work had made her known to all america by name, the only way she was known to me. it was my loss, for they say she was more charming than her work. but to philadelphia no charm of personality, no popularity of work, could shed lustre upon her name, which was her chief glory: literature was honoured when a wister stooped to its practice. on her translations of german novels, philadelphians of my generation were brought up. after _faith gartney's girlhood_ and _queechy_ and _the wide, wide world_, no tales were considered so innocuous for the young, not yet provided with the mild and exemplary adventures of the tedious elsie. would the _old mam'selle's secret_ survive re-reading, i wonder? the favourites of yesterday have a way of turning into the bores of to-day. not long ago i tried re-reading scott whom in my youth i adored, but his once magnificent heroes had dwindled into puppets, their brilliant exploits into the empty bombast of drury lane and wardour street. if scott cannot stand the test, what hope for the other old loves? i risk no more lost illusions. from no less a distance i looked to mrs. rebecca harding davis who, with mrs. wister, helped to supply the country with fiction, in her case original, while her son, richard harding davis, was on the sensational brink of his career. and again from a distance i looked to frank stockton, with no idea that he was a philadelphia celebrity--very likely every other philadelphian was as ignorant, but that is no excuse for me. i had not found him out as my fellow citizen when i saw much of him some years later in london, nor did i find it out until recently when, distrustful of my philadelphia tendency to look the other way if philadelphians are distinguishing themselves, i consulted the authorities to make sure how great or how small was my knowledge of philadelphia literature. from all this it will be seen that in those remote days i was very much on the literary outside in philadelphia, but with the luck there to run up against some of the giants. into the vista of the poets chance gave me one brief but more intimate glimpse. in a germantown house--i am puzzled at this day to say whose--i was introduced one evening to mrs. florence earle coates and dr. francis howard williams, both already laurel-crowned, at a small gathering over which walt whitman presided. in his grey coat and soft shirt i remember he struck me as more dressed than the guests in their evening clothes, but i remember he also struck me as less at home in the worshipping parlour than in the bootblack's corner. the eloquence of his presence stands out in my memory vividly, though i have forgotten the name of the host or hostess to whom i am indebted for enjoying it, and i think it must have been then that i began to suspect there was more of a literary life in philadelphia than i had imagined. i had no opportunity to get further than my suspicion, for it was very shortly after that j. and i undertook to carry out the plans we had been making on the old bench by the river in bartram's garden. walt whitman i never saw again, and of the group assembled about him nothing for many years. [illustration: the germantown academy] i came into closer contact with writers to whom literature and journalism were not merely a method of expression, but a means of livelihood. philadelphia, with its magazines, as with so much else, had shown the way and other towns had lost no time in following and getting ahead. new york was in the magazine ascendant. _the century_ and _harper's_ had replaced _graham's_ and _godey's lady's book_ and _peterson's_. but _lippincott's_ remained, and though the editor, after his cruel letter of refusal, never deigned to notice me, it was some satisfaction to have been in actual correspondence with an author as distinguished as john foster kirk, the historian of charles the bold. when _our continent_ was labouring to revive the old tradition of philadelphia as a centre of publishers and periodicals, i got as far as the editorial office--very far indeed in my opinion--and there once or twice i saw judge tourgee, who had abandoned his reconstructive mission and judicial duties for an editorial post in philadelphia, and who at the moment was more talked about than any american author, his _fool's errand_ having given him the sort of fame that _looking backward_ brought to bellamy: ephemeral, but colossal while it lasted. curiously, i recall nothing of the man himself--not his appearance, his manner, his talk. i think it must have been because, for me, he was overshadowed by his art editor, miss emily sartain; my interest in him eclipsed by my admiration for her and my envy of a woman, so young and so handsome, who had attained to such an influential and responsible post. i thought if i ever should reach half way up so stupendous a height, i could die content. louise stockton, frank stockton's sister, and helen campbell were on the staff, in my eyes amazing women with regular weekly tasks and regular weekly salaries. i might argue for my comfort that there was greater liberty in being a free lance, but how wonderful to do work that an editor wanted every week, was willing to pay for every week!--wonderful to me, anyway, who had just had my first taste of earning an income, but not of earning it regularly and without fail. my uncle wrote more than once for tourgee; j. and i contributed those articles which were further excuses for our walks together: judge tourgee, to his own loss, thinking it a recommendation for a contributor to be a philadelphian as he would not have thought had he known his philadelphia better. _our continent_ was too philadelphian to be approved in philadelphia or to be in demand out of it. one symbol of literary respectability the town had in _lippincott's_, and one was as much as it could then support. _our continent_ came to an end either just before or just after j. and i set out on our travels. there were other women in journalism who excited my envy. mrs. lucy hooper's letters to the _evening telegraph_ struck me as the last and finest word in foreign correspondence. i never, even upon closer acquaintance, lost my awe of mrs. sarah hallowell who was intimately associated with the _ledger_, or of miss julia ewing, though her association with the same paper had nothing to do with its literary side. ii now and then i was stirred to the depths by my glimpse of writers from other parts of the world. it was only when a prophet was a home product that philadelphia kept its eyes tight shut; when the prophet came from another town it opened them wide, and its arms wider than its eyes, and showed him what a strenuous business it was to be the victim of philadelphia hospitality. it was rather pleased if the prophet happened to be a lord, or had a handle of some kind to his name, but an author would answer for want of something better, especially if he came from abroad. no englishman on a lecture tour was allowed to pass by philadelphia. immediately on his arrival, the distinguished visitor was appropriated by george w. childs, who had undertaken to play in philadelphia the part of the lord mayor in the city of london and do the town's official entertaining, and who was known far and wide for it--"he has entertained all the english who come over here," matthew arnold wrote home of him, and visitors of every other nationality could have written the same of their own people passing through philadelphia. you would meet him in the late afternoon, fresh from the _ledger_ office, strolling up chestnut street of which he was another of the conspicuous figures--not because of any personal beauty, but because he did not believe in the philadelphia practice of hiding one's light under a bushel, and had managed to make himself known by sight to every other man and woman in the street; just as old richard vaux was; or old "aunt ad" thompson, everybody's aunt, in her brilliant finery, growing ever more brilliant with years; or that distinguished lawyer, ben brewster, "burnt-faced brewster," whose genius for the law made every one forget the terrible marks a fire in his childhood had left upon his face. philadelphia would not have been philadelphia without these familiar figures. childs seldom appeared on chestnut street without tony drexel, straight from some big operation on the stock exchange, the two representing all that was most successful in the newspaper and banking world of philadelphia: their friendship now commemorated in that new combination of names as familiar to the new and changing generation as cadwallader-biddle was to the old and changeless. between them it was the exception when there was not an emperor, or a prince, or an author, or an actor, or some other variety of a distinguished visitor being put through his paces and shown life in philadelphia, on the way to the house of one or the other and to the feast prepared in his honour. at the feast, if there was speaking to be done, it was invariably wayne macveagh who did it. as i was not greatly in demand at public functions, i heard him but once--a memorable occasion which did not, however, impress me with the brilliance of his oratory. matthew arnold, the latest distinguished visitor, was to lecture, and i had been looking forward to the evening with an ardour for which alas! i have lost the faculty. literary celebrities were still novelties--more than that, divinities--in my eyes. among them, matthew arnold held particularly high rank, one of the chief heroes of my worship, and many of my contemporaries worshipped with me. youth was then, as always, acutely conscious of the burden of life, and we made our luxury of his pessimism. i could spout whole passages of his poems, whole poems when they were short, though now i could not probably get further than their titles. there had been a dinner first--there always was a dinner first in philadelphia--and a philadelphia dinner being no light matter, he arrived late. the delay would have done no harm had not wayne macveagh, who presided, introduced him in a speech to which, once it was started, there seemed no end. it went on and on, the audience growing restless, with matthew arnold himself an object of pity, so obvious was his embarrassment. few lecturers could have saved the situation, and matthew arnold would have been a dull one under the most favourable circumstances. i went away disillusioned, reconciled to meeting my heroes in their books. and i could understand when, years later, i read the letters he wrote home, why the tulip trees seemed to have as much to do as the people in making philadelphia the most attractive city he had seen in america. [illustration: the state house from independence square] another distinguished visitor who lectured about this period came off more gaily:--oscar wilde, to whose lecture i had looked forward with no particular excitement, for i was young enough to feel only impatience with his pose. after listening to him, i had to admit that he was amusing. his affected dress, his deliberate posturings, his flamboyant phrases and slow lingering over them as if loth to let them go, made him an exhilarating contrast to matthew arnold, shocked as i was by a writer to whom literature was not always in dead earnest, nor to teach its goal, even though it was part of his pose to ape the teacher, the voice in the wilderness. and he was so refreshingly enthusiastic when off the platform, as i saw him afterwards in my uncle's rooms. he let himself go without reserve as he recalled the impressions of his visit to walt whitman in camden and his meeting with the cowboy in the west. to him, the cowboy was the most picturesque product of america from whom he borrowed hat and cloak and appeared in them, an amazing spectacle. and i find in some prim, priggish, distressingly useless little notes i made at the time, that it was a perfect, a supreme moment when he talked to walt whitman who had been to him the master, at whose feet he had sat since he was a young lad, and who was as pure and earnest and noble and grand as he had hoped. that to walt whitman, oscar wilde seemed "a great big splendid boy" is now matter of history. i know that philadelphia entertained wilde, and so i fancy him staying with george w. childs, dining with tony drexel, and being talked to after dinner by wayne macveagh, though i cannot be sure, as philadelphia, with singular lack of appreciation, included me in none of the entertaining. i saw him only in horticultural hall, where he lectured, and at my uncle's. this was seeing him often enough to be confirmed in my conviction that literature might be a stimulating and emotional adventure. many interesting people of many varieties were to be met in my uncle's rooms. i remember the george lathrops who, like lowell and poe of old, had come to philadelphia for work: lathrop rather embittered and disappointed, i thought; mrs. lathrop--rose hawthorne--a marvellous woman in my estimation, not because of her beautiful gold-red hair, nor her work, which i do not believe was of special importance, but as the daughter of nathaniel hawthorne and therefore a link between me in my insignificance and the great of brook farm and concord. i remember editors from new york, impressive creatures; and members of parliament, hangers-on of the literary world of london; and actresses, its lions, when in england:--janauschek, heavily tragic off as on the stage, for whom my uncle's admiration was less limited than mine; and miss genevieve ward, playing in _forget-me-not_, her one big success, for she failed in the popularity to repeat it that comes so easily to many less accomplished. how timidly i sat and listened, marvelling to find myself there, feeling like the humble who shall be exalted in the bible, looking upon my uncle's rooms as the literary threshold from which i was graciously permitted to watch the glorious company within. iii i had gone no further than this first, tremulous ardent stage in my career when my uncle deserted his memorable rooms never to return, and j. and i started on the journey that we thought might last a year--as long as the money held out, we had said, to the discomfort of the family who no doubt saw me promptly on their hands again--and that did not bring me back to philadelphia for over a quarter of a century. of literary events during my absence, somebody else must make the record. [illustration: "the little street of clubs," camac street above spruce street] when i did go back after all those years, i was conscious that there must have been events for a record to be made of, or i could not have accounted for the change. literature was now in the air. local prophets were acknowledged, if not by all philadelphia, by little groups of satellites revolving round them. literary lights had come from under the bushel and were shining in high places. societies had been industriously multiplying for the encouragement of literature. all such encouragement in my time had devolved upon the penn club that patronized literature, among its other interests, and wrote about books in its monthly journal and invited their authors to its meetings. during my absence, not only had the penn club continued to flourish--to such good purpose that j. and i were honoured by one of these invitations and felt that never again could fame and fate bring us such a triumphant moment, except when the academy of fine arts paid us the same honour and so upset our old belief that no philadelphian could ever be a prophet in philadelphia!--but philadelphia had broken out into a multitude of clubs and societies, beginning with the franklin inn, for franklin is not to be got away from even in clubland, and his inn, i am assured, is the most comprehensive literary centre to which every author, every artist, every editor, every publisher who thinks himself something belongs to the number of one hundred--that there should be the chance of one hundred with the right to think themselves something in philadelphia is the wonder!--and in the house in camac street, which one philadelphian i know calls "the little street of clubs," the members meet for light lunch and much talk and, it may be, other rites of which i could speak only from hearsay, my sex disqualifying me from getting my knowledge of them at first hand. and there is a business and professional club and a poor richard, bringing one back to franklin again, in the same little street. and there are browning societies, and shakespeare societies, and drama-reforming societies, and pegasus societies, and societies for members to read their own works to each other; and more societies than the parent society discoursing in the woods along the schuylkill could have dreamed of: with the contemporary club to assemble their variously divided ends and objects under one head, and to entertain literature as george w. childs had entertained it, and, going further, to pay literature for being entertained, if literature expresses itself in the form of readings and lectures by those who practise it professionally. the change disconcerted me more than ever when i, philadelphia born, was assured of a profitable welcome if i would speak to the club on anything. the invitation was tentative and unofficial, but the contemporary club need be in no fear. it may make the invitation official if it will, and never a penny the poorer will it be for my presence: i am that now rare creature, a shy woman subject to stage fright. and i cannot help thinking that, despite the amiability to the native, the stranger, simply because he is a stranger, continues to have the preference, so many are the englishmen and englishwomen invited to deliver themselves before the club who never could gather an audience at home. [illustration: down sansom street from eighth street. the low houses at seventh street have since been torn down and the western end of the curtis building now occupies their place] and philadelphia has recaptured the lead in the periodical publication that pays, and i found the curtis building the biggest sky-scraper in philadelphia, towering above the quiet of independence square, a brick and marble and pseudo-classical monument to the _ladies' home journal_ and the _saturday evening post_, and if in the race literature lags behind, what matter when merit is vouched for in solid dollars and cents? what matter, when the winds of heaven conspire with bricks and mortar to make the passer-by respect it? i am told that on a windy day no man can pass the building without a fight for it, and no woman without the help of stalwart policemen. in her own organ of fashion and feminine sentiment, she has raised up a power against which, even with the vote to back her, she could not prevail. and philadelphia is not content to have produced the first daily newspaper but is bent on making it as big as it can be made anywhere. if i preserved my morning paper for two or three days in my hotel bedroom, i fairly waded in newspapers. on sundays if i carried upstairs only the _ledger_ and the _north american_, i was deep in a flood of comic supplements, and photograph supplements, and sport supplements, and every possible sort of supplement that any other american newspaper in any other american town can boast of--all the sad stuff that nobody has time to look at but is what the newspaper editor is under the delusion that the public wants--in philadelphia, one genuine philadelphia touch added in the letters and gossip of "peggy shippen" and "sally wister," names with the double recommendation to philadelphia of venerable age and unquestionable philadelphia respectability. and i found that the philadelphia writer has increased in numbers and in popularity, whether for better or worse i will not say. i have not the courage for the rã´le of critic on my own hearth, knowing the penalty for too much honesty at home. nor is there any reason why i should hesitate and bungle and make myself unpleasant enemies in doing indifferently what philadelphia, in its new incarnation, does with so much grace. i have now but to name the philadelphian's book in philadelphia to be informed that it is monumental--but to mention the philadelphia writer of verse to hear that he is a marvel--but to enquire for the philadelphia writer of prose to be assured that he is a genius. there is not the weeest, most modest little philadelphia goose that does not sail along valiantly in the philadelphia procession of swans. the new pose is prettier than the old if scarcely more successful in preserving a sense of proportion, and it saves me from committing myself. i can state the facts that strike me, without prejudice, as the lawyers say. iv one is that the last quarter of a century has interested the philadelphia writer in philadelphia as he had not been since the days of john watson. most philadelphians owned a copy of watson's _annals_. i have one on my desk before me that belonged to j.'s father, one must have been in my grandfather's highly correct philadelphia house, though i cannot recall it there, for a philadelphian's duty was to buy watson just as it was to take in _lippincott's_, and philadelphians never shirked their obligations. they probably would not have been able to say what was in watson, or, if they could, would have shrugged their shoulders and dismissed him for a crank. but they would have owned the _annals_, all the same. then the centennial shook them up and insisted on the value of philadelphia's history, and philadelphians were no longer in fashion if they did not feel, or affect, an interest in philadelphia and its past. after the centennial the few who began to write about it could rely upon the many to read about it. [illustration: the double stairway in the pennsylvania hospital] once, the philadelphian who was not ashamed to write stories made them out of the fashionable life of philadelphia. dr. weir mitchell inaugurated the new era, or the revolt, or the secession, or whatever name may be given it with the first historical novel of philadelphia. it is fortunate, when i come to _hugh wynne_, that i have renounced criticism and all its pretences. as a friend by marriage, if such a thing is possible, i cannot underestimate the danger. only a friend born a friend is qualified to write the true quaker novel, and i am told by this kind of friend that _hugh wynne_ is not free from misrepresentations, misconceptions and misunderstandings. this may be true--i breathe more freely for not being able to affirm or to deny it--but, as henley used to say, there it is--the first romantic gold out of the mine philadelphia history is for all who work it. since these lines were written the news has reached me that never again will dr. mitchell work this or any other mine. i cannot imagine philadelphia without him. when i last saw him, it seemed to me that no philadelphian was more alive, more in love with life, better equipped to enjoy life in the way philadelphia has fashioned it--the philadelphia life in which his passing away must leave no less a gap than the disappearance of the state house or the pennsylvania hospital would leave in the philadelphia streets. if dr. mitchell's digging brought up the romance of philadelphia, mr. sydney george fisher's has unearthed the facts, for philadelphia was the root of the great growth of pennsylvania which is the avowed subject of his history. and the men who helped to make this history have now their biographers at home, though hitherto the task of their biography had been left chiefly to anybody anywhere else who would accept the responsibility, and my brother, edward robins, secretary of the university of pennsylvania, has written the life of benjamin franklin, without whom the university would not have been, at least would not have been what it is. and in so many different directions has the interest spread that my friend since _our convent days_, miss agnes repplier, has taken time from her studies in literature and from building a monument to her beloved agrippina to write its story. when she sent me her book, i opened it with grave apprehensions. in the volumes she had published, humour was the chief charm, and how would humour help her to see philadelphia? i need not have been uneasy. there is no true humour without tenderness. if she had her smile for the town we all love, as we all have, it was a tender smile, and i think no reader can close her book without wanting to know still more of philadelphia than it was her special business in that place to tell them. and that no vein of the philadelphia mine might be left unworked. miss anne hollingsworth wharton has busied herself to gather up old traditions and old reminiscences, dipping into old letters and diaries, opening wide colonial doorways, resurrecting colonial dames, reshaping the old social and domestic life disdained by historians. the numerous editions into which her books have gone explain that she has not worked for her own edification alone, that philadelphia, once it was willing to hear any talk about itself, could not hear too much. and after miss wharton have come mr. mather lippincott and mr. eberlein to collect the old colonial houses and their memories, followed by mr. herbert c. wise and mr. beidleman to study their architecture: just in time if philadelphia perseveres in its crime of moving out of the houses for the benefit of the russian jew and of mixing their memories with squalor. of all the ways in which philadelphia has changed, none is to me more remarkable than in this rekindling of interest out of which has sprung the new group of writers in its praise. nor were the philadelphia poets idle during my absence. dr. mitchell had not before sung so freely in public, nor had he ranked, as i am told he did at the end, his verse higher than his medicine. mrs. coates' voice had not carried so far. dr. francis howard williams had not rhymed for pageants in praise of philadelphia. mr. harrison morris had not joined the philadelphia choir. mr. harvey m. watts had not been heard in the land. i have it on good authority that yearly the philadelphia poets meet and read their verses to each other, a custom of which i cannot speak from personal knowledge as i have no passport into the magic circle, and perhaps it is just as well for my peace of mind that i have not. rumour declares that, on certain summer evenings, a suburban porch here or there is made as sweet with their singing as with the perfume of the roses and syringa in the garden, and i am content with the rumour for there is always the chance the music might not be so sweet if i heard it. i like to remember that the poets on their porch, whether their voices be sweet or harsh, descend in a direct line from the young men who wandered, discoursing of literature, along the schuylkill. and philadelphia's love of poetry is to be assured not only by its own singers but by its care, now as in the past, for the song of others. horace howard furness, jr., has taken over his father's task and, in so doing, will see that philadelphia continues to be famous for the most complete edition of shakespeare. there had been equal activity during my absence among the story-tellers. since brockden brown, not one had written so ambitious a tale as _hugh wynne_, not one had ever laughed so good-humouredly at philadelphia as thomas a. janvier in his short stories of the hutchinson ports and rittenhouse smiths--what gaiety has gone out with his death! not one had ever seen character with such truth as owen wister,--if only he could understand that as good material awaits him in philadelphia as in virginia and wyoming. and john luther long is another of the story-tellers philadelphia can claim though, like mr. wister, he shows a greater fancy for far-away lands or to wander among strange people at home. there is no branch of literature that philadelphia has not taken under its active protection. who has contributed more learnedly to the records of the inquisition than henry charles lea, or to the chronicles of the law in the united states than mr. hampton l. carson and mr. charles burr, duly conscious as philadelphia lawyers should be of the philadelphian's legal responsibility? who can compete in knowledge of the evolution of the playing card with mrs. john king van rensselaer or rival her collection? who ever thought of writing the history of autobiography before mrs. anna robeson burr? the time had but to come for an admirer to play the boswell to walt whitman, and mr. traubel appeared. when columbia wanted a professor of journalism, philadelphia sent it dr. talcott williams. when england seemed a comfortable shelter for research there was no need to be in a hurry about, mr. logan pearsall smith showed what could be done with an exhaustive study of dr. donne, though why he was not showing instead what could be done with the loganian library, where the chance to show it was his for the claiming, he alone can say. when such recondite subjects as egyptian and assyrian called for interpreters, philadelphia was again on the spot with mrs. cornelius stevenson and dr. morris jastrow. and for authorities on the drama and history, it gives us mr. felix schelling and dr. mcmaster,--but perhaps for me to attempt to complete the list would only be to make it incomplete. here, too, i tread on dangerous ground. it may be cowardly, but it is safe to give the tribute of my recognition to all that is being accomplished by the university of pennsylvania and its scholars--by bryn mawr college and its students--by the historical society of pennsylvania--by other colleges and learned bodies--by innumerable individuals--and not invite exposure by venturing into detail and upon comment. it is in these emergencies that the sense of my limitations comes to my help. [illustration: carpenter's hall, built 1771] at least i am not afraid to say that, on my return, i fancied i found this side of philadelphia life less a side apart, less isolated, more identified with the social side, and the social side, for its part, accepting the identification. the university and bryn mawr could not have played the same social part in the philadelphia i remember. perhaps i shall express what i mean more exactly if i say that, returning with fresh eyes, i saw philadelphia ready and pleased, as i had not remembered it, to acknowledge openly talents and activities it once made believe to ignore or despise--to go further really and, having for the first time squarely faced its accomplishments, for the first time to blow its own trumpet. the new spirit is one i approve. i would not call all the work that comes out of philadelphia monumental, as some philadelphians do, or philadelphia itself a modern athens, or the hub of the literary universe, or any other absurd name. but i do think that in literature and learning it is now contributing, as it always has contributed, its fair share to the country, and that if philadelphia does not say so, the rest of the country will not, for the rest of the country is still under the delusion that philadelphia knows how to do nothing but sleep. chapter xiv: philadelphia and art i ignorance of art and all relating to it could not have been greater than mine when i paid that first eventful visit to j.'s studio on chestnut street. i lay the blame only partly on my natural capacity for ignorance. it was a good deal the fault of the sort of education i received and the influences among which i lived--the fault of the place and the period in which i grew up. nominally, art was not neglected at the convent. a drawing-class was conducted by an old bear of a german, who also gave music lessons, and who prospered so on his monopoly of the arts with us that he was able to live in a delightful cottage down near the river. drawing was an "extra" of which i was never thought worthy, but i used to see the class at the tables set out for the purpose in the long low hall leading to the chapel, the master grumbling and growling and scolding, the pupils laboriously copying with crayon or chalk little cubes and geometrical figures or, at a more advanced stage, the old-fashioned copy-book landscape and building, rubbing in and rubbing out, wrestling with the composition as if it were a problem in algebra. the convent could take neither credit, nor discredit, for the system; it was the one then in vogue in every school, fashionable or otherwise, and not so far removed, after all, from systems followed to this day in certain academies of art. [illustration: independence hall--lengthwise view] another class was devoted to an art then considered very beautiful, called grecian painting. it was not my privilege to study this either, but i gathered from friends who did that it was of the simplest: on the back of an engraving, preferably of a religious subject and prepared by an ingenious process that made it transparent, the artist dabbed his colours according to written instructions. the result, glazed and framed, was supposed to resemble, beyond the detection of any save an expert, a real oil painting and was held in high esteem. a third class was in the elegant art of making wax flowers and, goodness knows why, my father squandered an appreciable sum of his declining fortunes on having me taught it. i am the more puzzled by his desire to bestow upon me this accomplishment because none of the other girls' fathers shared his ambition for their daughters and i was the only member of the class. alone, in a room at the top of the house--chosen no doubt for the light, as if the deeds there done ought not to have been shrouded in darkness--i worked many hours under the tuition of mother alicia, cutting up little sheets of wax into leaves and petals, colouring them, sticking them together, and producing in the end two horrible masterpieces--one a water-lily placed on a mirror under a glass shade, the other a basket of carnations and roses and camelias--both of which masterpieces my poor family, to avoid hurting my feelings, had to place in the parlour and keep there i blush to remember how long. it must be admitted that this was scarcely an achievement to encourage an interest in art. for the appreciation of art, as for its practice, it is important to have nothing to unlearn from the beginning; mine was the sort of training to reduce me to the necessity of unlearning everything; and most of my contemporaries, on leaving school, were in the same plight. my eyes were no better trained than my hands. works of art at the convent consisted of the usual holy statues designed for our spiritual, not ã¦sthetic edification; the stations of the cross whose merit was no less spiritual; two copies of murillo and rafael which my father, in the fervour of conversion, presented to the mother superior; and a picture of st. elizabeth of hungary that adorned the convent parlour, where we all felt it belonged, such a marvel to us was its combination of brilliantly-coloured needle-and-brush work. illustrated books there must have been in the ill-assorted hodge-podge of a collection in the library from which we obtained our reading for thursday afternoons and sundays. but though i doubt if there was a book i had not sampled, even if i had not been able to read it straight through, i can recall no illustrations except the designs by rossetti, millais, and holman hunt, made for moxon's tennyson and reproduced by the harpers for a cheap american edition of the poems, a copy of which was given to me one year as a prize. little barbarian as i was, i disliked the drawings of the pre-raphaelites because they mystified me--the lady of shalott, entangled in her wide floating web, the finest drawing holman hunt ever made; the company of weeping queens in the vale of avalon, in rossetti's harmoniously crowded design--when i flattered myself i understood everything that was to be understood, more especially tennyson's poems, many of which i could recite glibly from beginning to end--and did recite diligently to myself at hours when i ought to have been busy with the facts and figures in the class books before me. most people, young or old, dislike anything which shows them how much less they understand than they think they do. of the history of art i was left in ignorance as abject, the next to nothing i knew gleaned from a _lives of the artists_ adapted to children, a favourite book in the library, one providing me with the theme for my sole serious effort in drama--a three-act play, michael angelo its hero, which, with a success many dramatists might envy. i wrote, produced, acted in, and found an audience of good-natured nuns for, all at the ripe age of eleven. ii when i left the convent for the holidays and eventually "for good," little in my new surroundings was calculated to increase my knowledge of art or to teach me the first important fact, as a step to knowledge, that i knew absolutely nothing on the subject. in my grandfather's house, art was represented by the family portraits, the engraving after gilbert stuart's washington, the illustrated lamp shade, and the rogers group. my father, re-established in a house of his own, displayed an unaccountably liberal taste, straying from the philadelphia standard to the extent of decorating his parlour walls with engravings of napoleon he had picked up in paris--to one, printed in colour, attaching a value which i doubt if the facts would justify, though, as i have never come across it in any collection, museum, or gallery, it may be rarer and, therefore, more valuable, than i think. other fruits of his old journeys to paris were two engravings, perhaps after guys, of two famous ladies of that town, whose presence in our prim and proper and highly domestic dining-room seems to me the most incongruous accident in an otherwise correctly-appointed philadelphia household. when i think of napoleon replacing washington on our walls, i suspect my father of having broken loose from the philadelphia traces in his youth, though by the time i knew him the prints were the only signs of a momentary dash for freedom on the part of so scrupulous a philadelphian. it is curious that illustrations should have as small a place in my memory of home life as of the convent. the men of the golden age of the sixties had published their best work long before i had got through school, and in my childhood books gave me my chief amusement. but i remember nothing of their fine designs. the earlier cruikshank drawings for dickens i knew well in the american edition which my father owned, and never so long as i live can i see the dickens world except as it is shown in the much over-rated cruikshank interpretations. other memories are of the highly-finished, sentimental steel-engravings of scott's heroines, including meg merrilies, whom i still so absurdly associate with crazy norah. another series of portraits, steel-engravings, as highly-finished and but slightly less insipid, illustrated my father's edition of thiers' _french revolution_ through which, one conscientious winter, i considered it my duty to wade. and i recall also the large volumes of photographs after rafael and other masters that, in the eighteen-seventies, came into fashion for christmas presents and parlour-table books, and that i think must have heralded the new departure the centennial is supposed to have inaugurated. if i try to picture to myself the interior of the houses where i used to visit, art in them too seems best represented by family portraits no more remarkable than my grandfather's, by the engraving of stuart's washington, or of penn signing the treaty with the indians, or of the american army crossing the delaware, all three part of the traditional decoration of the philadelphia hall and dining-room, and by a rogers group and an illustrated lamp shade. the library in which a friend first showed me a volume of hogarth's engravings i remember as exceptional. but i have an idea that had i possessed greater powers of appreciation then, i should have a keener memory now of other houses full of interesting pictures and prints and illustrated books, which i did not see simply because my eyes had not been trained to see them. certainly, there were philadelphia collections of these things then, as there always have been--only they were not heard of and talked about as they are now, or, if they were, it was to dismiss their collecting as an amiable fad. mr. john s. phillips had got together the engravings which the pennsylvania academy is to-day happy to possess. people who were interested did not have to be told that mr. claghorn's collection was perhaps the finest in the country; j. was one of the wise minority, and often on sundays took advantage of mr. claghorn's generosity in letting anybody with the intelligence to realize the privilege come to look at his prints and study them; but i, who had not learned to be interested, knew nothing of the collection until i knew j. gebbie and barrie's store flourished in walnut street as it hardly could had there not been people in philadelphia, as gebbie once wrote to frederick keppel, who collected "these smoky, poky old prints." gebbie and barrie have gone, but barrie remains, a publisher of art books, and there are other dealers no less important and perhaps more enterprising, who prosper, as one of them has recently assured me they could not, if they depended for their chief support upon philadelphia. but philadelphia gives, as it gave, solid foundations of support, with the difference that to-day it takes good care the world should know it. [illustration: girard college] a few philadelphians collected pictures. one of the show places, more select and exclusive than the mint and girard college, for the rare visitor to the town with a soul above dancing and dining, was mr. gibson's gallery in walnut street, open on stated days to anybody properly introduced, or it may be that only a visiting card with a proper address was necessary for admission. the less i say about the gallery the better, for i never went to mr. gibson's myself, though i knew the house as i passed it for one apart in philadelphia--one where so un-philadelphia-like a possession as a picture gallery was allowed to disturb the philadelphian's first-story arrangement of front and back parlours. the collection can now be visited, without any preliminary formalities, at the academy of fine arts. mrs. bloomfield moore was still living in philadelphia and she must have begun collecting though, well as i knew the inside of her house in my young days, i hesitate to assert it as a fact--which shows my unpardonable blindness to most things in life worth while. i never, as far as i remember, went anywhere for the express purpose of looking at paintings. i had not even the curiosity which is the next best thing to knowledge and understanding. i have said how meagre are my impressions of the old academy on chestnut street. it is a question to me whether i had ever seen more than the outside of the new academy at broad and cherry streets before i met j. to go to the exhibitions there had not as yet come within the list of things philadelphians who were not artists made a point of doing. altogether, judging from my own recollections, philadelphians did not bother about art, and did not stop to ask whether there was any to bother about in philadelphia, or not. iii their indifference was their loss. the art, with a highly respectable pedigree, was there for philadelphia to enjoy and be proud of, if philadelphia had not been as reticent about it as about all its other accomplishments and possessions. i have a decided suspicion that i have come to a subject about which i might do well to observe the same reticence, not only as a philadelphian, but as the wife of an artist. for if, as the wife of a friend, i have learned that only friends are qualified to write of themselves, as the wife of an artist i have reason to believe it more discreet to leave all talk of art to artists, though discretion in this regard has not been one of the virtues of my working life. but just now, i am talking not so much of art as of my attitude towards art which must have been the attitude of the outsider in philadelphia, or else it would not have been mine. as for the genealogy of philadelphia art, it is, like the genealogy of philadelphia families, in the records of the town for all who will to read. in the very beginning of things philadelphia may have had no more pressing need for the artist's studio than for the writer's study. but it was surprising how soon its needs expanded in this direction. english and other european critics deplore the absence of an original--or aboriginal--school of art in america, as if they thought the american artist should unconsciously have lost, on his way across the atlantic, that inheritance from centuries of civilization and tradition which the modern artist who calls himself post-impressionist is deliberately endeavoring to get rid of, and on his arrival have started all over again like a child with a clean slate. only an american art based on the hieroglyphics and war paint of the indians would satisfy the critic with this preconceived idea. but the first american artists were not savages, they were not primitives. they did not paint pictures like indians any more than the first american architects built wigwams like indians, or the first american colonials dressed themselves in beads and feathers like indians. colonials had come from countries where art was highly developed, and they could no more forget the masters at home than they could forget the literature upon which they and their fathers had been nourished. if years passed before a philadelphian began to paint pictures, it was because philadelphians had not time to paint as they had not time to write. the wonder really is that they began so soon--that so soon the artist got to work, and so soon there was a public to care enough for his work to enable him to do it. in a thousand ways the interest of philadelphians in art expressed itself. it is written large in the beauty of their houses and in their readiness to introduce ornament where ornament belonged. the vine and cluster of grapes carved on william penn's front door; the panelling and woodwork in colonial houses; the decoration of a public building like the state house; the furniture, the silver, the china, we pay small fortunes for when we can find them and have not inherited them; the single finely-proportioned mirror or decorative silhouette on a white wall; the colonial rooms that have come down to us untouched, perfect in their simplicity, not an ornament too many;--all show which way the wind of art blew. there was hardly one of the great men from any american town, makers of first the revolution and then the union, who did not appreciate the meaning and importance of art and did not leave a written record, if only in a letter, of his appreciation. few things have struck me more in reading the correspondence and memoirs and diaries of the day. but these men were not only patriots, they were men of intelligence, and they knew the folly of expecting to find in philadelphia or new york or boston the same beautiful things that in paris or london or italy filled them with delight and admiration, or of seeing in this fact a reason to lower their standard. the critics who are shocked because we have no aboriginal school might do worse than read some of these old documents. i recommend in particular a passage in a letter john adams wrote to his wife from paris. it impressed me so when i came upon it, it seemed to me such an admirable explanation of a situation perplexing to critics, that i copied it in my notebook, and i cannot resist quoting it now. [illustration: upsala, germantown] "it is not indeed the fine arts which our country requires," he writes, "the useful, the mechanic arts are those which we have occasion for in a young country as yet simple and not far advanced in luxury, although much too far for her age and character.... the science of government it is my duty to study, more than all other sciences; the arts of legislation and administration and negotiation ought to take place of, indeed to exclude, in a manner, all other arts. i must study politics and war, that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. my sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain." john adams and his contemporaries may not have had american grandfathers with the leisure to earn for them the right to study art, but they did not ignore it. all the time they felt its appeal and responded to the appeal as well as busy men, absorbed in the development of a new country, could. they got themselves painted whenever they happened to combine the leisure to sit and a painter to sit to. when a statesman like jefferson, who confessed himself "an enthusiast on the subject of the arts," was sent abroad, he devoted his scant leisure to securing the best possible sculptor for the statue of washington, or the best possible models for public buildings at home. much that we now prize in architecture and design we owe to the men who supposed themselves too occupied with politics and war to encourage art and artists. they were not too busy to provide the beauty without which liberty would have been a poor affair--not too busy to welcome the first americans who saw to it that all the beauty should not be imported from europe. "after the first cares for the necessaries of life are over, we shall come to think of the embellishments," franklin wrote to his london landlady's daughter. "already some of our young geniuses begin to lisp attempts at painting, poetry and music. we have a young painter now studying at rome." [illustration: the hall at cliveden, the chew house] in this care for the embellishments of life, of so much more real importance than the necessaries, philadelphia was the first town to take the lead, though philadelphians have since gone out of their way to forget it. the old quaker lady in her beautiful dress, preserving her beautiful repose, in her beautiful old and historic rooms, shows the friends' instinctive love of beauty even if they never intentionally, or deliberately, undertook to create it. for the most beautiful of what we now call colonial furniture produced in the colonies, philadelphia is given the credit by authorities on the subject. franklin's letters could also be quoted to show philadelphians' keenness to have their portraits done in "conversation" or "family" pieces, or alone in miniatures, whichever were most in vogue. even friends, before franklin, when they visited england sought out a fashionable portrait-painter like kneller because he was supposed the best. artists from england came to philadelphia for commissions, artists from other colonies drifted there, peale, stuart, copley. philadelphia, in return, spared its artists to england, and the royal academy was forced to rely upon philadelphia for its second president--benjamin west. the artist's studio in philadelphia had become a place of such distinction by the revolution that members of the first congress felt honoured themselves when allowed to honour it with their presence--in the intervals between legislating and dining. the philadelphian to-day, goaded by the moss-grown jest over philadelphia slowness and want of enterprise into giving the list of philadelphia "firsts," or the things philadelphia has been the first to do in the country, can include among them the picture exhibition which philadelphia was the first to hold, and the pennsylvania academy which was the first academy of the fine arts instituted in america. philadelphia was the richest american town and long the capital; the marvel would be if it had not taken the lead in art as in politics. chapter xv: philadelphia and art--continued i by the time i grew up years had passed since philadelphia had ceased to be the capital, and during these years its atmosphere had not been especially congenial to art. but the general conditions had not been more stimulating anywhere in america. the hudson river school is about all that came of a period which, for that matter, owed its chief good to revolt in countries where more was to be expected of it: in france, to first the romanticists and then the impressionists who had revolted against the academic; in england to the pre-raphaelites who, with noisy advertisement, broke away from victorian convention. art in america had not got to the point of development when there was anything to revolt against or to break away from. what it needed was a revival of the old interest, a reaction from the prevailing indifference to all there was of art in the country. [illustration: the old water-works, fairmount park] some say this came in philadelphia with the centennial. the centennial's stirring up, however, would not have done much good had not artists already begun to stir themselves up. how a number of americans who had been studying in paris and munich returned to america full of youth and enthusiasm in the early eighteen-seventies, there to lead a new movement in american art, has long since passed into history--also the fact that one of the most remarkable outcomes of this new movement was the new school of illustration that quickly made american illustrated books and magazines famous throughout the world. but what concerns me as a philadelphian is that, once more at this critical moment, philadelphia took the lead. the publishers of the illustrated books and magazines may have been chiefly in new york, the illustrations were chiefly from philadelphia, and there is no reason why philadelphia should not admit it with decent pride. abbey and frost were actually, howard pyle and smedley virtually, philadelphians. blum and brennan passed through the academy schools. j., when i met him, was at the threshold of his career. and the illustrators were but a younger offshoot of the new philadelphia group. miss mary cassatt had already started to work in paris, where jules stewart and ridgway knight represented the older philadelphia school; mrs. anna lea merritt was already in london; j. mclure hamilton had finished his studies at antwerp; alexander and birge harrison had been heard of in paris where sargent--who belongs to philadelphia if to any american town--had carried off his first honours. at home richards was painting his marines; poore had begun his study of animals; dana, i think, was beginning his water-colours; william sartain had long been known as an engraver; miss emily sartain was an art editor and soon to be the head of an art school; the moran family, with the second generation, had become almost a philadelphia institution; from stephen ferris j. could learn the technic of etching as from the claghorn collection he could trace its development through the ages; and of the younger men and women, his contemporaries, he did not leave me long in ignorance. my own work had led me to the discovery of so many worlds of work in philadelphia, i could not have believed there was room for another. but there was, and the artists' world was so industrious, so full of energy, so sufficient unto itself, so absorbed in itself, that, with the first glimpse into it, the difficulty was to believe space and reason could be left for any outside of it. this new experience was as extraordinary a revelation as my initiation into the newspaper world. i had been living, without suspecting it, next door to people who thought of nothing, talked of nothing, occupied themselves with nothing, but art: people for whom a whole army of men and women were busily employed, managing schools, running factories, keeping stores, putting up buildings--delightful people with whom i could not be two minutes without reproaching myself for not having known from the cradle that nothing in life save art ever did count, or ever could. and at this point i can afford to get rid of philadelphia reticence without scruple since through this, to me, new world of work i had the benefit of j.'s guidance. it was a moment when it had got to be the fashion for artists in all the studios in the same building to give receptions on the same day, and i learned that j.'s, so strange to me at first, was only one of an endless number. for part of my new experience was the round of the studios on the appointed day, when i was too oppressed by my ignorance and my desire not to expose it and my uncertainty as to what was the right thing to say in front of a picture, that i do not remember much besides, except the miniatures of miss van tromp and the marines of prosper senat, and why they should now stand out from the confused jumble of my memories i am sure i cannot see. then j. took me to the academy of fine arts and it was revealed to me as a place not to pass by but to go inside of: artists from all over the country struggling to get in for its annual exhibition of paintings which already had a reputation as one of the finest given in the country; artists from all over the world drawn in for its international exhibitions of etchings--whistler, seymour haden, appian, lalanne, a catalogue-full of etchers introduced for the first time to my uneducated eyes; everybody who could crowding in on thursday afternoons to sit on the stairs and listen to the music, while i upbraided myself for not having known ages ago what delightful things there were to do, instead of letting my time hang heavy on my hands, in philadelphia. j. had me invited to more private evenings and reunions of societies of artists, and i remember--if they do not--meeting many who were at the very heart of the machinery that made the wheels of the new movement go round:--mr. leslie miller, the director of the school of industrial art from which promising students were emerging or had emerged; stephen parrish and blanche dillaye and gabrielle clements, whose etchings were with the whistlers and the seymour hadens in the international exhibitions; alice barber full of commissions from magazines; margaret leslie and mary trotter in their fervent apprenticeship; boyle and stephens the sculptors; colin cooper and stephens the painters. what a rank outsider i felt in their company! and how grateful i was for my talent as a listener that helped to save me from exposure! ii i saw another side of the revival at my uncle's industrial art school in the eagerness of teachers and pupils both to know and to learn and to practise--an eagerness that had, i fear, an eye to ultimate profit. that was the worst feature of the booming of art in the eighteen-eighties. gain was the incentive that drove too many students to the art schools of philadelphia as to those of paris, or london, and set countless amateurs in their own homes to hammering brass and carving wood and stamping leather. art was to them an investment, a speculation, a gentlemanly--or ladylike--way of making a fortune. an english painter i know told me a few years since that he had put quite six thousand pounds into art, what with studying and travelling for subjects, and he thought he had a right to look for a decent return on his money. that expresses the attitude of a vast number of philadelphians in their new active enthusiasm. however trumpery the amount of labour they invested, they counted on it to bring them in a big dividend in dollars and cents. [illustration: the stairway, state house] i am afraid my uncle, without meaning to, encouraged this spirit, when he started not only the industrial art school, but the decorative art club in pine street. he was an optimist and saw only the beautiful side of anything he was interested in. to please him i was made the treasurer of the club. the committee sympathised with my uncle and worked for the ultimate good he thought the club was to accomplish in philadelphia. mrs. harrison, mrs. mifflin, mrs. pepper, miss julia biddle with whom i served, agreed with him that women who had some training in art would understand better the meaning of art and the pleasure of the stimulus this understanding could give. my uncle, however, always ready to do anybody a good turn, went further and was anxious that provision should also be made to sell the work done in the club, which in this way would be open to many who could not otherwise afford it. i fancy that this provision, if not the success of the club, was one of its chief attractions. the amateur is apt to believe she can romp in gaily and snatch whatever prizes are going by playing with the art which is the life's work, mastered by toil and travail, of the artist. i criticise now, but in my new ardour i saw nothing to criticise. on the contrary, i saw perfection: artists and students encouraged, occupations and interests lavished upon amateurs whose lives had been as empty as mine; and i worked myself up into a fine enthusiasm of belief in art as a new force, or one that if it had always existed had been waiting for its prophet,--just as electricity had waited for franklin to capture and apply it to human needs. i went so far in my exaltation as to write an inspired--or so it seemed to me--article on art as the new religion, proving that the old religions having perished and the old gods fallen, art had re-arisen in its splendour and glory to provide a new gospel, a new god, to take their place, and i filled my essay with ingenious arguments, and liberal quotations from william morris and ruskin, and rhetorical flights of prophecy. i had not given the last finishing and convincing touches to my exposition of the new gospel when, with my marriage, came other work more urgent, and i was spared the humiliation of seeing my palace of art collapse, like the house built on sand, while i still believed in it. in the years that followed i got to know most of the galleries and exhibitions of europe; despite my scruples i made a profession of writing about art; and the education this meant taught me, among other things, the simple truth that art is art, and not religion. but i cannot laugh at the old folly of my ignorance. the enthusiasm, the mood, out of which the article grew, was better, healthier, than the apathy that had saved me from being ridiculous because it risked nothing. iii these years away from home were spent largely in the company of artists and were filled with the talk of art; what had been marvels to me in philadelphia became the commonplaces of every day. but i was all the time in italy, or france, or england, and could not realize the extent to which, for philadelphians who had not wandered, artists and art were also becoming more and more a part of everyday life. i did not see philadelphia in the changing, not until it had changed, and possibly i feel the change more than those who lived through it. it is not so much in the things done, in actual accomplishment, that i am conscious of it, as in the new concern for art, the new attentions heaped upon it, the new deference to it. art is in the air--"on the town," a subject of polite conversation, a topic for the drawing-room. when i first came out, art had never supplied small talk in society, never filled up a gap at a dull dinner or reception. we should have been disgracefully behind the times if we could not chatter about christine nilsson and campanini and the last opera, or irving and ellen terry and their interpretation of shakespeare; if we had not kept up with trollope and george eliot, and read the latest howells and henry james, and raved over the rubaiyat. but we might have had the brand-newest biographical dictionary of artists at our fingers' ends--as we had not--and there would have been no occasion to use our information. nobody sparkled by sprinkling his talk with the names of artists and sculptors, nobody asked what was in the last academy or who had won the gold medal in paris, nobody discussed the psychology or the meaning of the picture of the year. i remember thinking i was doing something rather pretentious and pedantic when i began to read ruskin. i remember how a friend who was a tireless student of kã¼gler and crowe and cavalcaselle, as a preparation to the journey to europe that might never come off, was looked upon as a sort of prodigy--a philadelphia phenomenon. but to-day i am sure there is not the name of an artist, from cimabue and giotto to matisse and picasso, that does not go easily round the table at any philadelphia dinner; not a writer on art, from lionardo to nordau, who cannot fill up awkward pauses at an afternoon crush; not one of the learned women of philadelphia who could not tell you where every masterpiece in the world hangs and just what her emotions before it should be, who could not play the game of attributions as gracefully as the game of bridge, who could not dispose of the most abstruse points in art as serenely as she settles the simplest squabble in the nursery. the academy is no longer abandoned in the wilderness of broad and cherry streets; its receptions and private views are social functions, its exhibitions are events of importance, the best given in philadelphia and throughout the land, its collections are the pride of the wealthy philadelphians who contribute to them, its schools are stifled with scholarships. [illustration: upper room, stenton] the other art schools have multiplied, not faster, however, than the students whose legions account for, if they do not warrant, the existence not of the academy schools alone, but of the school of industrial art, the drexel institute, the woman's school of design, the uncle's old little experiment enlarged into a large public industrial art school where, i am told, the founder is comfortably forgotten--of more institutes, schools, classes than i probably have heard of. the art galleries have multiplied: there is some reason for memorial hall now that the wilstach collection is housed there, and the _yellow buskin_, one of the finest whistlers, hangs on its walls, now that the collections of decorative art are being added to by mrs. john harrison and other philadelphians who are ambitious for their town and its supremacy in all things. nor does this philadelphia ambition soar to loftier heights than in the project for the new parkway from the city hall with a new art gallery--the centre of a sort of university of art if i can rely upon the plans--to crown the park end of this splendid (partially still on paper) avenue, as the arc de triomphe crowns the western end of the avenue of the champs-elysã©es. the collectors multiply, their aims, purse, field of research, all expanding; their shyness on the subject surmounted; old masters for whom europe now weeps making their triumphant entry into philadelphia; the highest price, that test of the modern patron, paid for a rembrandt in philadelphia; the collections of mr. johnson and mr. widener and mr. elkins and mr. thomas in philadelphia as well known by the authorities as the borghesi collection in rome or the duke of westminster's in london. the social life of art grows and can afford the large luxurious club in south broad street, artists and their friends amply supporting it. and the old sketch club, once glad of the shelter of a room or so, has blossomed forth in a house of its own in the flourishing "little street of clubs," with the woman's plastic club close by. the artists only, as far as i can see, have not multiplied and grown in proportion. but the artist somehow appears to be the last consideration of those who think they are encouraging art. still there are new names for my old list: henry thouron, violet oakley, maxfield parrish, now ranked with the decorative painters--and, i might just point out in passing, it is to philadelphia that boston, harrisburg, and at times new york must send for their decorators, whose work i have not seen in place to express an opinion on it one way or the other. cecilia beaux and adolphe borie now figure with the portrait painters; waugh and fromuth with the marine painters, who include also stokes, the chronicler of arctic splendors of sea and sky, and edward stratton holloway, the making of beautiful books claiming his interest no less than the sea; glackens, thornton oakley, elizabeth shippen green, jessie wilcox smith with the illustrators; mccarter, redfield with the group gathered about the academy; grafly with the sculptors; clifford addams, daniel garber with the winners of scholarships. architects have not lagged behind in the race--after the furness period, a cope and stewardson period, a wilson eyre period, to-day a zantzinger, borie, medary, day, page, trumbauer, and a dozen more periods each progressing in the right direction; with young men from the beaux-arts and young men from the university school, eager to tackle the ever-increasing architectural commissions in a town growing and re-fashioning itself faster than any mushroom upstart of the west, to inaugurate a period of their own. iv i am not a fighter by nature, i set a higher value on peace as i grow older, and i look to ending my days in philadelphia. therefore i chronicle the change; i do not criticise it. but a few comments i may permit myself and yet hope that philadelphia will not bear me in return the malice i could so ill endure. i think the gain to philadelphia from this new interest has, in many ways, been great. if art is the one thing that lives through the ages--art whether expressed in words, or paint, or bricks and mortar, or the rhythm of sound,--it follows that the pleasure it gives--when genuine--is the most enduring. this is a distinct, if perhaps at the moment negative, gain. a more visible gain i think comes from the new desire, the new determination to care for the right thing: a fashion due perhaps to the insatiable american craving for "culture," and at times guilty of unintelligent excesses, but pleasanter in results than the old crazes that filled philadelphia drawing-rooms with spinning wheels and cat's tails and morris mediã¦valism,--if they brought _art nouveau_ in their train, thank fortune it has left no traces of its passing; a fashion more dignified in results than the old standards that filled philadelphia streets with flights of originality, and green stone monsters, and the deplorable philadelphia brand of gothic and renaissance, romanesque and venetian, tudor and everything except the architecture that belongs by right and tradition in penn's beautiful town. [illustration: wyck--the doorway from within] but interest in art does not create art, and when philadelphia believes in this interest as a creator, philadelphia falls into a mistake that it has not even the merit of having originated. i have watched for many years the attempts to make art grow, to force it like a hot-house plant. the same thing is going on everywhere. in england, south kensington for more than half a century has had its schools in all parts of the kingdom, the county council has added to them, the city corporation and the city guilds have followed suit, artists open private classes, exhibitions have increased in number until they are a drug on the market, art critics flourish, the papers devote columns to their platitudes. and what has england to show as the outcome of all this care? go look at the decorations in the royal exchange and the pictures in the royal academy, examine the official records and learn how great is the yearly output of art teachers in excess of schools for them to teach in, and you will have a good idea of the return made on the money and time and red tape lavished upon the teaching of art. it is no better in paris. schools and students were never so many, foreigners arrive in such numbers that they are pushing the frenchman out of his own latin quarter, american students swagger, play the prince on scholarships, are presented with clubs and homes where they can give afternoon teas and keep on living in a little america of their own. and what comes of it? were the two salons, with the salon des indã©pendants and the salon d'automne thrown in, ever before such a weariness to the flesh?--was mediocrity ever before such an invitation to the posã¨ur and the crank to pass off manufactured eccentricity as genius? it would not be reasonable to expect more of philadelphia than of london and paris. i cannot see that finer artists have been bred there on the luxury of scholarships and schools than on their own efforts when they toiled all day to be able to study at night, when success was theirs only after a hard fight. the old masters got their training as apprentices, not as pampered youths luxuriating in fine schools and exhibitions and incomes and every luxury; they were patronized and more splendidly than any artists to-day, but not until they had shown reason for it, not until it was an honour to patronize them. the new system is more comfortable, i admit, but great work does not spring from comfort. philadelphia is wise to set up a high standard, but not wise when it makes the way too easy. for art is a stern master. it cares not if the weak fall by the roadside, so long as the strong, unhampered, succeed in getting into their own. the best thing that has been done at the academy for many a day is the reducing of the scholarships from a two, or three, years' interval free of responsibility, to a summer's holiday among the masterpieces of europe, which, i am told, is all they are now. chapter xvi: philadelphia at table i if interest in the art of eating called for justification, i could show that i come by mine legitimately. my family took care of that when the sensible ancestor who made me an american settled in accomac, where most things worth eating were to be had for the fishing or the shooting or the digging, so that accomac feasted while the rest of virginia still starved, and when my grandfather, in his day, moved to philadelphia which is as well provided as accomac and more conscientious in cultivating its possibilities. it would be sheer disloyalty to the family inheritance if i did not like to eat well, just as it would be rank hypocrisy to see in my loyalty a virtue. accomac's reputation for good eating has barely got beyond the local history book, accomac, i find, being a place you must have belonged to at one time or another, to know anything about. but philadelphia made a reputation for its high living as soon as the philadelphian emerged from his original cave, or sooner--read watson and every other authority and you will find that before he was out of it, even the family cat occupied itself in hunting delicacies for the family feast. and right off the philadelphian understood the truth the scientist has been centuries in groping after: that if people's food is to do them good, they must take pleasure in it. the material was his the minute he landed on the spot, not the least recommendations of which were its fish and game and its convenience as a port where all the country did not produce could be brought from countries that did--a spot that, half-way between the north and the south, assured to philadelphia one of the best-stocked markets in the world, ever the wonder and admiration of every visitor to the town. pleasure in the material, if history can be trusted, dates as far back. a wise man once suggested the agreeable journeys that could be planned on a gastronomical map of france--from the tripe of caen to the bouillabaisse of marseilles, from the chã¢teau margaux of bordeaux to the champagne of rheims, from the ducks of rouen to the truffles of pã©rigord, and so, from one end to the other of that land of plenty. i would suggest that an agreeable record of philadelphia might be based upon the dinners it has eaten, from the historic dinner foraged for by the cat over a couple of centuries ago, to the banquet of yesterday in spruce street or walnut, at the bellevue or the ritz. [illustration: the philadelphia dispensary from independence square] i should like some day to write this history myself, when i have more space and time at my disposal. i have always been blessed with a healthy appetite, a decent sense of discrimination in satisfying it, and also a deep interest in the philosophy of food ever since i began to collect cookery books. the more profoundly i go into the subject, the readier i am to believe with brillat-savarin that what a man is depends a good deal on what he eats. this is why i think that if the philadelphian is to be understood, the study of him must not stop with his politics and his literature and his art, but must include his marketing and his bill of fare. he has had the wit never to doubt the importance of both, and the pride never to make light of his genius for living well. the early friends in philadelphia knew better than to pull a long face, burrowing for the snares of the flesh and the devil in every necessity of life, like the unfortunate puritans up in new england. it was not to lead a hermit's existence william penn invited them to settle on the banks of the delaware, and he and they realized that pioneer's work could not be done on hermit's fare. they entertained no fanatical disdain for the pleasures of the table, no ascetic abhorrence to good food, daintily prepared. brawn and chocolate and venison were penn's tender offering as lover to hannah callowhill, olives and wine his loving gift as friend to isaac norris. for equally "acceptable presents" that admirable citizen had to thank many besides penn. james logan knew that the best way to manage your official is to dine him, and in his day, and after it, straight on, no public commissioner, and indeed no private traveller, could visit philadelphia and not be fed with its banquets and comforted with its madeira and punch, while few could refrain from saying so with an eloquence and gratitude that did them honour. benjamin franklin, keeping up the tradition, was known to feast more excellently than a philosopher ought, and his philosophy of food is explained by his admission in a letter that he would rather discover a _recipe_ for making parmesan cheese in an italian town than any ancient inscription. the american philosophical society could not conduct its investigations without the aid of dinners and breakfasts, nor could any other philadelphia society or club study, or read, or hunt, or fish, or legislate, or pursue its appointed ends, without fine cooking and hard drinking--though i hope they were not the inspiration of thomas jefferson's severe criticism of his fellow americans who, he said, were unable to terminate the most sociable meals without transforming themselves into brutes. it was impossible for young ladies and grave elders to keep descriptions of public banquets and family feasts and friendly tea-drinkings out of their letters and diaries: one reason of the fascination their letters and diaries have for philadelphians who read them to-day. and altogether, by the revolution, to judge from john adams' account of his "sinful feasts" in philadelphia, and general greene's description of the luxury of boston as "an infant babe" to the luxury of philadelphia, and the rest of america's opinion of philadelphia as a place of "crucifying expenses," and many more signs of the times, the dinners of philadelphia had become so inseparable from any meeting, function, or business, that i am tempted to question whether, had they not been eaten, the declaration of independence could have been signed. but it was signed and who can say, in face of the fact, that philadelphia was any the worse for its feasting? and what if it proved a dead weight to john adams, did boston, did any other town do more in the cause of patriotism and independence? [illustration: morris house, germantown] one inevitable feature of the "sinful feasts" was the madeira john adams drank at a great rate, but suffered no inconvenience from. i could not dispense with it in these old records, such a sober place does it hold in my own memories of philadelphia. the decanter of madeira on my grandfather's dinner table marked the state occasion, and i would not have recognized philadelphia on my return had the same decanter not been produced in welcome. it was an assurance that philadelphia was still philadelphia, though sky-scrapers might break the once pleasant monotony of low, red brick houses and motor horns resound through the once peaceful streets. from the beginning madeira was one of the things no good philadelphia household could be without--just the sound, dignified, old-fashioned wine the philadelphian would be expected to patronize, respectable and upright as himself. orders for it lighten those interminably long letters in the penn-logan correspondence, so long that all the time i was reading them, i kept wondering which of the three i ought to pity the most: penn for what he had to endure from his people; logan for having to keep him posted in his intolerable wrongs; or myself for wading through all they both had to say on the subject. as time went on, i do not believe there was an official function at which madeira did not figure. there i always find it--the wine of ceremony, the sacrificial wine, without which no compact could be sealed, no event solemnized, no pleasure enjoyed. it seems to punctuate every step in the career of philadelphians and of philadelphia, and i thought nothing could be more characteristic, when i read the _autobiography_ of franklin, than that it should have been over the philadelphia madeira one governor of pennsylvania planned a future for him, and another governor of pennsylvania later on discoursed provincial affairs with him, "most profuse of his solicitations and promises" under its pleasant influence. throughout the old annals i am conscious of that decanter of madeira always at hand, the philadelphian "as free of it as an apple tree of its fruit on a windy day in the month of july," one old visitor to the town records with a pretty fancy for which, as like as not, it was responsible. and throughout the more modern records, there it is again. even in the old-fashioned philadelphia boarding-house less than a century ago, the men after dinner sat over their madeira. new generations of visitors, like the old, drank it and approved, the madeira that supported john adams at philadelphia's sinful feasts helping to steer thackeray and an endless succession of strangers at the gate through philadelphia's course of suppers and dinners. it amuses me to recall, as an instance of all it represented to philadelphia, that for a couple of years at the convent, though a healthier child than i never lived, i was made by the orders of my father, obeyed by no means unwillingly on my part, to drink a glass of madeira, with a biscuit, every morning at eleven. and so deep-rooted was its use in the best traditions of philadelphia respectability, that the irreproachable philadelphia ladies who wrote cookery books never omitted the glass of madeira from the terrapin, and went so far as to quote scripture and to recommend a little of it for the stomach's sake. ii one of these philadelphia ladies wrote the most famous cookery book to this day published in america; a fact which pleases me, partly because, with edward fitzgerald, i cannot help liking a cookery book, and still more because it flatters my pride as a philadelphian that so famous a book should come from philadelphia. it seems superfluous to add that i mean miss leslie's _complete cookery_. what else could i mean? there had been cookery books in america before miss leslie's. america, with philadelphia to set the standard, could not get on very far without them. if in the hurry and flurry of colonial life, the american did not have the leisure to write them, he borrowed them, the speediest way to manufacture any kind of literature. there is an american edition of mrs. glasse, with mrs. glasse left out--the american pirate was nothing if not thorough. there is an american edition of richard briggs who was not deprived of the credit of his book, though robbed of his title. there are american editions i have no doubt of many besides which i have only to haunt the old bookstalls and second-hand book stores of philadelphia assiduously enough to find. but of american cookery books, either borrowed or original, before the time of miss leslie, i own but the stolen mrs. glasse and an insignificant little manual issued in new york in 1813, an american adaptation probably of an english model to which i have not yet succeeded in tracing it. nor do i know of any i do not own, and i know as much of american cookery books as any of the authorities, and i do not mind saying so, as i can without the shadow of conceit. vicaire includes only two or three in his _bibliographie_; hazlitt, to save trouble, confined himself to english books; dr. oxford's interest is frankly in the publications of his own country, though, in his first bibliography, he mentions a few foreign volumes, and in his second he refers to one american piracy, and these are the three chief bibliographers of the kitchen in europe. american authorities do not exist, when i except myself. it is true that g. h. ellwanger made a list of cookery books, but he threw them together anyhow, with no attempt at classification, and his list scarcely merits the name of bibliography. the history of the american cookery book is a virgin field, and as such i present it to the innumerable american students who are turned out from the universities, year after year, for the research work that is frequently of as little use to themselves as to anybody else. [illustration: the state house colonnade] but many as may be the discoveries in the future, miss leslie cannot be dethroned nor deprived of her distinction as the mrs. glasse of america. other writers, if there were any, were allowed to disappear; should they be dragged out of their obscurity now, it would be as bibliographical curiosities, bibliographical specimens. miss leslie was never forgotten, she survives to-day, her name honoured, her book cherished. she leapt into fame on its publication, and with such ardour was the first edition bought up, with such ardour either reverently preserved or diligently consulted that i, the proud possessor of mrs. glasse in her first edition "pot folio," of apicius coelius, gervase markham, scappi, grimod de la reyniã¨re, and no end of others in their first editions, cannot as yet boast a first edition of miss leslie. i have tried, my friends have tried; the most important book-sellers in the country have tried; and in vain, until i begin to think i might as well hope for the elzevir _patissier franã§ais_ as the 1837 _complete cookery_. it may be hidden on some unexplored philadelphia book shelf, for it was as indispensable in the philadelphia household as the decanter of madeira. i ask myself if its appreciation in the kitchen, for which it was written, is the reason why i have no recollection of it in the eleventh and spruce street house, well as i remember _lippincott's_ on the back parlour table, nor in my father's library, well as i recall his editions of scott and dickens, voltaire and rousseau, a combination expressive of a liberal taste in literature. but never anywhere have i seen that elusive first edition, never anywhere succeeded in obtaining an earlier edition than the fifty-eighth. the date is 1858--think of it! fifty-eight editions in twenty-one years! can our "best sellers" surpass that as a record? or can any american writer on cookery after miss leslie, from mrs. sarah joseph hale and jenny june to marion harland and the philadelphia mrs. rorer, rank with her as a rival to mrs. glasse, as the author of a cookery book that has become the rare prize of the collector? iii it is so proud an eminence for a quiet philadelphia maiden lady in the eighteen-thirties and forties to have reached that i cannot but wish i knew more of miss leslie personally. from her contemporaries i have learned nothing save that she went to tea parties like any ordinary philadelphian, that she was interested in the legends and traditions of her town, which wasn't like any ordinary philadelphian, and that she condescended to journalism, editing _the casket_. there is a portrait of her at the academy, philadelphia decorum so stamped upon her face and dress that it makes me more curious than ever to know why she was not the mother of children instead of a writer of books. these books explain that she had a literary conscience. in her preface to her _domestic economy_, which is not an unworthy companion to her _complete cookery_, she reveals an unfeminine respect for style. "in this as in her cookery book," she writes, a dignity expressed in her use of the third person, "she has not scrupled when necessary, to sacrifice the sound to the sense; repeating the same words when no others could be found to express the purport so clearly, and being always more anxious to convey the meaning in such terms as could not be mistaken than to risk obscuring it by attempts at refined phraseology or well-rounded periods." now and then the temptation was too strong and she fell into alliteration, writing of "ponderous puddings and curdled custards." but this is exceptional. as a rule, in her dry, business-like sentences, it would be impossible to suspect her of philandering with sound, or concerning herself with the pleasure of her readers. her subject is one, happily, that can survive the sacrifice. the book is a monument to philadelphia cookery. she was not so emancipated as to neglect all other kitchens. _recipes_ for soup _ã  la julienne_ and mulligatawny, for bath buns and gooseberry fools, for pilaus and curries, are concessions to foreign conventions. _recipes_ for oysters and shad, for gumbo and buckwheat cakes, for mint juleps and sweet potatoes, for pumpkins and mush, show her deference to ideals cultivated by americans from one state or another. but concessions and deference do not prevent her book--her two books--from being unmistakably philadelphian:--an undefinable something in the quality and quantity, a definable something in the dishes and ingredients. i know that in my exile, thousands of miles from home, when i open her _complete cookery_, certain passages transport me straight back to philadelphia, to my childhood and my youth, to the second-story back-building dining-room and the kitchen with the lilacs at the back-yard door. i read of dried beef, chipped or frizzled in butter and eggs, and, as of old in the eleventh and spruce street house, a delicious fragrance, characteristic of philadelphia as the sickly smell of the ailanthus, fills my nostrils and my appetite is keen again for the eight o'clock tea, long since given way to the eight o'clock dinner. i turn the pages and come to reed birds, roasted or baked, and at once i feel the cool of the radiant fall evening, and i am at belmont or strawberry mansion after the long walk through the park, one of the gay party for whom the cloth is laid. or the mere mention of chicken salad sets back the clock of the years and drops me into the chattering midst of the philadelphia five o'clock reception, in time for the spread that, for sentiment's sake, is dear to me in memory, but that, for digestion's sake, i hope never to see revived. or a thrill is in the dressing for the salad alone, in the mere dash of mustard that philadelphia has the independence to give to its mayonnaise. i am conservative in matters of art. i would not often recommend a deviation from french precedent which is the most reliable and the finest. but philadelphia may be trusted to deviate, when it permits itself the liberty, with discretion and distinction. [illustration: the smith memorial, west fairmount park] chapter xvii: philadelphia at table--continued i so much of philadelphia is in miss leslie that her silence on one or two matters essentially philadelphian is the greater disappointment. i have said that when i was young it was the business of the man of the house to market and to make the mayonnaise for the dinner's salad, and i have searched for the reason in vain. his appropriation of the marketing seems to be comparatively modern. if the chronicles are to be trusted, it was the woman's business as late as mrs. washington's day. but by mine, the man's going to market had settled solidly into one of those philadelphia customs taken for granted by philadelphians simply because they were philadelphia customs. never in print have i seen any reference to this division of family labour except in the philadelphia stories of thomas a. janvier who, as a philadelphian, knew that it became well brought up philadelphia men to attend to the marketing and that duties becoming to them were above explanation. janvier knew also that only in philadelphia, probably, could it occur to the "master of a feast" to dress the salad, and that this was the reason "why a better salad is served at certain dinner tables in philadelphia than at any other dinner tables in the whole world." miss leslie is not without honour in her own town and was there reverenced by no one as truly as by janvier, but his reverence for the art of cookery was more profound and he shared the belief of the initiated that in it man surpasses as hitherto, i regret to say, he has surpassed in all the arts. janvier himself was the last "master of the feast" it was my good fortune to watch preparing the mayonnaise. it was a solemn rite in his hands, and the result not unworthy--his salads were delicious, perfect, original, their originality, however, never pushed to open defiance of the philadelphia precedents he respected. one of my pleasantest memories of him is of his salad-making at his own dinner table in his london rooms, one or two friends informally gathered about him, and the summer evening so warm that he appeared all in white--a splendid presence, for he was an unusually handsome man, of the rich, flamboyant type that has gone out of fashion almost everywhere except in the south of france. the white added, somehow, to the effect of ceremony, and he lingered over every stage of the preparation and the mixing,--the philadelphia touch of mustard not omitted,--with due gravity and care. how different the salad created with this ceremony from the usual makeshift mixed nobody knows how or where! [illustration: the basin, old water-works] that the philadelphia man should have accepted this responsibility, explains better than i could how high is the philadelphia standard. i could not understand miss leslie's silence on the subject, did i not suspect her of a disapproval as complete as her cookery. she had no new-fangled notions on the position of woman, no desire to dispute man's long-established superiority. if she was willing to teach women how to become accomplished housewives, it was that they might administer to the comfort and satisfy the appetite of their fathers and brothers and husbands and sons. the end of woman, according to her creed, is to make the home agreeable for man, and it would save us many of to-day's troubles if we agreed with her. no man, since it is to his advantage, will blame her for being more orthodox as a woman than as a philadelphian, nor is it at very great cost that i forgive her. i prize her book too much from the collector's standpoint, if from no other, to resent its sentiment. and my joy in my copy--in my fifty-eighth edition--is none the less because it was presented to me by janvier who, in a few short stories, gave the spirit of the philadelphia feast as miss leslie, in two substantial volumes, collected and classified its materials. another thing i do not find in miss leslie is the oyster croquette, which she could not have ignored had she once eaten it. therefore i am led to see in it the product of a generation nearer my own. in my memories of childhood it is inseparable from my grandmother's eight o'clock tea on evenings when the family were invited in state--in my memories of youth inseparable from every afternoon or evening party at which i feasted fearlessly and well--and it figured at many a sunday high-tea, that exquisite feast which, by its very name, refuses to let itself be confounded with its coarser counterpart known to the english as a meat-tea. from these facts i conclude, though i have no other data to rely upon, that the oyster croquette must have been not simply the masterpiece, but the creation of augustine, for the oyster croquette which the well-brought-up philadelphian then ate at moments of rejoicing was always of his cooking. ii augustine--the explanation is superfluous for philadelphians of my age--was a coloured man with the genius of his race for cookery and probably a drop or more of the white blood that developed in him also the genius for organization, so that he was a leader among caterers, as well as a master among cooks. it is worth noting that the demand for cooks in philadelphia being great, the greatest cooks in america never failed to supply it: worth noting also that the philadelphia housewife, being thus well supplied, had not begun when i was young to amuse herself with the chafing-dish as she does now. for many years, augustine's name and creations were the chief distinction of every philadelphia feast. to have entertained without his assistance would have been as serious a crime as to have omitted terrapin--in season--and ice-cream from the philadelphia menu; as daring as to have gone for chocolates anywhere save to pã©nas' or for smilax anywhere save to pennock's, and this sort of daring in philadelphia would have been deplored not as harmless originality, but as eccentricity in the worst possible taste. thanks to augustine, philadelphia became celebrated in america for its oyster croquettes and terrapin and broiled oysters--what a work of genius this, with the sauce of his invention!--as bresse is in france for its chickens, or york in england for its hams. so much i know about him, and no more--but his name should go down in history with those of vatel and carãªme and gouffã©: an artist if ever there was one! because he did not commit suicide like vatel--his oysters were never late--because he did not write encyclopedias of cookery like carãªme and gouffã©, his name and fame are in danger of perishing unless every philadelphian among my contemporaries hastens to lay a laurel leaf upon his grave. i fear nothing as yet has been done to preserve his memory. his name survives on the simple front of a south fifteenth street house, where i saw it and rejoiced when i was last at home and, in compliment to him, went inside and ate my lunch in the demure light of a highly respectable dining-room in the society of a dozen or more highly respectable philadelphians seated at little tables. i could not quarrel with my lunch--it was admirably cooked and served--but it was an everyday lunch, not the occasional feast--the augustine of old did not cook the ordinary meal and the fifteenth street house is too modest to be accepted as the one and only monument to his memory. [illustration: girard street] the oyster croquette could not have sprung up in a day and triumphed were philadelphia as hide-bound with convention as it is supposed to be. philadelphia is conservative in matters of cookery when conservatism means clinging to its great traditions; it is liberal when liberality means adapting to its own delightful ends the new idea or the new masterpiece. it never ceased to be sure of its materials nor of their variety, the philadelphia market half way between north and south continuing to provide what is best in both: the meats of the finest--the fattest mutton he ever saw, cobbett, though an englishman, found in philadelphia--its fruits and vegetables of the most various, its butter, good darlington butter, famed from one end of the land to the other. and in the preparation of its materials, for the sake of eating better, philadelphians never have hesitated to take their good where they have found it. dishes we prize as the most essentially philadelphian have sometimes the shortest pedigree. why, the ice-cream that is now one of philadelphia's most respected institutions, came so recently that people we, of my generation, knew could remember its coming. on my return to philadelphia, with the advantage the perspective absence gives, i could appreciate more clearly than if i had stayed at home how well philadelphia eats and how nobly it has maintained its old ideals, how nobly accepted new ones. it has not wavered in the practice of eating well and taking pleasure in the eating--the reputation of giving good dinners is, as in my youth, the most highly prized. to quote janvier: "the person who achieves celebrity of this sort in philadelphia is not unlike the seraph who attains eminence in the heavenly choir." but i am conscious of a latitude that would not have been allowed before in the choice of a place to eat them in, and amazed at the number of new dishes. iii the back-building dining-room was the one scene i knew for the feast. if i were a man i could tell a different tale. as a woman i used to hear--all philadelphia women used to hear--of colossal masculine banquets at the philadelphia club and the union league, of revels at the clover club, of fastidious feasts at more esoteric clubs--the state in schuylkill, the fish-house club, and what were the others?--clubs carrying on the great colonial traditions, perpetuating the old colonial punch as zealously as the vestal virgins watched their sacred fire, observing mystic practices in the kitchen, the philadelphia man himself, it was said, putting on the cook's apron, presiding over grills and saucepans, and serving up dishes of such exquisite quality as it has not entered into the mind of mere woman to conceive or to execute: with the true delicacy of the gourmet choosing rather to consecrate his talents to the one perfect dish than to squander them upon many, shrinking as an artist must from the plebeian "groaning-board" of the gluttonous display. to stories of these marvels i listened again and again, but my only knowledge of them is based on hearsay. i would as soon have expected to be admitted to mount athos or to the old chartreuse as to banquets and feasts and revels so purely masculine; to ask for the vote would have seemed less ambitious than to pray for admission. what folly then it would be for me to pretend to describe them! what presumption to affect a personal acquaintance i have not and could not have! into what pitfalls of ignorance would i stumble! it is for the philadelphia man some day to write this particular chapter in the history of philadelphia at table. as to the philadelphia woman at the period of which i speak, she had no clubs. it was not supposed to be good form for her to feast outside of the back-building dining-room. she might relieve her hunger with oysters in jones's dingy little shop, or a plate of ice-cream in sautter's sombre saloon; or, with a boating party in spring or summer, she might go for dinner or supper to one of the restaurants in the park. but for more serious entertaining, home, or her friends' home, was the place. not that she was, as the fragile, fainting angelina type once admired, too ethereal to think of food and drink. she could order and eat a luncheon, or a dinner, with the best, though she did not do the marketing or make the mayonnaise. but she would rather have gone without food than defy the unwritten philadelphia law. [illustration: the union league, from broad and chestnut streets] now philadelphia has changed all that. the wise remain faithful to the back-building dining-room and, within its grave and tranquil walls, on its substantial leather-covered chairs, stuart's washington looking down from his place above the mantelpiece, they continue to feast with a luxury lucullus might have envied. fashion, however, drives the less wise to more frivolous scenes. i never thought to see the day when i should, in philadelphia, lunch at a large, well-appointed, luxurious woman's club, when i should be invited to feast at the union league--my lunch there was one of the most extraordinary of all my extraordinary experiences on my return to philadelphia--when the cloth for my dinner would be laid in a big, gay, noisy, crowded country club--and yet the miracle had been worked in my absence and i saw not the day, but the many days when these things happened. not only this. in clubs and country clubs a degree of privacy is still assured. but it is a degree too much, to judge from the way philadelphia rushes to lunch, and dine, and drink the tea it does not want at five o'clock, in hotels and restaurants: our little secluded oyster saloons exchanged for dazzling lunch counters, the spruce and pine and walnut street house that could not be except in philadelphia deserted for the ritz and the bellevue that might be in new york or chicago, paris or london, vienna or rome. the old fashion was to celebrate the feast in cloistered seclusion, to let none intrude who was not bidden to share it. now the fashion is to cry out and summon the mob and the multitude to gaze upon philadelphia feasting. i know that this is in a measure the result of a change that is not peculiar to philadelphia alone. all the world to-day, wherever you go, dines in public--the modern dives must always dine where his lazarus cannot possibly mistake the gate. but i could not have believed that philadelphia would come to it--that philadelphia would step out from the sanctuary into the market-place and proclaim to the passer-by the luxury he had once so scrupulously kept to himself. iv nor is the feast quite what it was, though this is not because it has lost, but rather because it has gained. i trembled on my return lest the old gods be fallen. my first visit after long years away was one of a few hours only. i ran over from new york to lunch with old friends. there was a horrid moment of bewilderment when i stepped from the pennsylvania station into a street where i ought to have been at home and was not, and this made me dread that at the luncheon the change would be more overwhelming. certain things belong to, are a part of, certain places that can never be the same without them. i met a frenchman the other day in london, who had not been there for ten years, and who was in despair because at no hotel or restaurant could he find a gooseberry or an apple tart. they were not dishes of which he was warmly enamoured; no frenchman could be; but a london shorn of gooseberry and apple tarts was not the london he had known. the dread of the same disillusionment was in my heart as i drew near my luncheon, more serious in my case because the things i did not want to lose were too good to lose. but my dread was wasted. broad street might have changed, but not the chicken salad with the philadelphia dash of mustard in the mayonnaise, not the croquettes though augustine had gone, not the ice-cream rising before me in the splendid pyramid of my childhood with the solid base of the coffee ice-cream i had never gone to sautter's without ordering. and i knew that hope need not be abandoned when i was assured that, though sautter's have opened a big new place on chestnut street, where a long _menu_ disputes the honours with their one old masterpiece, it is to the gloomy store in the retirement of broad and locust that the philadelphia woman, who gives a dinner, sends for her ice-cream. these things were unaltered--they are unalterable. all the old friends reappeared at the breakfasts, luncheons and dinners that followed in the course of the longer visit when, not the fatted calf, but the fatted shad, soft-shell crab, fried oyster, squab--how the name mystified my friend, george steevens, though he had but to open an old english cookery book in my collection to know that in england, before he was born, a squab was a young pigeon--broiled chicken, cinnamon bun, little round cakes with white icing on top, were prepared for the prodigal. but there were other dishes, other combinations new to me: grape fruit had come in during my absence, though long enough ago to have reached england in the meanwhile; also the fashion of serving shad and asparagus together, the _dernier cri_ of the philadelphia epicure, though--may i admit it now as i have not dared to before?--a combination in which i thought two delicate flavours were sacrificed, one to the other. and there were amazing combinations in the salads, daring, strange, unphiladelphian, calling for the french dressing for which my philadelphia had small use. i so little liked the new sign of the new sundae at the new popular lunch-counter and druggist's that, with true philadelphia prejudice, i never sampled it. and there were other innovations i would need to write a cookery book to exhaust--sometimes successful, sometimes not, but with no violation of the canons of the art in which philadelphia has ever excelled. in every experiment, every novelty, the motive, if not the result, was sound. for this reason i have no fear for the future of philadelphia cookery, if only it has the courage not to succumb unreservedly to cold storage. the changes may be many, but philadelphia knows how to sift them, retaining only those that should be retained, for beneath them all is the changelessness that is the foundation of art. chapter xviii: philadelphia after a quarter of a century i i confess to a good deal of emotion as the train slowed up in the pennsylvania station, and i think i had a right to it. it is not every day one comes home after a quarter of a century's absence, and at the first glance everything was so bewilderingly home-like. not that i had not had my misgivings as the train neared philadelphia. from the car windows i had seen my old convent at torresdale transformed beyond recognition, many new stations with new names by the way, rows and rows of houses where i remembered fields, philadelphia grown almost as big as london to get into, a new, strange, unbelievable sky-line to the town, the bridges multiplied across the schuylkill--change after change where i should have liked to find everything, every house, field, tree, blade of grass even, just as i had left it. but what change there might be in the station kept itself, for the moment anyway, discreetly out of sight. for all the difference i saw, i might have been starting on the journey that had lasted over a quarter of a century instead of returning from it. this made the shock the greater when, just outside in market street, i was met by a company of mounted policemen. it is true they were there to welcome not me, but the president of the united states who was due by the next train, and were supported by the city troop, as indispensable a part of my philadelphia as the sky over my head and the bricks under my feet; true also that, well-uniformed, well-mounted, well-groomed as they were, i felt they would be a credit to any town. but the shock was to find them there at all. philadelphia in my day could not have run, or would not have wanted to run, to anything so officially imposing; that it could and did now was a warning there was no mistaking. whatever philadelphia might have developed, or deteriorated, into, it was not any longer the philadelphia i had known and loved. it was the same sort of warning all the way after that. wherever i went, wherever i turned, i stumbled upon an equally impossible jumble of the familiar and the unfamiliar. at times, i positively ached with the joy of finding places so exactly as i remembered them that i caught myself saying, just here "this" happened, or "that," as i and my youth met ourselves; at others i could have cried for the absurdity, the tragedy, of finding everything so different that never in a foreign land had i seemed more hopelessly a foreigner. [illustration: broad street station] i did not have to go farther than my hotel for a reminder that philadelphia, to oblige me, had not stood altogether still during my quarter of a century's absence, but had been, and was, busy refashioning itself into something preposterously new. from one of my high windows i might look down to the philadelphia library and the episcopal academy,--those two bulwarks of philadelphia respectability--and beyond, stretching peacefully away to the peaceful curves of the delaware, to a wide plain of flat red roofs and chimneys, broken by the green lines of the trees that follow the straight course of philadelphia's streets and by the small green spaces of the trees that shade philadelphia's back-yards: level and lines and spaces i knew as well as a lesson learnt by heart. but, from the midst of this red plain of roofs, huge high buildings, like towers, that i did not know, sprang up into the blue air, increasing in number as my eye wandered northward until, from the other window, i saw them gathered into one great, amazing, splendid group with william penn, in full-skirted coat and broad-brimmed hat, springing still higher above them. when i went down into the streets, i might walk for a minute or two between rows of the beloved old-fashioned red brick houses, with their white marble steps and their white shutters below and green above, and then, just as exultantly i began to believe them changeless as the pyramids and the sphinx, i would come with a jar upon a gothic gable, an absurd turret, a renaissance doorway, a faã§ade disfigured by a hideous array of fire escapes, a sham colonial house, or some other upstart that dated merely from yesterday or the day before. and here and there a sky-scraper of an apartment house swaggered in the midst of the little "homes" that were philadelphia's pride--the last new one, to my dismay, rearing its countless stories above the once inviolate enclosure of rittenhouse square. when i went shopping in chestnut street my heart might rejoice at the sight of some of the well remembered names--dreka, darlington, bailey, caldwell, as indispensable in my memory as that of penn himself--but it sank as quickly in the vain search for the many more that have disappeared, or indeed, for the whole topsy-turvy order of things that could open the big new department stores into market street and make it the rival of chestnut as a shopping centre, or that could send other stores up to where stores had never ventured in my day: stores in walnut street as high as eighteenth, a milliner's in locust street almost under the shadow of st. mark's, a stock-broker at the corner of fifteenth and walnut, hughes and mã¼ller--i need tell no philadelphian who hughes and mã¼ller are even if they have unkindly made two firms of the old one--within a stone's throw of dr. weir mitchell's house; when i saw that i felt that sacrilege could go no further. [illustration: wanamaker's] for sentiment's sake, i might eat my plate of ice-cream at the old little marble-topped table in the old locust street gloom at sautter's, or buy cake at dexter's at the old corner in spruce street, but mrs. burns with her ice-cream, jones with his fried oysters, had vanished, gone away in the _ewigkeit_ as irrevocably as hans breitmann's barty or the snows of yester-year. and wyeth's and hubbell's masqueraded under other names, and shinn, from whom we used to buy our medicines, was dead, and the new firm sold cigars with their ice-cream sodas, and my philadelphia was stuffed with saw-dust. not a theatre was as i had left it, new ones i had never heard of drawing the people who used to crowd the chestnut, which has rung down its curtain on the last act of its last play even as i write; the arch, given over now, alas! to the "movies" and the "movies" threaten the end of the drama not only at the arch but at all theatres forever; well-patronized houses flourishing in north broad street; the staid academy of music thrown into the shadow by its giddy prosperous upstart of a rival up-town. vanished were old landmarks for which i confidently looked--the united states mint from chestnut street; from broad and walnut the old yellow dundas house with the garden and the magnolia for whose blossoming i had once eagerly watched with the coming of spring; from thirteenth and locust the old paterson house, turned into the new, imposing, very much criticised building of the historical society of pennsylvania; from eleventh and spruce, that other garden overlooked by the windows of the house my grandfather built and lived in, as my father did after him, and, to me more cruel, the house itself passed into other hands, grown shabby with time, and the sign "for sale" hanging on its neglected walls. change, change, change--that was what i had come home for! ii i am not sure, however, that i had not the worst shock of all when i wandered from the old home, further down spruce street, below the beautiful eighteenth century hospital, dishonoured now and shut in on the spruce street side by i hardly know what in the way of new wings and wards. as i had left it, this lower part of spruce and pine and the neighbouring streets, had changed less perhaps than any other part of the town--has changed less to-day in mere bricks and mortar. it had preserved the appropriate background for its inheritance of history and traditions. numerous colonial houses remained and upon them those of later date were modelled. it had kept also the serenity and repose of the quaker city's early days, the character, dignity, charm. many old philadelphia families had never moved away. it was clean as a little dutch town with nothing to interrupt the quiet but the gentle jingling of the occasional leisurely horse-car. [illustration: st. peter's churchyard] and what did i find it?--a slum, captured by the russian jew, the old houses dirty, down-at-the-heel; the once spotless marble steps unwashed, the white shutters hanging loose; the decorative old iron hinges and catches and insurance plaques or badges rusting, and nobody can say how much of the old woodwork inside burned for kindling; yiddish signs in the windows, with here a jewish maternity home, and there a jewish newspaper office; at every door, almost every window, and in groups in the street, men, women and children with oriental faces, here and there a man actually in his caftan, bearded, with the little curls in front of his ears, and a woman with a handkerchief over her head, and all chattering in yiddish and slatternly and dirty as i remembered them in south-eastern europe, from carlsbad and prague to those remote villages of transylvania where dirt was the sign by which i always knew when the jewish quarter was reached. a few patriotic philadelphians have recently returned hoping to stem the current, and their houses shine with cleanliness. in fourth street the dignified randolph house, which the family never deserted, seems to protest against the wholesale surrender to the foreign invasion. in pine street, st. peter's, with its green graveyard, has survived untarnished the surrounding desecration. but i could only wonder how long the church and these few houses will be able to withstand the triumphing alien, and i abandoned hope when, at the very gate of st. peter's, a woman with a handkerchief tied over her head stopped me to ask the way to "_zweit und pine_." iii i know that the same thing is going on in almost all the older parts of the united states, and the new parts too--i know that some small new england towns can support their two and three polish newspapers, that new york swarms with people who talk any and every language under the sun except english, and can boast, if it is a thing to boast of, more italians than rome, more jews than jerusalem; that san francisco has its chinatown, that the middle west abounds in german and swedish settlements--in a word, i know that everywhere throughout the country, the native american is retreating before this invasion of the alien. but it is with a certain difference in philadelphia. have i not said that one of the absurdities of my native town--i can afford to call them absurdities because i love them--is that for the philadelphian who looks upon himself as the real philadelphian, philadelphia lies between the delaware and the schuylkill, and is bounded on the north by market street, on the south by lombard; that in the ancient rhyming list of its streets he recognizes only the line: "chestnut, walnut, spruce, and pine"? now, when i left home this narrow section was threatening to grow too narrow and it was with some difficulty the philadelphian kept within it. up till then, however, it was in no danger except from his own increasing numbers. the tragedy is that the russian jew should have descended upon just this section, should now, not so much dispute it with him, as oust him from it--the russian jew, a jew by religion but not by race, who has been found impossible in every country on the continent of europe into which he has drifted, so impossible when that country is holland that the jews who have been there for centuries collect among themselves the money to send him post haste on to england and poor america, for even the dutch jew cannot stand the russian jew--and, from what i have heard, neither can the decent pennsylvania jew who has been with us almost from the beginning. other aliens have been more modest and set up their slums where they interfere less with philadelphia tradition. i cannot understand, and nobody has been able to explain to me, why the russian jew was allowed to push his way in. but the indolent never see the thin end of the wedge, and there are philanthropists whose philanthropy for the people they do not know increases in direct proportion to the harm it does to those they do know. i was told more than once to consider what philadelphia was doing for the russian jew, to remember that he has paid america the compliment of accepting it as the promised land, that his race in america has produced mary antin, and to see for myself what good americans were being made of his children. but though philadelphia may one day blossom like the rose with mary antins, though there might have been an incipient patriot in every one of the small russian jews i met being taken in batches across independence square to independence hall to imbibe patriotism at the fount, i could not help considering rather what the russian jew is just now doing for philadelphia. for it is as plain as a pipe stem to anybody with eyes to see that the philadelphians to whom philadelphia originally belonged are being pushed by the russian jew out of the only part of it they care to live in. [illustration: city hall from the schuylkill] i wondered at first why so many people had fled to the country, why so many signs "for sale" or "for rent" were to be seen about spruce and pine and walnut streets. various reasons were given me:--with the law courts now in the centre of the town and the new stock exchange at broad and walnut, and stores everywhere, nobody could live in town; the noise of the trolleys is unbearable; the dirt of the city is unhealthy; soft coal has made philadelphia grimier than london; the motor has destroyed distance;--excellent reasons, all of them. but it was not until i discovered the russian jew that i understood the most important. it is the russian jew who, with an army of aliens at his back--thousands upon thousands of italians, slavs, lithuanians, a fresh emigration of negroes from the south, and statistics alone can say how many other varieties--is pushing and pushing philadelphians out of the town--first up spruce street, nearer and nearer to the schuylkill, then across the schuylkill into the suburbs, eventually to be swept from the suburbs into the country, until who can say where there will be any room for them at all? with the russian jew's genius for adapting himself to american institutions, i could fancy him taking possession of, and adding indefinitely to, the little two-story houses that already stretch in well-nigh endless rows to the west and the north, germantown and west philadelphia built over beyond recognition. i remember when, one day in a trolley, i had gone for miles and miles between these rows--each little house with the same front yard, the same porch, the same awning, the same rocking-chairs--i had a horrible waking nightmare in which i saw them multiplying--as the alien himself multiplied beyond the most ardent dreams of mr. roosevelt,--and creeping out further and further, across the city limits, across the state, across the middle west, across the prairies, across the rockies, across the sierras, until at last they joined east to west in one unbroken line--one great, unbroken, unlovely monument to the enterprise of the new american, and the philanthropy of the old: while only the russian jew at the door of the state house, like macaulay's new zealander under the shadow of st. paul's, remained to muse and moralize on the havoc he had wrought. [illustration: chestnut street bridge] this may seem a trifle fantastic, but i should find it hard to give an idea of how impossibly fantastic the prevailing presence of the alien in philadelphia appeared to me. to be sure, we had our aliens a quarter of a century ago. but they were mostly irish, germans, swedes. the italian at his fruit-stall was as yet rather the picturesque exception, and i can remember how, not very long before i left home, the whole town went to stare at the first importation of russian jews, dumped down under i have forgotten what shelter, as if they were curiosities or freaks from barnum's. but now the aliens are mostly latins, slavs, orientals who do not fit so unobtrusively into our american scheme of things, and who come from the lowest classes in their own countries, so ignorant and degraded most of them that, what with their increasing numbers and our new negro population from the south, there are people in pennsylvania who are trying to introduce an educational test at the polls--america having learned the evil of universal suffrage just as england is coquetting with it. iv the rest of philadelphia--the rest of america, for that matter--may be accustomed to this new emigration to my town as well as to all parts of the country. but i had not seen the latter-day alien coming in by every steamer, and gradually, almost imperceptibly, establishing himself. the advantage, or disadvantage, of staying away from home so long is that, on returning, one gets the net result of the change the days and the years bring with them. those who stay at home are broken in to the change in its initial stages and can accept the result as a matter of course. i could not. to be honest, i did not like it. i did not like to find philadelphia a foreign town. i did not like to find streets where the name on almost every store is italian. i did not like to find the new types of negro, like savages straight from the heart of africa some of them looked, who are disputing south street and lombard street and that disgraceful bit of locust street with the decent, old-fashioned, self-respecting philadelphia darkies. i did not like to find the people with foreign manners--for instance, to have my hand kissed for a tip in the hotel by a lithuanian chambermaid, though i should add that in a month she had grown american enough to accept the same tip stoically with a bare "thank you." i did not like to find the foreigner forcing his way not only into the philadelphian's houses, the philadelphian's schools, the philadelphian's professions--professions that have been looked upon as the sacred right of certain philadelphia families for almost a couple of centuries. i have heard all about his virtues, nobody need remind me of them; i know that he is carrying off everything at the university so that rich jews begin to think they should in return make it a gift or bequest, as no rich jew has yet, i believe. i know that the young philadelphian must give up his sports and his gaieties if he can hope to compete with the young russian jew who never allows himself any recreation on the road to success--and perhaps this won't do the young philadelphian any harm. i know that if the russian jew keeps on studying law, the philadelphia lawyer will be before long as extinct as the dodo--a probability that if it wakes up the philadelphia lawyer may have its uses. all this, and much besides, i know--also, incidentally, i might add the fact that the russian jew, who is not unintelligent, has mastered in a very short time the possibilities of arson and bankruptcy as investments. but if there were no other side to his virtues--and of course there is that other side too--i should not like to think of the new philadelphian that is to come out of this incredible mixture of russian jews and countless other aliens as little like us in character and tradition. the new philadelphian may be a finer creature far than in my hopes for him, finer far than the old philadelphian i have known--but then he will not be that old philadelphian whom i do not want to lose and whom it would be a pity to lose in a country for which, ever since penn pointed the way to the constitution of the united states, he has probably accomplished more than any other citizen. personally, i might as well say that i do not believe he will be a finer creature. it seems to me that he is doing away with the old american idea of levelling up and is bent on the levelling down process that is going on all over europe. and so foreign is he making us, that i would not think j. very far wrong in declaring himself the only real american left, if only he would include me with him. [illustration: the narrow street] chapter xix: philadelphia after a quarter of a century--continued i it was not only the change that oppressed me those first days of my return. as bewildering, as discouraging, were the signs everywhere of the horrible haste with which it has been brought about: a haste foreign to the philadelphia habit. but the aliens pouring into philadelphia have increased its population at such a prodigious rate that it has been obliged to grow too prodigiously fast to meet or to adapt itself to the new conditions without the speed that does not belong to it. i had left it a big, prosperous, industrial town--baldwin's, cramp's, kensington and germantown mills all in full swing--but it carried off its bigness, prosperity, and industry with its old demure and restful airs of a country town. the old-fashioned, hard-working, philadelphia business man could still dine at four o'clock and spend the rest of the afternoon looking out of the window for the people who rarely passed and the things that never happened--nobody would be free to dine at four now-a-days, nobody would have the leisure to sit at any hour looking out of the window, except perhaps the philadelphia clubman who clings to that amiable pastime, as he does, so far successfully, to his club house, threatened on every side as it is by the advance of the sky-scraper. the old-fashioned busy philadelphia crowds, as i remember them, could still take their time in the streets, so that i remember, too, my friend, george steevens' astonishment because a passer-by he thanked for information could linger to say "you are very welcome." the old-fashioned philadelphia business, going on at a pace that only new york and chicago could beat, was still accomplished with so little fuss that the rest of america laughed at philadelphia for its slowness and sleepiness, and told those old time-worn stories that have passed into folk-lore. it was just this that gave philadelphia such a distinct character of its own--that it could be laughed at for slowness and sleepiness by the other towns, and all the while be sleepy and slow to such good purpose as to make itself into one of the most prosperous and influential in the country: to be able to work at the american pace and yet preserve its dignity and sedateness. but the old stories have lost what little point they had. philadelphia does not look slow and sleepy any longer. things have changed, indeed, when a modern traveller like mr. arnold bennett can speak of "spacious gaiety" in connection with philadelphia--with its spacious dulness the earlier traveller was more apt to be impressed. at last, however, it has given up its country-town airs for the airs of the big town it is--given up the calmness that was its chief characteristic for the hurry-flurry of the ordinary american town. and there is scarcely a philadelphian who regrets it, that is the saddest part of it--scarcely a philadelphian who does not rejoice that philadelphia is getting to be like new york. [illustration: the market street elevated at the delaware end] i think, of all the innovations, this was the one that distressed me most, though i could understand the difficulty of calm in the face of the multitude of new housing and traffic problems it has had to tackle, at a rate and with a speed that the philadelphian, left to himself, would never have imposed upon it. somehow, it has had to keep on putting up those rows of little two-story houses in sufficient numbers to shelter the too rapidly increasing population if it is to maintain its reputation as the city of homes; somehow, it has had to provide subways, and elevateds, and new suburban lines with no level crossings, and new central stations and terminals, and big trolley cars out of all proportion to philadelphia's narrow streets, and taxis too dear for any but the millionaire to drive in, if the too-rapidly increasing crowds are to be got to work and back again; somehow, new bridges have had to cross the schuylkill, new streets have had to be laid out, so many new things have had to be begun and done in the too-rapidly growing town, that there is small chance and less time for it to take them calmly or, alas! to keep itself clean and tidy. ii in my memory philadelphia was a model of cleanliness under a clean sky, free of the smoke that the use of soft coal has brought with it. every saturday every servant girl--"maid," philadelphia calls her now--turned out with mops and buckets and hose, for such a washing up of the front for a week that, until the next saturday, philadelphia could not look dirty if it tried. but i do not believe that a legion of servant girls, with all the mops, buckets, and hose in the world, could ever wash philadelphia clean again, to such depths of dirt has it fallen. it could not have been more of a disgrace to its citizens when franklin deplored the shocking condition of its streets, especially in wet weather, or when washington had to wade through mud to get to the theatre where he found his recreation. it has become actually the filthydelphia somebody once called it in jest. not even in the little spanish and italian towns whose dirt the american deplores, have i seen such streets--all rivers and pools and lakes when it rains, ankle-deep in dust when it is dry, papers flying loose, corners choked with dirt, tins of ashes and garbage standing at the gutter side all day long--even london, that i used to think the dirtiest of dirty towns, knows how to order its garbage better than that. we americans are supposed to be long-suffering, to endure almost anything until the crisis comes. but i thought that crisis had long since come in the philadelphia streets. everybody agreed with me, and i was assured that a corrupt government having been got out and a reform government got in, already there was tremendous talk of schemes for garbage--bags to be hauled off full of garbage, dust-tight on the way, and hauled back empty, old paper to be bought up by the city so that no thrifty citizen would throw a scrap of paper into the street--and as tremendous talk of experiments in garbage, ten patriotic citizens promising to contribute one thousand dollars each to make them. i was assured also that the reform mayor has done his best and struggled valiantly against the evil, but unfortunately it is not he alone who can vote the money for a wholesale spring-cleaning. it occurred to me that, in the meanwhile, we might be better off if we returned with much less expense, to the hogs that were "the best of scavengers" when william cobbett visited philadelphia. or, at no more than the cost of a ticket to new york, the reformers might at least learn how to keep garbage tins off the front steps of inoffensive, tax-paying citizens at five o'clock in the afternoon when they ask their friends to drink tea in that english fashion which is as novel in my philadelphia as the difficulty with the garbage. [illustration: the railroad bridges at falls of schuylkill] my own opinion was that philadelphia had lost its head over the magnitude of the task before it. in no other way could i account for the recklessness with which old streets were torn up for blocks and repaired by inches; new streets built and horrible stagnant pools left on their outskirts--the suburbs quite as bad in this respect, so bad that i understand associations of citizens are formed to do what the authorities don't seem able to; boulevards planned and held up when half finished, a monumental entrance designed to the most beautiful park in the world and, on its either side, silly little wooden pergolas set up to try the effect, by the dethroned government i believe, and, though nobody, from one end of the town to the other, approves, neither the time nor the money is found to pull them down again--neither the time nor the money found for anything but dirt and untidiness. iii the people, their manners, their life,--everything seemed to me to have been caught in this mad whirlwind of change and haste. the crowds in the street were not the same, had forgotten the meaning of repose and leisureliness; had at last given in to the american habit of leaving everything until the last moment and then rushing when there was no occasion for rush, and pretending to hustle so that not one man or woman i met could have spared a second to say "you are welcome" for anybody's "thank you," or, for that matter, to provide the information for anybody's thanks;--indeed, these crowds seemed to me to have mastered their new rã´le with such thoroughness that to-day the visitor from abroad will carry away the same idea of philadelphia as arnold bennett, who, during his sojourn there, never ceased to marvel at its liveliness. [illustration: the parkway pergolas] and the crowds have migrated from the old haunts--every sign of life now gone from third street and round about the stock exchange, where nobody now is ever in a hurry--carts and cars going at snail's pace, the whole place looking as if time did not count--the old town business quarter deserted for market street and broad street round the city hall. and the crowds do not get about in the same way--no slow, leisurely ride in the horse-car to a _depot_ in the wilds of frankford, or at ninth and green, on the way to the suburbs, but a leap on a trolley, or a rush through thronged streets to the _terminal_ at twelfth and market, to the _station_ at broad and market. and it was another sign of how philadelphia had "moved" since the old days when, in place of the old horse-car, which i could rely upon to go in a straight line from one end of the long street to the other, i took the new trolley and it twisted and turned with me until the exception was to arrive just where i expected to, or, if i only stayed in it long enough, not to be landed in some remote country town where i had no intention of going. i have been told the story of the stay-at-home philadelphian as puzzled as i, who was promised by a motorman, as uncertain as she where he was going, that at least he could give her a "nice ride through a handsome part of the town." worse still, the trolley did not stop at the corners where the car used to stop so that i, a native philadelphian, had to be told where to wait for it by an interloper with a foreign accent. nor was it crowded at the same hours as the car used to be, so that going out to dinner in a walnut street trolley i could sit comfortably and not be obliged to hang on to a strap, with everybody who got in or out helping to rub the freshness from my best evening gown, which would have been my fate in the old days. and the crowds were not managed in the old way--the ordinary policeman used to do his best to keep out of sight, and here was the mounted policeman prancing about everywhere, and, at congested corners, adding to the confusion by filling up what little space the overgrown trolleys left in the narrow streets. i am not sure that it was not this mounted policeman--unless it was the coloured policemen and the coloured postmen--i had most difficulty in getting accustomed to. i came upon him every day, or almost every hour, with something of a new shock. can this be really i, i would say to myself when i saw him in his splendour, can this be really philadelphia? iv the difference i deplored was not confined to the crowds i did not know; it was no less marked in the people i did know, in their standards and outlook, in the way they lived. it is hard to say what struck me most, though nothing more obviously the first few days than that flight to the suburbs which had left such visible proofs as those signs "for rent" and "for sale" everywhere in the streets where i was most at home--a flight necessitated perhaps by the inroads of the alien, but only made possible by the annihilation of space due to the motor-car. [illustration: market street west of the schuylkill] once, when a philadelphian set up a carriage, it was the announcement to philadelphia that he had earned the fifty thousand dollars which fulfilled his ideal of a fortune. in my day fairman rogers' four-in-hand was the limit, and but few philadelphians had the money and the recklessness to rival him. now the philadelphian does not have to earn anything at all before he sets up his motor-car, and it is the announcement of nothing except that he is bound to keep in the swim. our children begin where we leave off, as one of my contemporaries said to me. everybody has a motor-car. everybody who can has one in london, i know, and there also the signs "to let" and "for sale" in such regions as kensington and bayswater have for some time back explained to me the way it has turned london life upside down. but in philadelphia not merely everybody who can, but everybody who can't has one, and the philadelphian would not do without it, if he had to mortgage his house as its price. i remember how incredulous i was, one of my first sunday evenings at home, when i was dining with friends in the crowded-to-suffocation dining-room at the bala country club and was given as an excuse for being rushed from my untasted coffee to catch an inconsiderately early last train, that ours was probably the only dinner party in the room without a car to take us back to town. but from that evening on i had no chance for incredulity, my own movements beginning to revolve round the motor-car. if i was asked to dinner and lunch at a distance to which nobody would have thought of dragging me by train in the old days, a motor was sent to whirl me out in no time at all. if i went into a far suburb for an afternoon visit, instead of coming soberly back to town on my return ticket, i would take a short cut by flying over half the near country, often in the car of people i had never seen before, as the most convenient route to the hotel. all philadelphia life is regulated by the motor-car. it makes a ball or a tea or a dinner ten miles away as near as one just round the corner was in my time, and so half the gaiety is transferred to the suburbs and the suburban country, and, to my surprise, i found girls still going to dances at midsummer. and the motor has made club life for women indispensable. the woman who comes up to town in her car must have a club, and there is the acorn club in walnut street, the new century, and the college and civic clubs, jointly housed at thirteenth and spruce, and more clubs in other streets, probably, which it was not my privilege to be invited to; all, to judge by the acorn, with luxurious drawing-and dining-and smoking-and dressing-and bed-rooms, and women coming and going as if they had lived in clubs all their lives, when a short quarter of a century before there had not been one for them to see the inside of. and for men and women both, the car has brought within their reach those amazing country clubs that have sprung up in my absence. i had read of country clubs in american novels and short stories, i had seen them on the stage in american plays, but i had never paused to think of them as realities in philadelphia until i was actually taken to the bala and huntington valley clubs, and until i ate their admirable dinners--at bala, with the crowds and in the light and to the music that would have made me feel i was in a london restaurant, had it not been for the inevitable cocktail--and until i saw with my own eyes the luxurious houses so comfortably and correctly appointed--even to brass bedroom candlesticks on a table in the second-story hall, just as in an old-fashioned english inn, though as far as i could make out there was excellent electric light everywhere--until i also saw with my own eyes the trim lawns, and gardens, and the wide view over the delicate american landscape, and women in the tennis courts, and the men bringing out their ponies for polo, and the players dotted over the golf course. and whether the country clubs have created the sport or the sport has created the country clubs, i cannot say, but in the increased attention to sport i was confronted with another difference as startling. philadelphia, i know, has always been given to sport. it hunted and raced and fished before time and conscience allowed most of the other colonists in the north the chance to amuse themselves out-of-doors, or indoors either, poor things! and the old sports, barring the least civilized like bull-baiting and cock-fighting, were kept up, and are kept up, and had their clubhouses, which, in some cases, have survived. but, in my time, these sports had been limited to the few who had country houses in the right districts or the leisure for the gentlemanly pursuit of foxes and fishes, and their clubs were primitive compared to the palatial country clubs, whose luxury women now share with men. if you were in the hunting or fishing set, you heard all about it; but if you were not, you heard little enough. but you did not have to be in any set to keep up with the great philadelphia game of cricket, which was popular, exclusive as the players in their team might be--all philadelphia that did not play scrupulously going on the proper occasions to the germantown cricket ground to watch all philadelphia that did. the one alternative as popular was the pastime of rowing, the exclusiveness here in the rowing men's choice among the clubs with the little boating clubhouses on the schuylkill where boats could be stowed. and now? the cricket goes on, as gentlemanly and correct a pastime as ever. and the boating goes on, but with a delightful exclusive old colonial house, for one club at least, hidden in thickets of the park where the stranger might pass within a stone's throw and never discover it, but where the boating party can dine with a privacy and a sumptuousness undreamed of at belmont, where boating parties dined in my young days. and, in addition, time has been prodigal with golf and tennis and polo; women, who had begun tennis in my time, now beginning golf, games which, i might as well admit, i have no use for and can therefore say little about. and i am told that the university foot-ball matches are among the most important and lavishly patronized social functions of the year. and in town is the big racquets club, in a fine new building, big enough to shelter any number of sports besides. and the natatorium, in moving from the unpretentious premises in south broad street, where it has left its old building and name, to the marble palace that was once george w. childs's. oh, the sacrilege! the house where his emperors and princes and lords and authors were entertained,--has converted the swimming lesson into the luxury of sport. and all told, so many, and so exhaustive, and so universal are the provisions for sport that i might have believed the philadelphian had nothing in the world to do, save to invent amusements to help him through his empty hours. [illustration: manheim cricket ground] and, apparently, it is to provide for the same empty hours that those elaborate lunch places have multiplied on chestnut street, some delightful where you feast as only philadelphia can, some horrible where you sit on high stools at counters and fight for your food; that little quiet discreet tea-places have sprung up in side streets; that gilded restaurants, boasting they reproduce the last london fads and fashions, have succeeded the old no restaurant at all; that hotels as big and strident as if they had strayed off fifth avenue increase in number year by year, culminating in the adelphia, the latest giant, which i have not seen; that the old poky hotels of my day have branched out in roof gardens where on hot summer evenings you can sit up among the sky-scrapers, a near neighbour to william penn on his tower, and get whatever air stirs over the red-hot furnace of philadelphia; that a huge new hotel has appeared up broad street where it seems the philadelphian sometimes goes with the feeling of adventure with which he once descended upon logan square. even business hours are broken into; the lunch of a dozen oysters or a sandwich snatched up anywhere has gone out of fashion; the chop, in the philadelphia imitation of a london chop-house that seemed luxurious in my father's day, has become far too simple; and disaster was predicted to me for the stock exchange by a pessimistic member who knew that, from the new building that has followed the courts to the centre of the town, brokers will be running over to lunch at the bellevue and to incapacitate themselves more or less for the rest of the day, and business will go on drifting, as it has begun to, to new york and will all be done by telephone. and as if the feasting were not enough of a pastime, everywhere lunches, teas and dinners are served to the sound of music, so that distraction and diversion may be counted upon without the effort to talk for them. when i was young, the best philadelphia could do in the way of combining music and eating--or principally drinking--was at the mã¤ennerchor garden at ninth and green, where a pretzel might be had with a glass of beer, or a sherry cobbler, or a mint julep--"high-balls" had not been heard of--and the philadelphia girl who went, though it was under the irreproachable charge of her brother, could feel that she was doing something very shocking and compromising. but in the new philadelphia, it is music whenever the philadelphian eats or drinks in public, which seems to be next to always. [illustration: dock street and the exchange] it may be said that these are harmless innovations, part of the change in town life as lived in any other town as big. but the marvel to me was their conquest of philadelphia, the town that used to pride itself on not being like other towns, and there they exaggerated themselves in my eyes into nothing short of revolution. the craving for novelty--that was at the root of it all: of the restlessness, the willingness to do what the old-fashioned philadelphian would rather have been seen dead than caught doing, of the deliberate break with tradition. nothing now can be left peacefully as it was. i felt the foundations of the world crumble when i heard that the dancing class has taken new quarters over in horticultural hall and the assembly in the bellevue, that philadelphia consents to go up broad street for its opera, quieting its conscience by the compromise of going in carriages and motors and never on foot. there surely was the end of the old philadelphia, the real philadelphia. and it made matters no better to be assured that so rapidly does philadelphia move with the times that the philadelphian who stays away from home, or who is in mourning, for a year or so, finds on coming back, or out of retirement, that philadelphia society has been as completely transformed in the meanwhile as philadelphia streets. nor did it make matters better to discover the different prices that different standards have brought in their train. i could see the new pace at which life in public is set, i heard much of the new pace set for it in private--servants' wages prohibitive according to old ways of thinking, provisions risen to a scale beyond belief, every-day existence as dear as in london--in philadelphia, as elsewhere, people threatened with ruin from, not the high cost of living, but the cost of high living. v and the change is not simply in the outward panoply, in the parade of life, it is in the point of view, in the new attitude toward life--a change that impressed itself upon me in a thousand and one ways. i have already referred to my astonishment at finding philadelphia occupying itself with art and literature. but really there is nothing with which it does not occupy itself. universal knowledge has come into fashion and it makes me tired just to think of the struggle to keep up to it. once the philadelphian thought he knew everything that was necessary to know if he could tell you who every other philadelphian's grandfather was. but now he, or i should say she--for it is the women who rule when it comes to fashion--is not content unless she knows everything, or thinks she does, from the first chapter in genesis to the latest novelty on the boulevards, the latest club gossip in pall mall. and how she can talk about it! i have made so many confessions in these pages that it will do no harm to add one more to their number, and to own my discomfiture when, on finding myself one of a group of philadelphia women, i have been stunned into silence, in my ignorance reduced to shame and confusion by their encyclopedic, baedeker-murray information and their volubility in imparting it. it is wonderful to know so much, but, as the philosopher says, what a comfort, to be sure, a dull person may be at times. on the whole, it was the new interest in politics that most astonished me. that just when philadelphia has plunged into incredible frivolity, it should develop an interest in problems it calmly shirked in its days of sobriety--that is astounding if you will. when i left home, politics were still beneath the active interest of the philadelphian--still something to steer clear from, to keep one's hands clean of. a man who would rather live on the public than do an honest day's work, was my father's definition of the politician. i remember what a crank we all thought one of my brother's friends who amused himself by being elected to the common council. it was not at all good form--who of self-respect could so far forget himself as to become part, however humble, of the machine, a hail-fellow-well-met among the bosses and liable to be greeted as bill or tom or jim by the postman on his rounds or the policeman at the corner. better far let the city be abominably governed and the tax-payers outrageously robbed, than to submit to such indignities. the philadelphian who realized what he owed to himself and his position was superior to politics. but he is not any longer. i found him up to his eyes in politics--taking the responsibility of municipal reform, waging war against state corruption, running meetings for roosevelt and progress at the last presidential election. and not only this. the women are sharing his labours--the women who of old hardly knew the meaning of politics, might have been puzzled even to know how to spell the unfamiliar word--they too are busy with civic reform, and turn a watchful but unavailing eye on the garbage, and run settlements in the slums, and qualify as policemen, and demand the vote--parade for it, hold public meetings for it, hob-nob with coloured women for it, run after the discredited english militant for it,--and talk politics on any and every occasion. there were days when i heard nothing but politics--politics at lunch, politics at tea, politics at dinner--think of it! politics at a philadelphia dinner party, politics over the soft shell crabs and the shad and the broiled chicken and the ice-cream from sautter's and the madeira! it is better and wiser and more improving, no doubt, than the old vapid talk--but then the old vapid talk was part of my philadelphia, and my philadelphia was what i wanted to come back to. [illustration: the locomotive yard, west philadelphia] chapter xx: philadelphia after a quarter of a century--continued i of course i resented all the changes and, equally of course, it was unreasonable that i should. i had not stood stock still for a quarter of a century, why should i expect philadelphia to? and little by little, as i got my breath again after my first indignant surprise, as i pulled myself together after my first series of shocks, i began to understand that the wonder was that anything should be left, and to see that philadelphia has held on to enough of its character and beauty to impress the stranger, anyway, with the fine serenity that i missed at every turn. philadelphia does not "bristle," henry james wrote of it a very few years ago, by which he meant that it does not change, is incapable of changing, though to me it was, in this sense, so "bristling" that i tingled all over with the pricks. but, then, i knew what philadelphia had been. that was why i was impressed first with the things that had changed, why, also, my pleasure was the keener in my later discovery of the things that had not. i can laugh now at myself for my joy in all sorts of dear, absurd trifles simply because of their homely proof that the new philadelphia had saved some relics of the old. what they stood for in my eyes gave value to the little iced cakes of my childhood; to the frequent street parade, glorified as it was beyond recognition by the new presence of the mounted police; to the city troop, gorgeous and splendid as of old, and as of old turning out to decorate every public ceremony; to the nice old-fashioned "ma'am," unheard in england except, i believe, at court; to all the town, including my hotel, getting ready for the summer with matting and gauze and grey holland. old associations, old emotions, were stirred by the fragrance of the cinnamon bun that is never so fragrant out of philadelphia, and one of the cruelest disappointments of my return was not to be able to devour it with the untrammelled appetite of youth when it was offered me in an interval between the soft-shell crab and ice-cream of a philadelphia lunch and the planked shad and broiled chicken of a philadelphia dinner. the row of heads at the philadelphia club windows, so embarrassing to me in my youth, borrowed beauty from association. i was thrilled by the decanter of sherry or madeira on the dinner table, where i had not seen it served in solitary grandeur since i had last dined in philadelphia. the old rough kindliness of the people--when they were not aliens--in the streets, in the stores, in the trolleys, went to my heart. and in larger ways, too, the place filled me with pride for its constancy: for the steady development of all that made it great from the beginning--its schools, its charities, its hospitals, its libraries, its galleries; above all, for retaining what it could of its dignified reticence in keeping its private affairs to itself. it may live more in public than it did, but it still does not shriek all its secrets from the house-top. it does not thrust all its wealth down every man's throat. it still hides many of its luxurious private palaces behind modest brick fronts. it may have broken out in gaudy hotels and restaurants, but friends still continue to go their peaceful way completely apart in their spacious houses and pleasant gardens. nor would any other town be so shy in acknowledging to itself, and boasting to others of, its beauty. [illustration: the girard trust company] ii philadelphia has always been over-modest as to its personal appearance,--always on the surface, indifferent to flattery. nobody would suspect it of ever having heard that to a philosopher like voltaire it was, without his seeing it, one of the most beautiful cities in the universe, that a matter-of-fact traveller like william cobbett thought it a fine city from the minute he knew it, that all the old travel-writers had a compliment for it, and all the new travellers as well, down to li hung chang, who described it felicitously as "one of the most smiling of cities"--the "place of a million smiles." it was not because it had ceased to be beautiful that it assumed this indifference. as i recall it in my youth, it was beautiful with the beauty philadelphians searched europe for, while they were busy destroying it at home--the beauty that life in england has helped me to appreciate as i never did before, for it has given me a standard i had not when i knew only philadelphia. judged by this standard, i found philadelphia in its old parts more beautiful than i remembered it. in a street like clinton, which has escaped the wholesale destruction, or in a block here and there in other streets less fortunate, i felt as i never had before the austere loveliness of their red brick and white marble and pleasant green shade. as never before i realized the eighteenth-century perfection of the old state house and carpenter's hall. i know of no english building of the same date that has the dignity, the harmonious proportions, the restrained ornament of the state house,--none with so noble a background of stately rooms for those stately figures who were the makers of history in philadelphia. and the old churches came as a new revelation. i questioned if i ever could have thought an english cathedral in its close lovelier than red brick st. peter's in its walled graveyard on a spring day, with the green in its first freshness and the great wide-spreading trees throwing soft shadows over the grassy spaces and the grey crumbling gravestones. the pleasure it gave me positively hurt when--after walking in the filth of front street, where the old houses are going to rack and ruin and where a jew in his praying shawl at the door of a small, shabby synagogue seemed the explanation of the filth--i came upon the little green garden of a graveyard round the old swedes' church, sweet and still and fragrant in the may sunshine, though the windows of a factory looked down upon it to one side, and out in front, on the railroad tracks, huge heavy freight cars rattled and rumbled and shrieked by, and beyond them rose the steam stacks of steamers from antwerp and liverpool that unload at its door the hordes of aliens who not only degrade, but "impoverish" philadelphia, as the irish porter in my hotel said to me. and what pleasure again, after the walk full of memories along front and second streets, with the familiar odours and philadelphia here quiet as of yore, to come upon christ church a part of the street like any french cathedral and not in its own little green, but with a greater architectural pretension to make up for it, and with a gravestone near the sanctuary to testify that john penn, one at least of the penn family, lies buried in philadelphia. and what greater pleasure in the old meeting houses--why had i not known, in youth as in age, their tranquil loveliness?--what repose there, down arch street, in that small simple brick building, with its small simple green, one bed of tulips at the door, shut off from the noise and confusion and dirt and double trolley lines of arch street by the old high brick wall; and no less in that equally small and simple brick building in south twelfth street, an old oasis, or resting place, in a new wilderness of sky-scrapers. with these churches and meeting-houses standing, can philadelphians deplore the ugliness of their town? [illustration: twelfth street meeting house] and the old eighteenth-century houses? would i find them as beautiful? i asked myself. would they survive as triumphantly the test of my travelled years and more observant eyes? how foolish the question, how unnecessary the doubt! more beautiful all of them, because my eyes were better trained to appreciate their architectural merit; more peaceful all of them, with the feeling of peace so intense i wondered whether it came of the colonial architecture or of associations with it. germantown may be built up beyond recognition, its lanes, many of them, turned into streets for no reason the average man can see, but some of the big old estates, are still green and untouched as if miles away, and the old houses are more guarded than ever from change. one by one, i returned to them:--stenton restored, but as yet so judicially that logan would to-day feel at home in its halls and rooms, on its stairway, outside by the dovecote and the wistaria-covered walls,--at home in the garden full of tulips and daisies, and old familiar philadelphia roses and johnny-jump-ups, enclosed by hedges, every care taken to plant in it afresh just the blossoms he loved. but what would he have said to the factories opposite? to the rows of little two-story houses creeping nearer and nearer? and the chew house--could the veterans of the revolution return to it, as the veterans of the civil war return every year to gettysburg, how well they would know their way in the garden, how well, in the wide-pillared hall with the old portraits on the white wall, and in the rooms with their eighteenth-century panelling and cornices and fire-places, and in the broad hall upstairs could they follow the movements of the enemy that lost for them the battle of germantown? and wyck white, cloistered, vine-laden, with fragrant garden and shade-giving trees! and the johnson house, and the wistar house, and the morris house. and how many other old houses beyond germantown! solitude, and laurel hill, and arnold's mansion in the park, bartram's at gray's ferry. [illustration: wyck] i thought first i would not put bartram's to the test, no matter how bravely the others came out of it--bartram's, associated with the romance of work and the dawn of my new life. but how glad i am that i thought twice and went back to it! for i found it beautiful as ever, though i could reach it by trolley, and though it was unrecognizably spick and span in the little orchard, and under the labelled trees, and by the old house and the old stables, and in the garden where gardeners were at work among the red roses. but the disorder has not been quite done away with in the wilderness below the garden, and there was the bench by the river, and there the outlook up and down--had so many chimneys belched forth smoke and had the smoke been as black on the opposite bank, up the river, in the old days? certainly there had not been so many ghosts--not one of those that now looked at me with reproachful eyes, asking me what i had done with the years, for which such ambitious plans had been made on that very spot ages and ages ago? iii philadelphia is not responsible for the ghosts; they are my affair; but it has made itself responsible for the beauty, not only at bartram's but at as many other of the old places as it has been able to lay claims upon, converting them into what the french would call historic monuments. and philadelphia, with the help of colonial dames, and an automobile club, and those societies and individuals who have learned at last to love the philadelphia monuments though still indifferent to the town, has not been too soon in prescribing the desperate remedies their desperate case demands. in the new care of these old places, as well as in the new devotion to the old names and the old families, in the new keenness for historic meetings and commemorations, in the new local lectures on local subjects and traditions, in the very recent restoration of congress hall, in all this new native civic patriotism i seemed to see philadelphia's desperate, if unconscious, struggle against the modern invader of the town's ancient beauty and traditions. the grown-up aliens who can be persuaded, as i am told they can be, to come and listen to papers on their own section of the town, whether it be southwark, or manayunk, or frankford, or society hill, or the northern liberties, will probably in the end look up the old places and their history for themselves, just as the little aliens will who, in the schools, are given prizes for essays on local history:--offer anything, even a school prize, to a russian jew, and he will labour for it, in this case working indirectly for patriotism. [illustration: the massed sky-scrapers above the housetops] but i am not sure that the greatest good the society of colonial dames is doing is not in emphasizing the value of the past to those who date back to it. it has helped one group of philadelphians to realize that there are other people in their town no less old as philadelphians and more important in the history of philadelphia, what is called society luckily not having taken possession of the colonial dames in philadelphia as in new york. if all who date back see in the age of their families their passport into the aristocracy of philadelphia and therefore of america, they may join together as a formidable force against the advance of the formidable alien. mr. arnold bennett was amused to discover that every bostonian came over in the mayflower, but he does not understand the necessity for the native to hold on like grim death to the family tree--pigmy of a tree as it must seem in europe--if america is to remain american. my one fear is lest this zeal, new to me, is being overdone, for i fancy i see an ill-concealed threat of a new reaction, this time against it. what else does the philadelphian's toying with the cause of the "loyalists" during the revolution and his belated espousal of it mean, unless perhaps the childish anglomania which fashion has imposed upon philadelphia? people are capable of anything for the sake of fashion. the ugliest blot on the history of philadelphia is its running after the british when they were in possession of the town that winter we ought to try to forget instead of commemorating its feasts--that winter when philadelphia danced and washington and his troops starved. now philadelphia threatens another blot as ugly by upholding the citizens who would have kept the british there altogether. however, this is as yet only a threat, philadelphians are too preoccupied in their struggle for survival. iv not only the new patriotism, but the new architecture is colonial. for long after colonial days philadelphia kept to red brick and white facings in town, to grey stone and white porches in germantown, often losing the old dignity and fine proportions, but preserving the unity, the harmony of penn's original scheme, and the repose that is the inevitable result of unity. but there were many terrible breaks before and during my time--breaks that gave us the public buildings and memorial hall and many of the big banks and insurance offices down town, and a long list of regrettable mistakes;--breaks that burdened us with the brown stone period fortunately never much in favour, and the furness period which i could wish had been less in favour so much too lavish was its gift of undesirable originality, and the awful green stone period of which a church here and a big mansion there and substantial buildings out at the university, too substantial to be pulled down for many a day, rise, a solid reproach to us for our far straying from righteousness; breaks that courted and won the admiration of philadelphia for imitations of any and every style that wasn't american, especially if it was english, philadelphia tremendously pleased with itself for the bits borrowed from the english universities and dumped down in its own university and out at bryn mawr, there as unmistakable aliens as our own rhodes scholars are at oxford. [illustration: sunset. philadelphia from across the delaware] but from the moment philadelphia began to look up its genealogy and respect it, the revival of colonial was bound, sooner or later, to follow. it meant a change from which i could not escape, had i deliberately refused to see the many others. i was face to face with it at every step i took, in every direction i went--from the navy yard on league island to the far end of north broad street; from germantown, the old grey stone here returned to its own again, to west philadelphia; from the university where the law school building looks grave and distinguished and genuine in the midst of sham tudor and sham i hardly know what, and deplorable green stone, to the racquets club in town; from the tallest sky-scraper to the smallest workman's dwelling--it was colonial of one sort or another: sometimes with line results, at others with colonial red brick and white facings and colonial gables and colonial columns and colonial porches so abused that, after passing certain colonial abortions repeated by the dozens, the hundreds, the thousands, in rows upon rows of two-story houses, all alike to the very pattern of the awning and the curves of the rocking chair on the invariable porch. i had it in my heart to wish that philadelphia had never heard the word colonial. however, on the whole, more good has been done than harm. the original model is a fine one, it belongs to philadelphia, and in reviving it the philadelphia architect is working along legitimate lines. but even as i write this, i realise that it is not to the revival of colonial that philadelphia owes all its new beauty. indeed, the architecture that has done most for it in its new phase is that from which least would be expected by those who believe in appropriateness or utility as indispensable to architectural beauty. a town that has plenty of space to spread out indefinitely has no reason whatever to spread up in sky-scrapers, and this is precisely what philadelphia has done and, moreover, looks all the better for having done. its sky-scrapers compose themselves with marvellous effectiveness as a centre to the town, though they threaten by degrees to become too scattered to preserve the present composition; they provide an astounding and ever-varying arrangement of towers and spires from neighbouring corners and crossings; they give new interest as a background to some simple bit of old philadelphia, as where wanamaker's rises sheer and high above the little red brick meeting-house in twelfth street; they add to the charm of some ambitious bit of new philadelphia as where the little girard trust building--itself a happy return to standards that gave us girard college and the mint and fairmount water-works--stands low among the clustered towers, just as many a town in the alps or apennines lies low in the cup of the hills, and is the lovelier for it; they redeem from ugliness buildings of later periods, as where they give the scale in the most surprising fashion to the union league; from far up or down the long straight line of broad street they complete the perspective as impressively as the arc de triomphe completes that other impressive perspective from the garden of the tuileries in paris. they are as beautiful when you see them from the bridges or from the park, a great group of towers high above the houses, high above the lesser towers and spires, high above the curls and wisps of smoke that now hang over philadelphia; and from the near country they give to the low-lying town a sky-line that for loveliness and grandeur is not to be surpassed by the famous first view of pisa across the italian plain. [illustration: the union league between the sky-scrapers] philadelphia is, in truth, such a beautiful town that i am surprised the world should be so slow in finding it out. the danger to it now is the philadelphian's determination to thrust beauty upon it at any cost, not knowing that it is beautiful already. there is too much talk everywhere about town-planning as a reform, as a part of the whole tiresome business of elevating the masses. as i have said, penn talked no nonsense of that kind, nor did sir christopher wren when he made the fine design that london had not the sense to stick to, nor l'enfant when he laid out washington. for the town that gets into the clutches of the reformer, i feel much as whistler did for art--"what a sad state the slut is in an these gentlemen can help her." a town, like a woman, should cultivate good looks and cannot be too fastidious in every detail. but that is no reason why it should confuse this decent personal care with a moral mission. there is too much reform in philadelphia just now for my taste, or its good. the idea of the new parkway; with fine buildings like the new free library and the new franklin institute, along its route through the town; with the city hall at one end and the fine new art gallery in the park at the other; promises well, and i suppose that eventually the silly little wooden pergolas will disappear and the new buildings go up in their place. but though i know it sounds like shocking heresy, i should feel more confidence if its completion were in the hands of the old corrupt government we never tired of condemning, which may have stolen some of our money but at least gave us in return a splendidly planned and thoroughly well-kept park, one of the most beautiful in the world. i believe that not only this monumental, but more domestic experiments are in view, the workman this time to profit--our old self-reliant american workman to have a taste of the benevolent interference that has taken the backbone out of the english workman. rumours have reached me of emissaries sent to spy out the land in the garden cities of germany and england. but what have we, in our far-famed city of homes, to learn from other people's garden cities? for comfort, is the workman anywhere better off at a lower rent than in the old streets of neat little two-story brick houses, or in the new streets of luxurious little colonial abortions? and what does he want with the reformer's gardens when he lives in the green country town of philadelphia? [illustration: up broad street from league island] v philadelphia might have lost more of its old architecture and been less successful with its new, and would still be beautiful, for as yet it has not ceased to respect penn's wish to see it fair and green. it is not so green as it was, i admit--not so green as in the days of my childhood to which, in looking back, the spring always means streets too well lined with trees for my taste, since in every one those horrid green measuring worms were waiting to fall, crawling, upon me. there are great stretches in some streets from which the trees have disappeared, partly because they do not prosper so well in the now smoke-laden air; partly because every one blown down or injured must be replaced if replaced at all by some thrifty citizen held responsible for whatever damage it may do through no fault of his; partly, i believe, because at one time street commissioners ordered one or two in front of a house to be cut down, charged the landlord for doing it, and found too much profit not to persevere in their disastrous policy. still, though philadelphians in summer fly to little european towns to escape the streets they deplore as arid in philadelphia, i know of no other town as large that is as green. the notes i made in philadelphia are full of my surprise that i should have forgotten how green and shady are its streets, how tender is this green in its first spring growth under the high luminous sky, how lovely the wistaria-draped walls in town and the dogwood in the suburbs. walk or drive in whatever direction i chose, and at every crossing i looked up or down a long green vista, so that i understood the philadelphia business man who described to me his daily walk from his spruce street house to the reading terminal as a lesson in botany. on the other side of the schuylkill, in any of the suburbs, every street became a leafy avenue. there were evenings in that last june i spent in philadelphia, when, the ugly houses bathed in golden light and the trees one long golden-green screen in front of them, i would not have exchanged walnut or spruce street in west philadelphia or many a lane in germantown, for any famous road or boulevard the world over. really, the trees convert the whole town into an annex, an approach to that park which is its chief green beauty and which, to me, was more than sufficient atonement for the corrupt government philadelphia is said to have groaned under all the years fairmount was growing in grace and beauty. and beyond the park, beyond the suburbs, the leafy avenues run on for miles through as beautiful country as ever shut in a beautiful town. [illustration: from gray's ferry] vi after all, there is beauty enough left to last my time, and i suppose with that i should be content. but i cannot help thinking of the future, cannot help wondering, now that i see the change the last quarter of a century has made, what the next will do for philadelphia--whether after twenty-five years more a vestige of my philadelphia will survive. i do not believe it will; i may be wrong, but i am giving my impressions for what they are worth, and nothing on my return impressed me so much as the change everywhere and in everything. i think any american, from no matter what part of the country, who has been away so long, must, on going back, be impressed in the same way--must feel with me that america is growing day by day into something as different as possible from his america. for my part, i am just as glad i shall not live to see the philadelphia that is to emerge from the present chaos, since i have not the shadow of a doubt that, whatever it may be, it will be as unlike philadelphia as i have just learned to know it again, as this new philadelphia is unlike my old philadelphia, the beautiful, peaceful town where roses bloomed in the sunny back-yards and people lived in dignity behind the plain red brick fronts of the long narrow streets. index abbey, edwin a., 393 academy of fine arts, 64, 231, 376, 379, 380, 389, 395, 402, 405, 407, 412, 428 academy of music, 206, 459 academy of natural sciences, 64 acorn club, 494 adams, john, 6, 50, 161, 297, 385, 418-422 addams, clifford, 407 adelphia, the, 499 adirondacks (mountains), 169 aitken, robert, 310 aldrich, thomas bailey, 243 alexander, john w., 393 _alhambra, the_, 315 alicia, mother, 371 allen's, 125 america, new and old, 471 _american_, the (weekly), 249 american army crossing the delaware, 375 american philosophical society, 418 angelo, michael, 373 annabel, miss, school, 258 annals, watson's, 314 antin, mary, 467 appian etchings, 395 _arabian nights, the_, 64 arc de triomphe, 405 arch street meeting house, 120, 517 arch street theatre, 67, 459 ardea, father, 191, 192 arnold, matthew, 161, 342-344 arnold's mansion, 521 _arrah-na-pogue_, 67 art gallery in the park, proposed, 534 art (industrial) school, 257, 330, 332, 405 _art nouveau_, 408 assembly, the (social), 153-174, 206, 216, 254, 260, 304, 316, 503 atlantic city, 170, 246, 298 _atlantic monthly_, 243, 244, 257 augustine's, 60, 148, 151, 153, 281, 438, 439, 449 bailey, banks & biddle, 125, 456 bala country club, 493, 495 baldwin's locomotive works, 228, 477 bank, philadelphia, 49 baptists, 176, 183 bar harbor, 169 barber, alice, 396 barcelona (churches of), 199 barrett, lawrence, 324 barrie (publisher of art books), 376 bartram, john, 31, 300, 521 bartram's garden, 31, 42, 299-303, 337, 521, 522 bayswater, england, 493 beau nash, 145 beaux, cecilia, 406 beaux-arts (school), 407 beidleman (architecture), 361 bellamy (_looking backward_), 338 bellevue-stratford (hotel), 148, 162, 414, 447, 500, 503 belmont (fairmount park), 210, 299, 430, 496 bennett, arnold, 478, 486, 525 bibliothã¨que nationale, 12 biddle, miss julia, 399 biddles, 50, 145, 214-216 _biglow papers_, 320 _black crook, the_, 67 blanchard (publisher), 313 blitz, signor, 91 blum, robert, artist, 246, 393 board of education, 257 bobbelin, father, 192 boker, george h., 316, 323-325 booth, edwin, 68 borghesi collection (art), 406 borie, c. l. jr., architect, 407 bories, the, 31, 107 borrow, george henry, 320 boswell, james, 290 boudreau, father, 193 boudreau, mother, 97 bowie, mrs., social leader, 146, 147 boyle, john, sculptor, 396 bradstreet, anne, 309 _breitmann ballads_, 320, 456 brennan, artist, 393 brewster, benjamin harris, 342 briggs, richard, 424 brillat-savarin, 414 british museum, 12, 309 broad and locust streets, 257, 258, 259, 449 broad and walnut, 42 broad street, 324, 449, 489, 499-503, 529, 533 broad street, north, 459, 529 broad street station, 12 brook farm, 347 brown, charles brockden, 313, 363 browning societies, 352 bryn mawr, 98, 104, 173, 307, 364, 529 bullitts, the, 107 bunyan, john, 308 burns's, 126, 210, 456 burr, anna robeson, 363 burr, charles, 363 _burton's gentleman's magazine_, 314 business and professional club, 352 cadwallader-biddle, 343 cadwalladers, 50, 145, 216 caldwell, j. e. & co., 125, 456 _callista_, 59 callowhill, hannah, 417 callowhill street bridge, 281 camac street, 351 camden (n. j.), 293, 324-329 campanini, opera singer, 401 campbell, helen, 338 cape may, 170 carlyle, thomas, 243 carpenter's hall, 514 carson, hampton l., 6, 363 cary (publisher), 313 _casket, the_, 314, 428 cassatt, mary, 393 castleman, richard, 6 cathedral, the, 120, 183, 184, 187, 198, 200, 203 catholics, 176, 177-204, 258 cavalcaselle, giovanni b., 402 centennial exposition, 205-232, 233, 234, 253, 267, 276, 277, 357, 375, 390 _century, the_, 337 champs-elysã©es, 405 chapman, miss, school, 258 charles the bold, 337 chartres cathedral, 199 chartreuse, the old, 444 chase, william m., 246 chester, 54, 152 chestnut hill, 78, 123, 129, 170, 258 chestnut street, 125, 144, 226, 227, 325, 342, 368, 449, 456, 459, 499 chestnut street theatre, 67, 459 "chestnut, walnut, spruce, and pine," 119, 123, 151, 158, 182, 263, 297, 464 chew house, 297, 298, 518 childs, george w., 113, 342, 499 chippendale furniture, 289 christ church, 114, 120, 183, 188, 277, 517 christ church burial ground, 120, 281 church (painting), 246 church of england, 183 cimabue, giovanni, 402 city companies in london, 152 city hall, 259, 260, 405, 489, 526, 534 city of homes, 481, 534 city troop, 64, 452, 510 civic club, 494 civil war, the, 130, 146, 518 claghorn's collection of old prints, 376, 394 clements, gabrielle, 396 clinton street, 514 clover club, 152, 443 club (art), south broad street, 406 coates, mrs. florence earle, 336, 362 cobbett, william, 440, 485, 513 coghlan, father, 193 coleridge, samuel taylor, 324 college club, the, 494 colonial (american) art, 381, 389 colonial congress, 253, 267 colonial dames, 219, 221, 361, 522, 525 colonial days, 283, 526 colonial doorways, 361 colonial history, 9 colonial houses, 6, 36, 73, 158, 282, 297, 298, 382, 443, 460, 496, 518, 526, 529 colonial life and society, 6, 443 colonists, 495 colonnade (hotel), 148 columbia (college), 364 comegys, mrs., school, 258 _complete cookery_ (miss leslie), 423-430 concord (mass.), 347-348 coney island, 213 conflans (convent), 175 congress hall, 522 connor, mrs., social leader, 147 contemporary club, 352 _continent, our_, 293 continental (hotel), 148 convent, 27, 31, 36, 47, 55, 59, 63, 67, 68, 72 sq., 104, 117, 126, 133-137, 175 sq., 205, 238, 241, 258, 368, 372, 373, 374, 451 convent at paris, 222 cooper, colin campbell, 396 cope, walter, architect, 407 copley, john singleton, 389 country clubs, 152, 162, 447, 494-496 courts (of law), 468, 500 cox, kenyon (painting), 246 cramp's shipyard, 228, 477 "crazy norah," 27, 35, 375 crowe, joseph archer, 402 cruikshank drawings, 375 curtis publishing co. building, 355 cushman, charlotte, 68 dana, william p. w., artist, 393 dancing class, 138, 139, 143-145, 147, 148, 157, 182, 184, 203, 254, 260, 304, 316, 503 darlington butter, 440 darlington, j. g. & co., 125, 456 darwin, charles, 242 daughters of pennsylvania, 219, 221 davenports, the (actors), 64 davis, clarke, 246 davis, mrs. rebecca harding, 336 davis, richard harding, 336 day, frank miles, architect, 407 declaration of independence, 158, 214, 227, 253, 267, 418 decorative art club, 399 delaware river, 278, 294, 308, 455 dexter's, 35, 88, 126, 456 dickens, charles, 6, 59, 375, 427 dickinson, jonathan, 15, 313 dillaye, blanche, 396 _domestic economy_ (miss leslie), 428 drama-reforming societies, 352 dreka co. (engraver), 125, 148, 151, 456 drew, mrs. john (actress), 68 drexel, anthony j., 342 drexel institute, 405 duclaux, mme (mary robinson), 260 duke of westminster's collection (art), 406 dundas house, 42, 108, 459 dutch descent, 219 dutch in new york, 16 dutch jew, 467 earle's, 125 eastern shore, maryland, 219, 245, 246 eberlein, harold donaldson, 6, 361 education, board of, 257 eleventh street, 48 eleventh and spruce (streets), 44, 47, 48 sq., 94, 102, 104, 314, 427, 430 eliot, george, 401 eliphas, levi, 242 elkins art collection, 406 ellwanger, g. h., 424 elwood, thomas, 15, 308 episcopal academy, 143, 162, 181, 258, 455 head master of, 181 episcopalians, 176 177, 183, 187 _evening telegraph_, 246, 341 ewing, miss julia, 341 exposition, centennial, 205, 232 eyre, wilson, 407 _fabiola_, 59 fairmount park, 64, 129, 173, 210, 213, 281, 299, 444, 486, 496, 521, 533, 534, 538 fairmount water-works, 299, 533 _faith gartney's girlhood_, 59, 335 ferris, stephen, 394 fildes, luke, 231 fisher, sydney george, 6, 309, 358 fishers, the, 31 fish-house club, 152, 443 fitzgerald, edward, 423 _fool's errand_, 338 _forget-me-not_, 348 fourth of july, 63 fox, george, 15, 308 _francesca da rimini_, 324 frankford, 81, 489, 522 franklin, benjamin, 24, 166, 215, 216, 253, 263, 281, 290, 355, 310, 313, 358, 386, 389, 400, 417, 422, 482 franklin inn, 351 franklin institute, 263, 534 free public library, 307, 534 _french revolution_ (thiers), 375 friends, 1, 9, 15, 16, 20, 92, 134, 166, 197, 203, 258, 283, 289, 290, 294, 307, 309, 357, 380, 386, 389, 513 friends' school (germantown), 258 fromuth, marine painter, 406 front street, 278, 281, 290, 326, 514, 517 frost, arthur b., artist, 393 furness (architecture), 407, 526 furness, dr. horace howard, 332, 335 furness, horace howard, jr., 362, 363 furness, william henry, d.d., 332, 335 garber, daniel, 407 gebbie and barrie, 125, 376 german mystics, 176 germans (immigrants), 471 germantown, 91, 123, 124, 258, 294, 297, 336, 468, 477, 496, 518, 521, 526, 529, 538 germantown cricket ground, 496 gettysburg (battle-fields), 518 gibson collection, 379 _gift, the_, 314 gilchrist, mrs. alexander, 119, 284, 287 gillespie, mrs., social leader, 215, 216, 253 giotto di bondone, 402 girard college, 123, 379, 533 girard house, 148 girard trust building, 530 gissing, george, 239 glackens, william j., illustrator, 406 glackmeyer, father, 193 glasse, mrs. (cookery book), 314, 423-428 _godey's lady's book_, 314, 337 gough square (london), 324 grafly, charles, sculptor, 407 _graham's_ (magazine), 314, 337 grants, the, 31 gray's ferry, 281, 299, 521 green, elizabeth shippen, 406 greene, general, 418 grelaud, miss, 107 griggs (publisher), 313 groton (school), 162 haden, seymour, etchings, 395, 396 hale, mrs. sarah josepha, 314, 428 hallowell, mrs. sarah, 341 hamilton, j. mclure, 393 handy, moses p., 245 _hans breitmann_, 320, 456 harland, marion, 428 _harper's_ (magazine), 238, 337 harrison, alexander, 393 harrison, birge, 393 harrison, john, 405 harrison, mrs. (art club), 399 harvard (college), 162 hassler's band, 140, 148 haverford (school), 258 hawthorne, nathaniel, 347 hawthorne, rose, 347 historical society of pennsylvania, 6, 157, 216, 220, 290, 307, 315, 364, 459 hogarth's engravings, 376 holloway, edward stratton, 406 holmes, oliver wendell, 243 holmesburg, 258 holy trinity (church), 183 home arts school (london), 257 homer and colladay's, 125 hooper, mrs. lucy, 341 hopkins, the, 31 hopkins, dr. (dentist), 64 horticultural hall, 347, 503 hospital, pennsylvania, 24, 114, 277, 358, 460 hotel meurice, 222 howells, william dean, 259, 401 howland's hotel at long branch, 103 hubbell's, 126, 459 hudson river school, 390 _hugh wynne_, 357, 358, 363 hughes and mã¼ller, 456 huguet, madame, 77, 85 hunt, holman, 372, 373 huntington valley club, 495 hutchinson ports, 363 impressionists (artists), 390 independence hall, 467 independence square, 355, 467 industrial art school, 257, 330, 396, 399 ingersolls, the, 145 _initials, the_, 59 international expositions, 213, 231, 253 irish immigrants, 471 irving, henry, 401 irving, washington, 315 irwin, miss, school, 140, 175, 258 italians (immigrants), 464, 468 james, henry, 6, 16, 401, 509 janauschek (actress), 348 janvier, thomas allibone, 169, 363, 433-437, 443 jastrow, dr. morris, 364 jefferson, thomas, 50, 386, 418 jenkins, howard, 249 jesuits, 191, 193, 197 jew, dutch, 467 jew, pennsylvania, 467, 514 jew, russian, 214, 282, 283, 297, 361, 460, 464-473, 525 jews, religious liberty of, 177 johnson, dr. samuel, 324 johnson house, 297, 521 johnson's, john g., art collection, 406 jones's, 126, 210, 444, 456 jourdain, m., 282 june, jenny, 428 _kate vincent_, 178 keatings, the, 31 kellogg, clara louise, 67 kensington, 228, 297, 477 kensington, england, 493 keppel, frederick, 376 kings, the, 31 kirk, john foster, 337 kirkbride's insane asylum, 263 kneller, portrait-painter, 389 knight, ridgway, 393 kã¼gler, franz, 402 _la belle hã©lã¨ne_, 68 _la grande duchesse_, 68 la pierre house, 148 _ladies' home journal_, 355 ladies of the sacred heart, 72, 93 convent, 72 sq. _lady of shalott_, 27, 373 lalanne etchings, 395 lamb, charles, 126, 324 _lamplighter, the_, 56 long, john luther, 363 lathrop, mr. and mrs. george, 347 latin quarter, 411 laurel hill, 521 law courts, 468, 500 law school, building, 529 lea, henry charles, 313, 363 league island, 529 leary's, 126 _ledger_ (newspaper), 113, 341, 355 lee, vernon (violet paget), 260 leland, charles godfrey, 42, 234-238, 240-244, 254, 257, 263, 272, 275, 276, 316, 319-330, 332, 335, 344-348, 396, 399, 405 leland, charles godfrey, _memoirs_ of, 276 l'enfant (architect), 533 leslie, margaret (artist), 396 leslie, miss, cookery book, 313, 423-437 levi, eliphas, 242 lewises, 50 li hung chang, 20, 513 library, bryn mawr college, 307 library of congress, 309 library, free public, 307, 534 library, friends', germantown, 307 library, historical society, 307 library, mercantile, 114, 241 library, philadelphia, 24, 114, 241, 290, 307, 455 library, ridgway, 241, 307, 364 _life of blake_, 119 lionardo da vinci, 402 lippincott, horace mather, 6, 361 lippincott, j. b., 124, 313 lippincott's (book-store), 125, 313, 315 _lippincott's magazine_, 243, 314, 315, 337, 341, 427 lithuanians (immigrants), 468, 473 "little england" of kensington, 19 "little street of clubs, the," 351, 406 _lives of the artists_, 373 locust street, 472 logan, deborah, 309 logan, james, 31, 177, 184, 241, 307, 417, 421, 518 logan square, 120, 162, 500 loganian library (see ridgway), 364 lombard street, 472 long branch, 169 longfellow, henry w., 320, 329 _looking backward_, 338 _lost heiress, the_, 59 lowell, james russell, 316 macalisters, the, 31 mccalls, the, 158 mccarter, henry, artist, 407 macveagh, wayne, 343 madeira (wine), 55, 153, 417-423, 506, 510 mã¤ennerchor garden, 500 main line, 31, 123, 297 main street in germantown, 297 manayunk, 522 maria, father de, 191 marion, general francis, 216 "market, arch, race and vine," 281 market street, 119, 120, 123, 157, 281, 294, 310, 329, 451, 456, 489 martin, madame, 137, 138 maryland, eastern shore of, 219 matisse, artist, 402 mayflower (ship), 219, 525 meeting-houses, 188, 281, 517 _meg merrilies_, 27, 68, 375 memorial hall, 213, 405, 526 mennonites in germantown, 176 mercantile library, 114, 241, 307 merritt, mrs. anna lea, 393 methodists, 183 mifflin, mrs. (art club), 399 millais, john everett, 275 miller, leslie, 396 milton, john, 308 mint, united states, 108, 130, 379, 459, 533 _mischief in the middle ages_, 243 mitchell, dr. s. weir, 6, 357, 363, 456 moore, mrs. bloomfield, 379 moran family, 394 moravians, monasteries of, 176 morrises, the, 216 morris, gouverneur, 133 morris, harrison s., 362 morris house, 297, 521 morris, william, 400, 408 mother goose, 242 mount airy, 170 mount pleasant, 31, 299 moxon's _tennyson_, 372 moyamensing prison, 263 murillo (painting), 372 mustin's, 125 napoleon, pictures of, 374 narragansett pier, 169 nash, richard ("beau"), 145 natatorium, 139, 140, 145, 499 _nation_, the (new york), 249 _national observer_, 294 navy yard, 529 new century club, 494 new testament (german), 310 new year's day, 152 new york magazines, 337 newman's _callista_, 59 nilsson, christine, 401 ninth and green (streets), 489, 500 nordau, max, 402 norrises, the, 216 norris, isaac, 15, 417 _north american_, the, 355 northern liberties, 522 oakdale park, 293 oakley, thornton, 406 oakley, violet, 406 _old mam'selle's secret_, 335 old swedes church, 114, 120 orpheus club, 153 ouida's guardsman, 275 _our american cousin_, 67 _our continent_, 337, 341 _our convent days_, 88, 358 _ours_, 67 oxford (england), 86, 529 oxford, dr. (cookery books), 424 page, george bispham, architect, 407 paget, violet (vernon lee), 260 park (see fairmount), 534, 538 parkway, the new, 405, 534 parrish, maxfield, 406 parrish, stephen, 396 patterson, general, house of, 108, 459 peale, charles wilson, 389 pegasus societies, 352 penn club, 351 penn, john, 517 penn, william, 2, 9, 10, 15, 24, 31, 35, 36, 74, 85, 117, 219, 260, 282, 287-289, 290, 294, 375, 382, 408, 417, 421, 455, 456, 474, 500, 526, 533 penn, william, statue of, 9 pennell, joseph, 1, 24, 203, 219, 237, 246, 268, 271-303, 308, 337, 338, 341, 348, 351, 357, 368, 376, 380, 393-395, 474 pennock brothers, 144, 439 pennsbury, 31 pennsylvania historical society, 6, 157, 216, 290, 315, 364 pennsylvania hospital, 24, 114, 277, 358, 460 pennsylvania jew, 467 pennsylvania, promotion of science by, 309 pennsylvania railroad, 276 pennsylvania railroad station, 276, 448, 451 pennsylvania, university of, 143, 162, 173, 258, 358, 364, 473, 496, 526 pennypacker, governor, 307 peppers, the, 50, 399 _peterson's_ (magazine), 314, 337 philadelphia art club, 324 philadelphia bank, 49 philadelphia club, 153, 316, 443, 510 philadelphia library, 24, 114, 241, 290, 307, 313, 315, 455 _philadelphia saturday museum_, 314 phillips, john s., 376 philosophical society, american, 418 picasso, artist, 402 plastic club, 406 pocahontas, 9 poe, edgar allan, 27, 316 poor richard (club), 352 poor richard's almanac, 310 poore, harry, 271, 272 pope of rome, 120 pope's head, 310 porter and coates, 125, 315 post-impressionists, 381 powhatan, 9 pre-raphaelites, 373, 390 presbyterian building, 271 presbyterians, 176, 183 _press_, the, 245 provence, 60 public buildings (see city hall), 10, 526 public industrial art school, 405 _punch_ (london), 250 puritans (new england), 417 putnam (n. y. publisher), 315 pyle, howard, 249, 393 quakers (see friends), 15 _queechy_, 59, 335 race (sassafras) street, 281 racquets club, 499, 529 rafael (pictures), 372, 375 ralph (franklin's friend), 310 randolph house, 463 reading terminal, 538 redfield, edward w., artist, 407 rembrandt (painting), 246, 406 renaissance, period of, 11 repplier, agnes, 6, 88, 358 revolution (american), 382, 389, 418, 518, 525 rhodes scholars, 80, 529 richards, william t., artist, 393 ridgway library, 241, 307, 364 rittenhouse smiths, 363 rittenhouse square, 24, 91, 120, 139, 198, 456 ritz-carlton (hotel), 148, 414, 447 _robin hood_ (howard pyle's), 249 robins, edward, jr., 358 robins, edward, sr., 1, 50, 54, 56, 74, 81, 107, 111, 123, 130, 138, 178, 181, 183, 187, 200, 239, 244, 259, 260, 263, 294, 307, 323, 371, 372, 374, 375, 423, 427, 459, 500, 505 robins, grant, 139, 140, 147, 165, 216, 505 robins, mrs. thomas, 40, 41, 43, 53, 54, 50, 60, 61, 183, 239, 268, 437 robins, thomas, 1, 35-36, 41, 43, 48-63, 107, 178, 183, 219, 222, 307, 314, 357, 373-375, 413, 421, 459 robinson, mary (mme. duclaux), 260 rogers, fairman, 493 "rogers group," 39, 374, 375 romanticists (artists), 390 roosevelt, theodore, 506 rorer, mrs. (cookery book), 428 ross, betsy, house of, 281 rossetti, dante gabriel, 119, 372, 373 rossetti, william michael, 119, 284 _routledge_, 59 royal academy, 389, 411 royal exchange, 411 _rubaiyat_, the, 401 rubens (painting), 246 rue de rivoli, 225 rush, dr. benjamin, 241, 307 rush, mrs., social leader, 146 ruskin, john, 287, 400, 402 russian jew, 214, 282, 283, 297, 361, 460, 464-471, 473 sacred heart, ladies of the, 72 convent of, 72 sq., 258 st. andrew's (church), 184 st. augustine's (church), 198 st. clement's (church), 184, 278 st. james's (church), 183 st. john's (church), 183, 199, 200, 203 st. joseph's (church), 64, 91, 183, 184, 187, 188, 191, 193-199 st. mark's (church), 183, 200 st. mary's (church), 184, 198, 199, 278 st. michael's (church), 198 st. patrick's (church), 91, 183, 199, 200, 203 st. paul's (school), 162 st. peter's (church), 108, 114, 183, 188, 277, 463, 514 salons (paris), 411 sargent, john s., artist, 393 sartain, miss emily, 338, 393 sartain, william, 393 _sartain's union magazine_, 314 sassafras (race) street, 281 saturday club, 152 _saturday evening post_, 355 saur's new testament, 310 sautter's, 126, 444, 449, 456, 506 schaumberg, emily, 107 school board, 259 school of industrial arts, 257, 330, 332, 405 schools, public, 335 schuylkill (river), 173, 276, 281, 294, 299, 362, 451, 468, 481, 496, 538 scott, walter, 59 heroines of, 27, 375 novels of, 197, 335, 336, 427 second street, 42, 137, 147, 148, 166, 277, 517 second street market, 114, 120, 277 seminary at villanova, 198 senat, prosper, 395 seville (churches of), 199 shakespeare societies, 352 shakespeare, william, 68, 332, 363, 401 shelley, percy bysshe, 145, 313 sheppard, j. b. & sons, 125 shinn (apothecary), 459 shippen, edward, 42 shippen, peggy, 31, 162 "shippen, peggy," 162, 356 shippens, the, 158 simses, the, 158 sketch club, 406 sky-scrapers, 355, 530 slavs (immigrants), 468, 471 smarius, father, 193 smedley, william t., artist, 393 smith, albert, 263 smith, jessie wilcox, 406 smith, lloyd, 242 smith, logan pearsall, 364 smith, provost, house of, 281 society hill, 522 _solon shingle_, 67 sons of pennsylvania, 219, 221 sothern, edward askew, 68 south kensington, england, 408 south street, 472 southwark, 522 southworth, mrs. emma d. e. nevitt, 59 _souvenir, the_, 314 springett, guli, 15 spruce street, 28, 42, 48 sq., 60, 63, 104, 107, 108, 113, 114, 215, 245, 253, 282, 460, 468, 538 state house, the, 113, 158, 220, 277, 358, 382, 471, 514 state in schuylkill, 443 station (broad and market), 489 stations and terminals, 12, 28, 276, 481, 489, 538 stations (railroad), 481, 489, 538 steadmans, the, 31 steevens, george, 449, 478 stenton, 31, 297, 298, 518 stephens (artist), 396 stephens, alice barber, 396 stephens, charles h., 396 stevenson, mrs. cornelius, 364 stewardson, john, architect, 407 stewart, jules, 393 stock exchange, 54, 107, 111, 468, 486, 500 stockton, frank r., 336, 338 stockton, louise, 338 stokes, frank w., artist, 406 strawberry mansion, 210, 299, 430 strawbridge and clothier, 125 stuart, gilbert, artist, 389 stuart, gilbert, picture of washington by, 41, 374, 375, 447 swarthmore (school), 258 swedes (immigrants), 471 swedes church, old, 114, 277, 514 _telegraph, evening_, 246 temple, the (london), 324 tennyson's poems, 27, 372, 373 terminals (railroad), 12, 481, 489, 538 terry, ellen, 401 thackeray (william makepeace), 151, 294, 422 thanksgiving day, 63 thã©ã¢tre franã§ais, 68 theatres, 67 thiers' _french revolution_, 375 third street, 28, 107, 111, 113, 134, 137, 187, 206, 278, 290, 486 thomas, george c., 307 thompson, "aunt ad," 342 thouron, henry, 406 torresdale, 28, 31, 72 sq., 123, 191, 258, 278, 451 tourgee, judge albion w., 338 traubel, horace, 364 _traveller, the_, 315 treaty with the indians (penn), 375 tree, beerbohm, 68 trollope, anthony, 401 trotter, mary, 396 trumbauer, horace, architect, 407 tuileries (paris), 222, 533 twelfth and market, 489 twelfth street market, 54 union league, 152, 443, 447, 533 university of pennsylvania, 143, 162, 173, 258, 307, 364, 473, 496, 526, 529 university, provosts of, 119 university school (architecture), 407 van rensselaer, mrs. john king, 363 van tromp, miss, miniatures, 395 vaux, richard, 342 vicaire (_bibliographie_), 424 vienna cafã©s (centennial), 210, 227 villanova seminary, 198 villon, franã§ois, essay on, 238 virginia company, the first, 219 virginia, early settlers in, 216, 219 voltaire (author), 428, 513 walnut lane, 298, 538 walnut street, 184, 203, 297, 468, 489, 494, 538 walnut street theatre, 67 wanamaker's, 530 war, civil, the, 130 ward, genevieve, 348 wardle, thomas (bookseller), 313 washington (city), 226, 534 washington, george, 44, 119, 215, 290, 482, 526 washington's birthday, 63 washington's household, 44, 433 washington, statue of, 386 waterloo (eve of), 254 water-works (fairmount), 64, 67, 299, 533 watson, john, 6, 356, 357, 413 watts, harvey m., 362 waugh, frederick j., marine painter, 406 welsh, john, 50 west, benjamin, 64, 389 west philadelphia, 126, 294, 297, 468, 529, 538 wharton, anne hollingsworth, 6, 361 whartons, the, 50, 145, 216 whelans, the, 31 whistler, james a. mcneill, 16, 395, 396, 405, 534 white, ambrose, 78, 120 white, bishop, 290 white, dr. (dentist), 64 white, william, 144 white, willie, 144, 145 whitefield, george, 177 whitman, walt, 119, 316, 324-331, 336, 337, 344, 347, 364 whittier, john g., 320 _wide, wide world, the_, 59, 335 widener, peter a. b., 307, 406 wilde, oscar, 344, 347 williams, dr. francis howard, 336, 362 williams, dr. talcott, 364 willing's alley, 184 willings, the, 158 willis, n. p., 316 willow grove, 213 wilstach collection, 405 wise, herbert c., 361 wissahickon (creek), 177, 298, 299 wistar house, 297, 521 wistar parties, 146 wister, mrs., authoress, 335, 336 wister, owen, 363 "wister, sally," 162, 356 wisters, the, 107 woman in white (german mystics), 176 woman's school of design, 405 wood, bishop, 200, 203 woodland's, 126 wren, sir christopher, 283, 289, 533 wyck, 297, 521 wyeth's, 126, 456 yale (college), 162 yearly meeting, 289 _yellow buskin_, the, 405 zantzinger, c. c., architect, 407 zola, ã�mile, 259 in the land of temples by joseph pennell reproductions of a series of lithographs by him, together with impressions and notes by the artist and an introduction by w. h. d. rouse, m.a., l.h.d. _crown quarto, printed on dull finished paper, lithograph by mr. pennell on cover. $1.25 net._ joseph pennell's pictures of the panama canal reproductions of a series of twenty-eight lithographs made on the isthmus of panama, january-march, 1912, with mr. pennell's introduction, giving his experiences, impressions, and full description of each picture. _volume 7-1/4 by 10 inches. beautifully printed on dull finished paper. lithograph by mr. pennell on cover. $1.25 net._ life of james mcneill whistler by elizabeth r. and joseph pennell the pennells have thoroughly revised the material in their authorized life, and added much new matter, which for lack of space they were unable to incorporate in the elaborate two-volume edition now out of print. fully illustrated with 96 plates reproduced from whistler's works, more than half reproduced for the first time. _crown octavo. fifth and revised edition. whistler binding, deckle edge, $3.50 net. three quarters grain levant, $7.50 net._ j. b. lippincott company publishers philadelphia +----------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's notes: | | | | obvious punctuation errors repaired. | | | | printer errors corrected. these include: | | page 74, illustration caption "loudorn" corrected to be | | "loudoun" (loudoun, main street germantown) | | page 152, word "fast" corrected to be "east" (italy and the | | east) | | page 157 and 313, word "pensylvania" corrected to be | | "pennsylvania" (historical society of pennsylvania) | | page 170, word "philadephia" corrected to be "philadelphia" | | (reception in philadelphia) | | page 174, word "to" corrected to be "too" (all too short at | | the best) | | page 402, word "nordan" corrected to be "nordau" (from | | lionardo to nordau) | | page 486, word "your" corrected to be "you" (you are welcome)| | | | index entries that do not match their referred text corrected | | (except if the referred text is an obvious typo). these | | include: | | index entry "beidelman" corrected to be "beidleman" | | index entry "cimabuã©" corrected to be "cimabue" | | index entry "francesco da rimini" corrected to be "francesca | | da rimini" | | index entry "greland" corrected to be "grelaud" | | index entry "hughes and muller" corrected to be | | "hughes and mã¼ller" | | index entry "kugler" corrected to be "kã¼gler" | | index entry "maennerchor" corrected to be "mã¤ennerchor" | | index entry "racquet club" corrected to be "racquets club" | | index entry "tourgã©e" corrected to be "tourgee" | | index entry "vieaire" corrected to be "vicaire" | | | | index page references that erroneously lead to pages without | | text (blank or illustration only) were removed. | | | | the author's variable spelling has been kept. this includes: | | both "ailantus" and "ailanthus" | | both "baptised" and "baptized" | | both "bookseller" and "book-seller" | | both "colored" and "coloured" | | both "delancey" and "de lancey" | | both "dreamt" and "dreamed" | | both "encyclopã¦dia" and "encyclopedia" | | both "everyday" and "every-day" | | both "football" and "foot-ball" | | both "forefathers" and "fore-fathers" | | both "halfway" and "half-way" | | both "learnt" and "learned" | | both "neighborhood" and "neighbourhood" | | both "nowadays" and "now-a-days" | | both "realise" and "realize" | | both "refashioning" and "re-fashioning" | | both "reunion" and "re-union" | | both "role" and "rã´le" | | both "splendor" and "splendour" | | both "uptown" and "up-town" | | "waterworks," "water works," and "water-works" | | | | some advertisements for other books published by j. b. | | lippincot were moved from page ii to the end of the text. | | | +----------------------------------------------------------------+ a little girl in old philadelphia by amanda m. douglas [illustration] a. l. burt company publishers new york copyright, 1890, by dodd, mead and company. to mr. and mrs. henry horton lawrence. the early youth of an old town has a certain simplicity like the youth of human life. its struggles, its romance, its unfolding come down through the earnest hands that have labored for its welfare and left imperishable monuments. to the legacies of remembrances you have had handed down to you, i add this little story of a long ago time, a posy culled from quaint gardens. _with sincere regard_, amanda m. douglas. newark, n.j., 1899. contents. chapter page i. here and there, 1 ii. bessy wardour, 14 iii. in a new world, 29 iv. of many things, 44 v. a bouleversement, 58 vi. to the rescue, 74 vii. at some crossroads, 87 viii. a little rebel, 104 ix. fate to the fore, 122 x. to turn and fight, 134 xi. a rift of suspicion, 150 xii. true to her colors, 167 xiii. under the rose, 183 xiv. for native land and loyalty, 200 xv. parting, 215 xvi. love and true love, 231 xvii. mid war's alarms, 238 xviii. whom shall she pity, 264 xix. midnight tidings of great joy, 279 xx. when the world went well, 297 xxi. an april girl, 312 xxii. polly and phil, 330 xxiii. primrose, 342 xxiv. the old and the new, 364 a little girl in old philadelphia. chapter i. here and there. she was swinging her gingham sunbonnet, faded beyond any recognition of its pristine coloring, her small hand keeping tight hold of the strings. at every revolution it went swifter and swifter until it seemed a grayish sort of wheel whirling in the late sunshine that sent long shadows among the trees. when she let it go it flew like a great bird, while she laughed sweet, merry childish notes that would have stirred almost any soul. a slim, lithe little maid with a great crop of yellow hair, cut short in the neck, and as we should say now, banged across the forehead. but it was a mass of frowzy curls that seemed full of sunshine. with two or three quick leaps she captured it again and was just preparing for her next swirl. "primrose! primrose! i think thee grows more disorderly every day. what caper is this? look at these strings, they are like a twisted rope. and if thy bonnet had gone into the pond! for that matter it needs the washtub." primrose laughed again and then broke it in the in the middle with a funny little sound, and glanced at the tall woman beside her, who was smoothing out the strings with sundry pinches. "certainly thou art a heedless girl! what thou wilt be----" she checked herself. "come at once to the kitchen. wash thy face and hands and comb out that nest of frowze. let me see"--surveying her. "thou must have a clean pinafore. and dust thy shoes." primrose followed aunt lois in a spell of wonderment. the scolding was not severe, but it was generally followed by some sort of punishment. a clean pinafore, too! to be set on a high stool and study a psalm, or be relegated to bread and water, and, oh! she was suddenly hungry. down in the orchard were delicious ripe apples lying all about the ground. why had she not gone and taken her fill? she scrubbed her face with her small hands until aunt lois said, "that is surely enough." then she wet her hair and tugged at the tangles, but as for getting it straight that was out of the question. all this time aunt lois stood by silent, with her soft gray eyes fixed on the culprit, until prim felt she must scream and run away. the elder turned to a chest of drawers and took out an apron of homespun blue-and-white check, a straight, bag-like garment with plain armholes and a cord run in at the neck. a bit of tape was quite a luxury, as it had to be imported, while one could twist cords, fine or coarse, at home. "your aunt wetherill's housekeeper is in the next room. she has come hither to give notice. next week will be the time to go in town." "oh, aunt lois! aunt lois!" primrose buried her face in the elder's gown. a curious yearning passed over the placid countenance, followed by a stronger one of repression, and she unclasped the clinging hands. "it is a misfortune, as i have ever said, and there will be just shifting hither and yon, until thou art eighteen, a long way off. it makes thee neither fish nor fowl, for what is gained in one six months is upset in the next. but thy mother would have it so." primrose made no further protest, but swallowed over a great lump in her throat and winked hard. what she longed to do was to jump up and down and declare she would not go, in a tone that would reach the town itself. even well-trained children had unregenerate impulses, but self-control was one of the early rules impressed upon childhood, the season and soil in which virtues were supposed to take root and flourish most abundantly. there were two doors opening from this kitchen to a small hall, from thence to the ordinary living room, and a smaller one adjoining, used for a sort of parlor, as we should call it now, a kind of state room where the friends often held meetings. it was very plain indeed. there were straight white curtains at the windows, without a bit of fringe or netting. women used to make these adornments as a kind of fancy work, but the rigid rules of the friends discountenanced all such employments, even if it was to improve odd moments. there was no carpet on the floor, which was scrubbed to spotlessness; chairs of oaken frame, bent, and polished by the busy housewife until they shone, with seats of broad splint or rushes painted yellow. a large set of drawers with several shelves on top stood between the windows, and a wooden settle was ranged along the wall. a table with a great bible and two or three religious books, and a high mantel with two enormous pitchers that glittered in a brilliant color which was called british luster, with a brass snuffers and tray and candlesticks, were the only concession to the spirit of worldliness. primrose entered with a lagging step behind her aunt. there sat mistress janice kent in her riding habit of green cloth faced with red silk, and a habit shirt of the same color just showing at the neck where the lapels crossed. her hat was wound around with a green veil, and her gauntlet gloves were of yellow buckskin broidered with black. in one hand she still held her riding whip. a somewhat airy but dignified-looking person with dark, rather sharp eyes, and dark hair; and a considerable amount of color, heightened now by the rapid exercise. "mercy of me! the child has grown mightily!" she exclaimed. "indeed, there will not be a thing fit for her to wear! madam wetherill was considering that, and has sent for new measurements. with the last vessel in, has come lots of choice stuffs of every kind, and the maid has already fallen to work. how do you do, mistress primrose? rose would better become such a blossoming maid without the prim," and she laughed gayly, as if pleased with her conceit. "come hither, child; do not be afraid. there, i'll lay my whip on the floor. it has a threatening look, i will admit, yet 'tis a harmless thing without the owner's hand. i am sent to measure thee, mistress rose, and to announce that next wednesday the chaise will be sent out for you, with perhaps madam wetherill. meanwhile we shall be making ready to transform you from a sober gray friend to a gay young damsel. it is a pity you are not older. there will be great doings this winter." lois henry's face settled into sterner lines. it was a sweet and peaceful face, rendered so by some discipline and much freedom from care. for the friends made small efforts to shine in society, and at this period there were few calls upon charity or even sympathy. james henry was a prosperous farmer, and the style of living simple. fair as to complexion, rather aquiline in features, with blue-gray eyes and nearly straight brows, her soft hair drawn back from her forehead and gathered under a plain cap with a frill a little full at the sides and scant across the top, a half square of white linen crossed over her bosom, a gray homespun gown reaching barely to the ankles, with blue homeknit stockings and stout low shoes with a black buckle on the top, lois henry was a fine sample of a quaker gentlewoman. "there are many things to life beside gayety," she said rather severely. "and such a child hath much that is useful to learn." "oh, we have a tutor in the house, madam wetherill's two cousins will spend the winter in town, miss betty randolph from virginia, and martha johns from some western county. there will be lessons on the spinet and in dancing." mistress kent gave a little smile of malice and a jaunty toss to her head. "the child needs nothing of that since she comes back to us and plainer living. she reads well and is not slow in figures. i shall see that she is instructed in all housewifely ways, but it is ill making headway when the tide runs down the stream." lois henry really sighed then. she did hate to have her six months' labor and interest come to naught. she longed to snatch the child from these paths of temptation, for now, as she was growing older, they might be more alluring. "come hither, little one, and let me measure you. my, but you have grown tall, and keep slim, so there will be less for stays to do. 'as the twig is bent,' you know," laughing and showing her even teeth, of which she was very proud. "and a fine figure is a great advantage. your hands are not ill-kept, i see." they were tanned, but dimpled, with tapering fingers and rosy nails, and the skin fine and soft. "hands are for use and not ornament. thou art to do with thy might whatsoever comes in thy way." "true, friend henry. but a clean room may abound in virtue as well as an untidy one. and a well-kept person surely is no sin. put off your shoe, child. ah, you have a slim foot, though no one would think it, to see the shoe." she had been taking measurements and putting figures on an ivory tablet that she slipped into a cloth pocket hanging at her side. "i have the necessary requirements, i believe, and the maid can have a few things in order. we will send in on wednesday. that is the date appointed, friend henry." she picked up her whip with an airy grace, and stood tall and straight, her habit falling around her feet. "now i will bid you good-day, though it is almost evening. do not look so sober, little rose, but then we will soon have smiles displacing the quaker gravity, which ill beseems young people. friend henry, why do your community consider smiling sinful when it is so pretty and comes from a merry heart? a man who went about to commit murder would scarcely smile, methinks." "'the laughter of fools is as the crackling of thorns under a pot,'" was the somewhat severe answer. "one need not break out into silly giggling," was the rather tart reply. "i abhor that myself. but a smile on a child's face is much to be preferred to a frown. 'and a merry heart doeth good like a medicine.'" "'children,' saith the wise man, 'are to be brought up in the fear and admonition of the lord.'" "ah, well! luckily there are many rules and opinions in the world. good-by, rose-blossom. next week we will welcome thee at wetherill house." primrose followed her aunt to the door. there were mistress kent's horse and the black servant, who respectfully touched his hat and assisted his mistress to mount, then sprang on his own steed, and with a wave of the hand and a nodding of the veil she cantered away. "next week! why, aunt lois, how near it is! i had forgotten," primrose exclaimed breathlessly. "it would be a most excellent thing if thou wert allowed to forget altogether. this continual changing works ill. now go and stir the meal and feed those late chicks. put in some of the cracked corn for the mother hen." primrose went at once, though she was eager to ask about the promised journey, but the habit of repression was strong upon her, and obedience to the letter was exacted from children at that period. it must have been a halcyon time for mothers when a child never ventured to ask why. friend henry went out to the kitchen again. it was a great room with a wide fireplace and a crane that accommodated two kettles. an iron baking pot stood in a bed of coals, with a plentiful supply on the cover. the black woman came and gave it a push partly around, with the tongs, so that the farthest side should have the benefit of the blaze. there were even then many friends who owned slaves, indeed most of the servants were of african descent. the feelings and beliefs of philadelphia were more in consonance with the settlements farther south, than those to the north of them. but the henrys held slavery in abhorrence, and hired their servants. lois henry kept but one woman, and she was quite superior to the average of her race; indeed, like her mistress, was of the persuasion of friends. the two women busied themselves about the supper. if friends were plain in their household adornments and attire, they did not stint in food nor the trouble of preparing it. primrose fed the two late broods whose mothers had stolen their nests and brought off their families in great triumph. one had thirteen, the other eleven. their mothers ran cheerfully to the coops and called their progeny. when the families were within, primrose took up the slatted door and fastened it down with a stake and shut up the peeping things so busy with their supper. as she was loitering on the way back, she saw her uncle and cousin andrew talking eagerly. did they know she was going away next week? she ran forward and andrew turned to her with a smile, while his father talked on. she clasped his hands in hers so warm and soft. his were brawny and hard, but he was a great fellow and he looked down with a kindly, protective air. "oh, do you know aunt wetherill has sent over, and----" "yes," slowly, "we knew it was time. madam wetherill does not forget easily." "primrose!" called her aunt. she hastened to the kitchen, rinsed out her dipper, and hung it up. uncle henry was washing his hands and chloe was taking up the hot bread and dishing the stewed chicken. oh, how delightfully appetizing the fragrance was! and she was so glad not to have forfeited her right to the supper. "come to the table," said aunt lois. the four heads were bowed reverently. there was not much talking at meal time. aunt lois was ever afraid of idle words and vain babbling. uncle james had a good, hearty appetite, as became his size and strength, and generally occupied himself in ministering to it. children in quaker households--indeed, in nearly all others--had the wise old adage dinned into their ears that they were to be seen and not heard, and they also understood that they were to be seen as little as possible. when the supper was ended primrose went out to the kitchen and dried the teacups, of which aunt lois was quite choice, and the silver heirlooms--the teaspoons her grandmother had brought from old england. friend dunscomb was coming up the path. that meant an evening in the best room with uncle james and aunt lois. there were many agitating subjects to talk about in these days. primrose walked out of the kitchen door and around the path, sending a long, dubious glance in the direction of her new home. six months ago she had left it. how queer to be divided up in this way. she had felt lonely at wetherill house, and missed her mother sadly. to be sure it was winter, and here on the farm it was glowing, golden summer. she had not known the dreariness of a long winter here. there were so many enchanting things, so much life and joy and beauty. in a vague way it thrilled her, even if she did not understand. there were rambles in the lanes, and the orchard where she could climb trees; there was luscious fruit in which she was never stinted. rides behind cousin andrew on jack, and going to market, as a rare treat, with uncle james, learning to spin on the little wheel, stealing away to the old garret and reading some forgotten, time-stained books that she dared not ask about. sometimes she had a misgiving of conscience, but no one ever inquired about them, or what she did up there. andrew came out and took a seat under the old apple tree. she ran down to him. "andrew, why must i go to aunt wetherill's every six months?" she asked. he glanced at her in a slow, irresolute fashion. "i must go again next week. it is like a ball being tossed back and forth. i--i didn't quite like it. i would rather stay here." "i'm glad of that." he passed his arm around her and gave her a gentle hug. "but why must i go?" impatiently. "it was thy mother's will. madam wetherill was her dearest cousin, like a mother to her. thou art too young to understand." "but my mother is dead this long while." there was a sound of perplexity in the youthful voice. "yes. it is hard to explain to thee, and a child should not be thinking of money. thy father appointed mine guardian of thee. then the wardours, thy mother's people, left her some fortune, and as thy father was dead she made her will as she pleased." "is a will such a very bad thing, cousin andrew?" she inquired in a timid voice. she had heard much talk through the winter of governing and restraining the will until it had become a sort of personality to her, and connected solely with a state of grace, another vague territory. he smiled. "this is not----" how could he explain it to her comprehension? he had only the plainest sort of education. for though it was true that many of the earliest friends were versed in worldly knowledge, they had grown more restricted in their narrower lives in the new country. and on the farms there were not many advantages. perhaps he could mend her confusion of mind in another fashion. "when one has some property or money and desires to give it to another, he or she states the wish in writing before witnesses. and the law makes this intention respected. this is too grave a matter for a child's understanding, but thy mother and madam wetherill planned this. when my father protested, this compromise, i think they call it, was decided upon." primrose was not much used to long words. most of the friends kept to brief, concise saxon. "a compromise? is that why i am changed about so? what queer names things have! i like better living straight along. and i was much frightened last winter. but there were two little girls in the next place, and i should have been sorry enough to leave them, only they were going to england to be educated." andrew remembered there was some talk of sending her to england, where she had a half-brother, but that was not on the mother's side. "cannot something be done with this wicked compromise? i should like to stay here. andrew, i love you better than anyone in the wide world." andrew hugged her up close and gave a soft sigh. he could remember two little girls sleeping in the friends' burying ground. one would have been seventeen now, and had stayed with them five years, dying the night her sister was born. he had believed it was little lois come in a new baby body. and after three brief years she, too, had gone to the other country. his mother had been graver ever since; more self-contained, more spiritual, the friends said. this little girl, whom they had seen occasionally in her mother's life, had crept into his heart during her six months' stay and he hated to let her go. he was so fond of all young and helpless things. the lambs, the tiny chickens, and the calves appealed to him strongly as they looked out of asking eyes, it seemed to him. he was beginning to chafe under the colorless, repressed life about him, and the little girl had been a great outlet for his affection, though much of it had been nursed in secret. "i do not know what can be done, if anything," he said in answer to her question. "but i am truly sorry. i love thee dearly, primrose. i wish thou wert my sister." he bent over and kissed the soft, fragrant child lips. oh, how sweet they were! was such tenderness reprehensible? he was beginning to think of love and marriage as strong, heartsome youth will, but, strange to say, the young woman his father approved of was not at all to his liking. he was nearing man's estate, and though he labored with himself to repress what he knew would be considered lawless desires, they returned again and again. and how much he should long for the sweetness of this little girl. she put her arms up around his neck and her soft, caressing fingers seemed to play with his very heart strings. oh, how dear she was! and her new life would be so different. madam wetherill rather flouted the friends with what she called their drab religion. "primrose! primrose!" called the curiously soft voice of chloe, that had a different accent from the habitual evenness of the real quaker tone. "where is the child!" "here! here! i am coming." she gave andrew one long, tender kiss and then walked rapidly to the kitchen porch. "thee should have been in bed with the chickens. go at once. the moon is coming up and thou wilt need no light. forget not thy prayers. mistress janice is an emissary of the evil one that thou must resist." primrose went up to her chamber under the eaves in a state of half terror and restrained rebellion. chapter ii. bessy wardour. it was a rather curious tangle, as primrose henry was to learn afterward. philemon henry was older than his brother james, and in trade in the city that william penn had planned and founded in an orderly manner. and though it is the common belief that philadelphia was born at right angles and on a level, at its early inception there was much diversity to it. creeks swept it in many directions, and there were hills and submerged lands waiting for the common sense of man to fill up and hew down the romance. even before revolutionary times there was much business on the wharves of the delaware, and many men owned trading ships and warehouses. and though england had made no end of bothersome and selfish restrictions as to trade, men had found ways to evade them; at some peril, it is true, but that added zest. philemon henry was tolerably successful in his undertakings and adhered to the faith of william penn, even if his own son afterward went astray. he married an englishwoman of good descent, who had left her native land with a company of friends for the sake of the larger liberty. the fine, stalwart quaker had soon attracted her, and with him she spent three years of happy married life, when she died, leaving a baby boy of little more than a year old. a goodly housekeeper came to care for them, and the boy throve finely. she would willingly have married philemon, but as he evinced no inclination, she provided for her old age by marrying another well-to-do friend. and then, as sometimes happens in a widower's household, there was an interregnum of trouble and disorder. he had business dealings with the wardours and met a connection, an orphan, pretty young bessy wardour, who fell in love with the fine, strong, still handsome quaker, whose attire was immaculate, and whose manners were courtly. and he surprised himself by a tenderness for the winsome, kittenish thing, who, for his sake, laid aside her fripperies and, to the amazement of her relatives, joined the society of friends. but if she had been tempting in her worldly gear, she was a hundred times more bewitching in her soft grays that were exquisite in quality, and her wide brim, low-crowned beaver tied under her dimpled chin with a bow that was distracting. the great blue eyes were of the melting, persuasive kind, her voice had a caressing cadence, and her smile was enough to conquer the most obdurate heart, and yet withal she had an air of masquerading and enjoyed it to the full. she was deeply in love with philemon, and though he struggled against a passion he deemed almost ungodly, she being so young and pretty, she conquered in the end. he almost scandalized the society when he stood up to be married. the young quaker women envied her, the elders shook their heads doubtfully. she was sunny and charming and did adore her great stalwart husband. she had so many tempting, beguiling ways, her kisses had such a delicious sweetness that he sometimes felt afraid. and yet, was she not his lawful wife, and had he not a right? were not husbands enjoined to be tender to their wives? she charmed little phil as well. she played with him, ran races, repeated verses, caressed him until sometimes the father was almost jealous of the tenderness showered upon the child. she had such a dainty taste and was always adding delicate touches to the plain quaker habits that made them seem twice as pretty. sometimes he tried to frown upon them. "but god has made the world beautiful," she would protest. "and is it not for us, his children? if i go out in the lanes and woods and gather wild flowers that have cost no man any time or strength to be taken from money-getting and business, but have just grown in god's love, and put them here in a bowl and give him thanks, what evil have i done? in heaven there will be no business, and we shall have to adore his works there, not the works of our own hands." "thou hast a subtle tongue, dear one, and what thou sayest seems to have an accent from a finer world. i am at times sore at loss----" "thou must believe in a kindly all-father and the eyes of thy inner soul will be opened." then she would kiss him tenderly and he would go away much puzzled. presently an incident happened that caused them both no little perplexity. the nevitt estate had lost its direct heir, and that of leah nevitt was next in succession, after an old great-uncle, who sent for the boy to be brought up in english ways and usages. sir wyndham nevitt was not a friend, though several branches of the family were. and if philemon henry failed, the next heir was a dissolute fellow up in london, who would soon make ducks and drakes of the fine old estate. "it does seem a pity that it should be destroyed," said the young wife. "if only the boy were old enough to choose! but, you see, he is next in the succession, and it would come to him even if he were here. english laws are curious. i should hate to give up the boy. he is a sweet child and a great comfort to me when thou art away. but his welfare ought to be considered." "and thou dost spoil him every hour in the day. i should have to send him away presently for some sterner training. and then"--she blushed scarlet at the hope--"there may be other sons and daughters." friend henry took counsel of several respected and judicious men, and the weight of it lay with sending the child abroad. it would be a hard wrench, but if he was called upon to do it? many that he knew had sent their children abroad for education, the advantages being limited at home. and it was true that the settlers below new york had a much warmer affection for the mother country than the puritans of new england. it ended by little philemon henry being sent abroad with many tears and much reluctance, and a safe convoy. the boy went quite readily, under the impression that he could come back frequently, and having no idea of the length of the journey, but being an adventurous little fellow. bessy henry sorrowed deeply. "the house was as if one had been buried out of it," she said. then her own baby was born. philemon henry was disappointed that it should be a girl. "do not mind, husband," she said in her winsome way, "this shall be _my_ child, for its head is full of yellow fuzz like mine, and its eyes are blue. presently there will be a son with dark eyes, and no doubt a houseful of sons and daughters," laughing merrily. "and phil, i think, will be better pleased about a sister. he might be jealous if we filled his place so soon." there was some wisdom in that, and quite a comfort to the father's heart. the baby's name was the first real disagreement. she grew rapidly and was a bright, smiling little thing. bessy loved her child extravagantly, jealously. but she would have none of the plain or biblical names her husband suggested. she laughed at them with her bright humor and made merry amusement over them, calling the child by endearing and fanciful appellations. to-day she was one kind of a flower, to-morrow another, and rosebud a great deal of the time. she was often at the house of madam wetherill. indeed, she was generally spoken of as the gay little quaker, but it was only her slim gracefulness and dainty ways that gained this description, for she was quite tall. she discarded her thees and thous here, though at that day all language was much more formal. sometimes, when her husband was to be away all day, she would take the child and its nurse and spend the time with her relative. it was after one of these occasions that she took off a little of the worldly frippery she had indulged in and put on her very plainest cap, but she could not disguise the arch, pretty face, and this evening it really seemed more beguiling than ever. caresses of all kinds were frowned upon as being not only undignified, but savoring of the world and the flesh. still, philemon henry would have sorely missed the greeting and parting kiss his wife gave him. she had a certain adroitness, too, and the tact to make no show of this before the brethren, or any of the sober-minded sisters. he sometimes wondered if it was not "stolen waters," it had such an extraordinary flavor of sweetness. then he would resolve to forget it, but he never did. she kissed him tenderly this evening. his dinner was excellent, his day's work had been very profitable, and he was in high good humor. "husband," she began afterward, leaning her head on his shoulder, "i must make a confession to thee of my day's doings. thou wilt be angry at first, but it is done now," smilingly. "hast thou been up to some mischief?" his tone had a sense of amusement in it. "very serious mischief. for a brief while i felt like going back to the faith of my childhood, but my love for thee will keep me in the straight and narrow faith. but to-day i have had my babe christened in christ church, and named primrose." "bessy!" in a horror-stricken tone. he strove to put her from him, but she clung the more tightly. "bessy! woman! to do such an unlawful thing!" "it is not unlawful to give a christian name." "a vain, trifling, heathenish name!" he interrupted fiercely. "i will have none of it! i will----" "god made a primrose and many another beautiful thing in this world of his. he has even given me a prettiness that plain quaker garb cannot wholly disguise. suppose i scarred my face and deformed my body, would my praise be any more acceptable to him? and people do not all think alike. they look at religion in divers ways, and so they who deal justly and are kind to the poor and outcast, and keep the commandments are, i think, true christians in any garb. and her name is writ in the church books, her legal, lawful name that only the law can change. and see, husband, thou shalt call thy son whatever pleaseth thee. but the little daughter is mine own." "she is my child as well. and to go through all this mummery that we believe not in, that we have come to this new country to escape! it is wicked, sinful!" "and some consider that discarding all forms and sacraments is sinful. i am sure god ordained many for the jews, his chosen race!" "which they could not keep, which were of no importance to real salvation. then christ came and all was abrogated." "nay, he added to the commandments the one tenderer rule--thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." "woman, thou art full of excusing subtleties. thou art no true friend, methinks. is there any real conviction under thy plain garb, or was it only put on for----" "for love of thee," she interrupted with brave sweetness shining in her appealing eyes. "i was in christ's household before i knew thee. i worshiped god and prayed to him and gave thanks. he hath not made the world all alike, one tree differeth from another, and the lowly primrose groweth where other flowers might not find sustenance, but god careth for them all, and gives to each its need and its exquisite coloring. so he will care for the child, never fear." "but i am very angry at thy disobedience." "nay, it was not that," and a glimmering light like a smile crossed her sweet face. "i did not ask and thou didst not deny." "sophistry again. thou art still in the bonds of iniquity." "and thou must forgive seventy times seven. thou must do good to those that despitefully use thee. if thou art so much wiser and stronger than i, then set this example. i have done many things to please thee. and, husband, thou canst call the little one prim. i am sure that is plain enough, but to me she will be rose, the blended sweetness of three lives." he broke away from her. she had softened many points in his character, he knew, and just now she was a temptress to him. he must assert his own supremacy and deliver himself from these dangerous charms. just now it looked sinful to him that she had come over to the friends' persuasion for love of him. she had been a sweet, thoughtful wife, he could not deny that. but he had been weak to yield to so much happiness. and when the brethren heard of this outrage put upon their usages there would be hard times for her. suddenly his whole soul protested against having her haled before the meeting. oh, what had her spirit of willfulness led her into! she went back to her baby, kissed it and caressed it, prepared it for the night, and sang it to sleep. philemon henry wrote long in his little office at home, where he kept sundry business matters he did not want his clerks gossiping about. there were only two discreet friends that he had taken into his confidence and his ventures. just now there was a slight, uneasy feeling that if he were brought to the strictest account--and yet there was nothing really unlawful in his gains. there were many curious questions in the world, there were diverse people, many religions. and the friends had sought out liberty of conscience. was it liberty to compel another? bessy and her child were sleeping sweetly when he glanced at them, and his heart did soften. but he would never call her by that name. he would give her another. bessy was up betimes and made some delicacy with her own hands for her husband's breakfast. she came around and kissed him on the forehead as was her morning custom, and though she was a little more grave than usual, she was serene and charming. but he must show her how displeased he was. the christening had been very quiet. madam wetherill had been godmother, and the godfather was a distant relative who resided in new york. good parson duchã© had been asked to keep the matter private. and so, if the meeting came to know, philemon henry must be the accuser. it was his duty, of course, but he put it off month after month. the babe grew sweet and winsome, and there were many things beside family cares to distract men's minds: the friction between the mother country and grave questions coming to the fore; the following out of mr. penn's plans for the improvement of the city, the bridging of creeks and the filling up of streets, for there was much marsh land; the building of docks for the trade that was rapidly enlarging, and the public spirit that was beginning to animate the staid citizens. philemon henry called his babe little one, child, and daughter, and the mother was too wise to flaunt the name in his face. she had great faith in the future. "for if you keep stirring your rising continually, you will have no good bread," she said. "many things are best left alone, until the right time." she dressed the child quaintly, and she grew sweeter every day. but they talked about the son they were to have, and other daughters. little phil wrote occasionally. he was studying in an english school, but he had spells of homesickness now and then, and his uncle said if he learned smartly he should take a voyage to america when he was older. nevitt grange was a great, beautiful place with a castle and a church and peasants working in the fields. and he was to go up to london to see the king. one damp, drizzling november night philemon henry came home with so severe a cold that he could hardly speak. he had been on the dock all day, supervising the unloading of a vessel of choice goods. he could eat no supper. bessy made him a brew of choice herbs and had him hold his feet in hot water while she covered him with a blanket and made a steam by pouring some medicaments on a hot brick. then he was bundled up in bed, but all night long he was restless, muttering and tumbling about. he would get up in the morning, but before he was dressed he fell across the bed like a log, and bessy in great fright summoned the doctor. he had never been ill before, and for a few days no one dreamed of danger. then his brother james was summoned, and his clerk from the warehouse, and there were grave consultations. bessy's buoyant nature could not at first take in the seriousness of the case. of course he would recover. he was so large and strong, and not an old man. alas! in a brief fortnight philemon henry lay dead in the house, and bessy was so stunned that she, too, seemed half bereft of life. she had loved him sincerely, and for months they had forgotten their unfortunate difference over the child's name. and when he was laid in the burying ground beside his first wife, there was a strange feeling that he no longer belonged to her, and she was all alone; that somehow the bond had snapped that united her with the friends. philemon henry had made a will in the lucid intervals of his fever. his brother was appointed guardian of the child and trustee of the property. to bessy was left an income in no wise extravagant, so long as she remained a widow. the remainder was to be invested for the child, who was not to come into possession until she was twenty-one. she and her mother were to spend half of every year on the farm, and in case of the mother's death she was to be consigned to the sole guardianship of her uncle. there were a few outside bequests and remembrances to faithful clerks. the other trustee was philemon's business partner, who had lately returned from holland. if friend henry had lived a few years longer he would have been a rich man, but in process of settlement his worldly wealth shrank greatly. uncle james proposed that the house should be sold, and she be free from the expense of maintaining it. "nay," she protested. "surely thou hast not the heart to deprive me of the little joy remaining to my life. the place is dear to me, for i can see him in every room, and the garden he tended with so much care. thou wilt kill me by insisting, and a murder will be on thy hands." she spent the winter and spring in the house. one day in every week she went to cousin wetherill's. the elder lady, a stickler for fashion, suggested that she should wear mourning. "i like not dismal sables," declared bessy. "and it is not the custom of friends. i shall no doubt do many things i should be restricted from were my husband alive, but i will honor him in this." she attended the friends' meeting on sunday afternoon, but the evening assemblies that had convened at the henrys' once a fortnight were transferred to another house. and in summer, although she went to the henry farm, she made visits in town and resumed some of her old friendships. the next autumn there came an opportunity to sell the house and the business, and james henry urged it. "then her home will be here with us," he said to his wife. "philemon was anxious to have the child brought up under the godly counsel of friends, and she will be less likely to stray. i think she is not a whole-hearted friend, and her relatives are worldly people." but when the place was sold she went at once to madam wetherill's. and she began to lay aside her quaker plainness and frequented christ church; indeed, though she was not very gay as yet, she was a great attraction at the house of her relative. before the summer ended an event occurred that gave her still greater freedom of action. this was a legacy from england left to the wardour branch in the new world, and as there were but three heirs, her portion was a very fair one. there was some talk of madam wetherill taking her to england, but the cold weather came on, and there seemed so many things to settle. that winter she went over to the world's people altogether. "i think, bessy, you should make a will," said madam wetherill as they were talking seriously one day. "it will not bring about death any sooner. i have had mine made this fifteen years, and am hale and hearty. but, if anything should happen, the child will be delivered over to the henrys and brought up in the drab-colored mode of belief. it seems hard for little ones so full of life." "she must have her free choice of religion. having tried both," and bessy gave a dainty smile, "i like my own church the best. if she should grow up and fall in love with a friend, she can do as she likes. there are not many as manly and handsome as was philemon. indeed i think they make their lives too sad-colored, too full of work. i should go wild if i lost my little one, but lois henry goes about as if nothing had happened. i found it a luxury to grieve for philemon. there is wisdom in thy suggestion." a lawyer was sent for and the matter laid before him. she could appoint another guardian now that she had money of her own to leave the child, and she could consign it part of the time to that guardian's care. there was much consultation before the matter was settled. and though, when the time came, she moved some chests of goods out to the farm and made a pretense of settling, she and madam wetherill soon after went up to new york and were gone three full months. james henry found himself circumvented in a good many ways by woman's wit. there was no dispute between them, and much as he objected to the ways of the world's people, he had no mind to defraud his small niece out of a considerable fortune that might reasonably come to her. indeed he began to be a little afraid of bessy henry's willfulness. and she might marry and leave all of her money to a new set of children. but fate ordered it otherwise. bessy went for a visit to trenton, and though she was rarely separated from her darling, this time she left her behind. she did not return as soon as she expected, on account of a feverish illness which would be over in a few days, her friends insisted, but instead developed into the scourge of smallpox, the treatment of which was not well understood at that time, and though she was healthy ordinarily, the bleeding so reduced her strength that she sank rapidly and in a week had followed her husband. madam wetherill was cut to the very heart by the sad incident, for she loved bessy as if she had been her own daughter, and she was tenderly attached to baby primrose, who was too little to realize all she had lost. when friend henry preferred his claim to his brother's child, he was met by some very decided opposition. in the first place the child had been christened in the church, and was, according to her mother's wishes, to be left in madam wetherill's charge for six months every year and be instructed in the tenets of her own church, and to remain perfectly free to make her choice when she was eighteen. if her mother's wishes could not be carried out, her fortune was to revert to madam wetherill, and she would inherit only what her father bequeathed her. "i cannot believe my brother was knowing to this nefarious scheme!" cried friend henry in a temper. "and i always thought primrose a most ungodly name. it was his wish she should become a friend." "and if your son marries among the world's people and leaves the faith what will you do?" asked madam wetherill. "i should disown him," was the hasty reply. "then bessy had a right to disown her child if she left the faith. see how unreasonable you are, friend henry, and how little true love is in your mind. now if you have any regard for the little child do not let us quite dismember her after the fashion of solomon's judgment. you may have her next summer, and i in the winter. i warn you, if you do not agree, i shall fight to the end. i have no children of my own to deprive if i go on lawing, and my purse will surely hold out as long as yours." that was true enough; longer, he knew. so, after a while, he assented ungraciously, and the matter was adjusted. but it was not a happy omen that the child's name should cause one quarrel and the possession of her another. she herself was bright and joyous, with much of her mother's merry nature and her clear, frank, beguiling blue eyes. chapter iii. in a new world. a very homesick little girl was primrose henry when she went out to her uncle's farm. the nurse went with her, but lois henry preferred that she should not stay. the child was old enough to wait upon herself. she had a longing for it to fill the vacant place of her own little girls, but she knew that was carnal and sinful, and strove against it. since god had deprived her of them it was not right to put aught else in their place. so it was a continual struggle between love and duty, and she was cold to the little stranger. the name, too, was a stumbling block. they had to accept it, however, and called her primrose with the soberest accent. uncle james felt sore about being worsted in his suit, for he had desired supreme control of the child. she soon found things to love. there was the big house dog rover. tiger, the watch dog, was kept chained in the daytime and let loose at night to ward off marauders. but he soon came to know her voice and wagged his tail joyously at her approach. she was quite afraid of the cows, but a pretty-faced one with no horns became a favorite, and she used to carry it tid-bits to eat. the cats, too, would come at her call, though they were not allowed in the house. and there was andrew. she was very shy of him at first, but he coaxed her to look at a bird's nest with its small, blue-speckled eggs. and there were the chickens that, as they grew larger, followed her about. andrew found the first ripe early pear for her, and the delicious, sweet july apple; he took her when he went fishing on the creek, but she always felt sorry for the poor fish so cruelly caught, it seemed to her. he taught her to ride bareback behind him, and some boyish tricks that amused her wonderfully. aunt lois trained her in spelling, in sums in addition, sewing patchwork, and spinning on the small wheel. but there was not enough in the simple living to keep a child busy half the time, and she soon found ways of roaming about, generally guarded by rover. aunt wetherill had said, "in six months you are coming back to us," so at first she was very glad she was not to stay always. it is the province of happy and wholesome childhood to forget the things that are behind, or even a future in which there is dread. the life of childhood is in the present, and it finds many pleasures. so now primrose had almost forgotten her joyous and sorrowful past, and really dreaded the next change. she hated to leave andrew, the dogs and the chickens, the cows that she did not fear quite so much, the great orchard, the long reaches of meadows, and the woods where the birds sang so enchantingly. but aunt lois had not grown into her heart, and she stood greatly in awe of uncle james, who had a way of speaking sharply to her. but black cato came with madam wetherill in the lumbering chaise, which was a great rarity at that period. primrose was dressed in a white homespun linen frock. at this early stage of the country's industries they were doing a good deal of weaving at germantown, though many people had small looms in their houses. imported goods were high, and now that so much of the land was cleared and houses built, they had time for other things, and were ingenious in discoveries. madam wetherill was very grand in her satin petticoat and brocade gown, that fell away at the sides and made a train at the back. her imported hat of leghorn, very costly at that period but lasting half a lifetime, had a big bow of green satin on top, and the high front was filled in with quilled lace and pink bows. from its side depended a long white lace veil with a deep worked border of flowers. her shoes had glittering buckles, and she wore a great brooch in her stomacher. primrose was dreadfully shy, she saw so few strangers. she scarcely raised her eyes to the rustling dame, and her heart beat with unwonted agitation. madam wetherill wanted to laugh at the queer little figure, but she was better bred, and kept a lingering fondness for the child's mother. besides, she was one of the possible heirs to her fortune, and some of the grandnieces and nephews were not altogether to her fancy. and though she was high-spirited and could both resent and argue fiercely, she had the wardour suavity, and some early training abroad in the court. "come hither, little one," and she held out her jeweled hand. "friend henry, i should have called to see my grandniece, but you remember we thought it best not so to do. you have had the uninterrupted six months, and i can see you have kept her well. what a clear complexion the child hath! a little sun-burned, perhaps. her mother was a fine hearty woman, and it was a thousand pities she had not been inoculated and cared for carefully, instead of being attacked in that blind way no one suspected. she was a sweet thing and i loved her as a daughter of my own, though i would fain not have had her marry philemon henry. but la! love rules us all, at least us worldly people. i am thankful for thy good care of primrose. and now, child, put on thy hood or cap or whatever 'tis, and come to thy new home, where we promise to treat thee well." "and return her to us," subjoined lois henry, almost afraid to let her go now that the time had come. "get thy hat, child." chloe entered just then with a glass of home-made wine of excellent flavor and age, and some newly baked cake that was quite enough in its very appearance to make one long to taste it. and the napkin she spread on my lady's lap was fine and soft, if it had not been woven in english air and taken a sea voyage. primrose had glanced up at the lady when she began to address her, and one by one old memories returned. friend henry never spoke of her mother or madam wetherill, and in six months a good deal drops out of a child's mind, but she smiled a little as the stream of remembrance swept over her, and recalled her pretty mother's kisses and fondness and a beautiful house that had made this seem like a desert to her. and madam wetherill squeezed the small hand in a friendly manner, then began to eat her cake and praise it as well, though friend henry protested against that. "chloe, bring the child's hat," she said in so calm a tone it hardly seemed a command. then madam took her by the hand and they walked out together and the black servant put her in the chaise. madam wetherill spread out her fine gown so that it almost covered the plain garments of the child. lois henry had merely uttered the briefest of good-byes, with no parting kiss. she had given her some counsel before. yet when she shut the main door that opened into the sitting room, for the strictest of friends would have no parlor, she sat down suddenly and put both hands to her face. it would be very hard to part thus every year, to know one's sincere efforts in training the child to a godly life would be uprooted by the vain show of the world, so attractive to youth, and the vision of the two little girls gone out never to return, swept over her with a pang. why could she not give them wholly to the lord, and be glad they were in his fold, safe from evil? and this little one--madam wetherill was quite at middle life--she herself was surely younger and might outlive the other. but at eighteen the child could choose, and she would be likely to choose the ways of the world, so seductive to youth. they did not go in to the city house, which was being repaired and cleaned. many people owned farms along the banks of the schuylkill and in the outlying places, where choice fruits of all kinds were cultivated, melons and vegetables for winter use as well as summer luxury. for people had to provide for winter, and there was much pickling and preserving and candying of fruits, and storing commoner things so that they would keep well. the houses were large, if rambling and rather plain, with porches wide enough to dance on on the beautiful moonlight nights. and there were sailing and rowing on the river, lovely indeed then with its shaded winding banks, mysterious nooks, and little creeks that meandered gently through sedgy grass and rested on the bosom of their mother, lost in her tenderness. parties of young people often met for the afternoon and evening. there would be boating and dancing and much merrymaking. the people of this section were less strenuous than the new englanders. they affiliated largely with their neighbors to the south. indeed, many of the business men owned tobacco plantations in maryland and virginia. they kept in closer contact with the mother country as well. madam wetherill herself had crossed the ocean several times and brought home new fashions and court gowns and manners. the english novelists and poets were quite well read, and, though the higher education of women was not approved of, there were bright young girls who could turn an apt quotation, were quick at repartee, and confided to their bosom friend that they had looked over sterne and swift. they could indite a few verses on the marriage of a friend, or the death of some loved infant, but pretty, attractive manners and a few accomplishments went farther in the gentler sex than much learning. the friends who were in society were not so over strict as to their attire. those who lived much alone on the farms, like lois henry, or led restricted lives in the town, pondered much on how little they could give to the world. but they took from it all they could in thriftiness and saving. young mrs. penn and mrs. logan and many another indulged in pretty gear, and grays that went near to lavender and peachy tints. there were pearl-colored brocades and satins, and dainty caps of sheerest material that allowed the well-dressed hair to show quite distinctly. there was also a certain gayety and sprightliness in entertaining, since there were no matinã©es or shows to visit. both hostess and guest were expected to contribute of their best. madam wetherill had long been a well-to-do widow and conducted her large estate with ability, though she employed a sort of overseer or confidential clerk. she had inherited a good deal in her own right from the wardours and sundry english relatives. some of the wetherills were of the quaker persuasion, but her husband had wandered a little from the fold. she had been a churchwoman, and still considered herself so, but she was of a very independent turn, and on her last visit to england had come home rather affronted with the light esteem in which many professed to hold the colonies. "they talk as if we were a set of ignoramuses," she declared in high dudgeon. "we are worthy of nothing but the tillage of fields and whatever industries the will of the mother country directs. are we, their own offspring, to be always considered children and servants, and have masters appointed over us without any say of our own? we can build ships. why can we not trade with any port in the world? what if we have raised up no master chaucer nor shakspere nor ben jonson, nor wise lord bacon and divers storytellers--did england do this in her early years when she was hard bestead with the hordes from the continent? we have had to make our way against indian savages, and did we not conquer the french in our mother's behalf? and then to be set down as ignorant children, forsooth, and told what we must do and from what we must refrain. the colonies have outgrown swaddling-clothes!" but she was fond of gayety and pleasure as well, and having no children to place in the world and no really near kindred but first and second cousins she saw no need of being penurious, and lived with a free hand. she was very fond of young people also, and it seemed a great pity she had not been mother of a family. her city house was a great rendezvous, and her farmhouse was the stopping place of many a gay party, and often a crowd to supper with a good deal of impromptu dancing afterward. the porch was full of young people now, with two or three men in military costume, so they drove around to the side entrance. mistress janice was busy ordering refreshments and making a new kind of frozen custard. a pleasant-faced, youngish woman came to receive them. "here is the little quaker, patty, in her homespun gown. i might as well have sent you, for friend henry made no time at all, but was as meek as a mild-mannered mother sheep. it is the law, of course, and they had no right to refuse, but i was a little afraid of a fuss, and that perhaps they had set up the child against such ungodly people." "oh, how she has grown!" cried patty. "child, have you forgotten me?" "oh, no!" said primrose a little shyly. "and my own mother liked you so. you were my nurse----" she slipped her hand within that of the woman. "she was a sweet person, poor dear! it will always be a great loss to thee, little child. oh, madam, the eyes are the same; blue as a bit of sky between mountains. but she is not as fair----" "thou must bleach her up with sour cream and softening lotions that will not hurt the skin. there, child, go with patty, who will get thee into something proper. but she is like her mother in this respect, common garb does not disfigure her." patty led her upstairs and through the hall into a sort of ell part where there were two rooms. the first had a great work table with drawers, and some patterns pinned up to the window casings that seemed like parts of ghosts. the floor was bare, but painted yellow. there was a high bureau full of drawers with a small oblong looking-glass on top, a set of shelves with a few books, and numerous odds and ends, a long bench with a chintz-covered pallet, and some chairs, beside a sort of washing stand in the corner. the adjoining room was smaller and had two cot beds covered with patchwork spreads. "yes, thou hast grown wonderfully," repeated patty. "and who cut thy lovely hair so short? but it curls like thy mother's. i find myself talking quaker to thee, though to be sure the best quality use it." "i had so much hair and it was so warm that it hath been cut several times this summer." "oh, you charming little friend!" patty gave her a hug and half a dozen kisses. "i'll warrant thou hast forgotten the old times!" "it comes back to me," and the blue eyes kindled with a soft light that would have been entrancing in a woman. "aunt lois checked me when i would have talked about them. and when i was here--it was in the other house, i remember--i was so sad and lonely without my dear mamma." she gave a sigh and her bosom swelled. "patty, i cannot understand clearly. what is death, and why does god want people when he has so many in heaven? and a little girl has but one mother." "law, child! i do not know myself. the catechism may explain it, but i was ever a dull scholar at reading and liked not study. yes, thy face must be bleached up, and i will begin this very night. they were good to thee"--tentatively. "i always felt afraid of uncle james, though he never slapped me but once, when i ran after the little chickens. they were such balls of yellow down that i wanted to hug them. afterward i asked andrew what i might do. he was very good to me, and he wished i had been his little sister." patty laughed. "and did you wish it too?" "i liked my own dear mother best. when i was out in the woods alone i talked to her. do you think she could hear in the sky? aunt lois said it was wrong to wish her back again, or to wish for anything that god took away. and so i ceased to wish for anybody, but learned to put on my clothes and tie my strings and button, and do what aunt lois told me. i can wipe cups and saucers and make my bed and sweep my room and weed in the garden, and sew, and spin a little, but i cannot make very even thread yet. and to knit--i have knit a pair of stockings, patty. aunt lois said those i brought were vanity." "stuff and nonsense! these quakers would have the world go in hodden gray, and clumsy shoes and stockings. let us see thine. oh, ridiculous! we will give them to little catty, the scrubwoman's child. now i will put thee in something decent." she began to disrobe her and bathed her shoulders and arms in some fragrant water. "oh, how delightful! it smells like roses," and she pressed the cloth to her face. "it is rose-water. what was in the garden at the henrys'? or is everything wicked that does not grow to eat?" "the roses were saved to make something to put in cake. but the lavender was laid in the press and the drawers. it was very fragrant, but not like the roses." she combed out the child's hair until it fell in rings about her head. then she put on some fine, pretty garments and a slip of pink silk, cut over from a petticoat of madam wetherill's. her stockings were fine, cut over as well, and her low shoes had little heels and buckles. "oh," she cried with sudden gayety that still had a pathos in it, "it brings back mamma and so many things! were they packed away, patty, like one's best clothes? it is as if i could pull them out of a trunk where they had been shut up in the dark. and there were so many pretty garments, and a picture of father that i used to wear sometimes about my neck with a ribbon." "yes, yes; madam has a boxful, saving for you, unless you turn quaker. but we shall keep a sharp eye on you that you do not fall in love with any of the broadbrims. but your father was one of the handsomest of his sect, and a gentleman. it was whispered that his trade made him full lenient of many things, and your mother looked like a picture just stepped out of a frame. she had such an air that her dressing never made her plain. i am afraid you will not be as handsome. oh, fie! what nonsense i am talking! i shall make thee as vain as a peacock!" primrose laughed gayly. she felt happy and unafraid, as if she had been released from bondage. and yet everything seemed so strange she hardly dared stir. why, this was the way she felt at aunt lois' the first week or two. there was a rustle in the little hall, and the child turned. "i declare, patty, thou hast transformed our small quaker, and improved her beyond belief. she is not so bad when all's said and done!" "but all isn't done yet, madam. when she comes to be bleached, and her hair grown out, but la! it's just a cloud now, a little too rough for silk, but we will soon mend that, and such a soft color." "canst thou courtesy, child? let me see?" primrose looked a little frightened and glanced from one to the other. "this way." patty held up a bit of the skirt of her gown, took a step forward with one foot, and made a graceful inclination. "now try. surely you knew before you fell into the hands of that strait sect who consider respectable manners a vanity. try--now again. that does fairly well, my lady." primrose was so used to obeying that, although her face turned red, she went through the evolution in a rather shy but not ungraceful manner. "thou has done well with the frock, patty, and it is becoming. my! but she looks another child. now i am going to lead thee downstairs and thou must not be silly, nor frighted of folks. they knew thy dear mother." madame wetherill took her by the hand and led her through another hall and down a wide staircase to the main hall that ran through the house. a great rug lay in the front square, and on one side was a mahogany settle with feather cushions in gay flowered chintz. out on the porch was a girlish group laughing and jesting, sipping mead, and eating cake and confections. little tables placed here and there held the refreshments. the sun was dropping down and the schuylkill seemed a mass of molten crimson and gold commingled. the fresh wind blew up through the old-fashioned garden of sweet herbs and made the air about fragrant. "this is my little grandniece, primrose henry," she exclaimed, presenting the child. "some of you have seen her mother, no doubt, who died so sadly at trenton of that miserable smallpox." "oh, and her father, too!" exclaimed mrs. pemberton, putting down her glass and coming forward. primrose had made her courtesy and now half buried her face in madame wetherill's voluminous brocade. "a fine man indeed was philemon henry, with the air of good descent, and the manner of courts. and we always wondered if he would not have come over to us if his sweetheart had stood firm. girls do not realize all their power. but it was a happy marriage, what there was of it. alas! that it should have ended so soon! but i think the child favors her mother." "and it will not do to say all the sweet things we know about her mother," laughed pretty miss chew. "sweet diet is bad for infants and had better be saved for their years of appreciation. you see we may never reach discretion." "come hither, little maid," said a persuasive voice. "i have two at home not unlike thee, and shall be glad to bring them when madam comes home to arch street. primrose! what an odd name, savoring of english gardens." some of the younger women pulled her hither and thither and kissed her, and one pinned a posy on her shoulder. then madam wetherill led her down quite to the edge of the porch, where sat a rather thin, fretted-looking woman, gowned in the latest style, and a girl of ten, much more furbelowed than was the custom of attiring children. "this is the child i was telling thee of, bessy wardour's little one that she had to leave with such regrets. this is a relative of thy mother's, primrose, and this is anabella. i hope you two children may be friends." there was a certain curious suavity in madam wetherill's tone that was not quite like her every-day utterances. "a wardour--yes; was there not something about her marriage----" "she became a friend for love's sake," laughed madam wetherill. "others stood ready to marry her, but she would have none of them--girls are willful." the lady rose with a high dignity. "it grows late," she said, "and if you will keep your promise, dear aunt, i should like to be sent home, since it is not well for children to be out in the evening dews. and i hope the little girls may indeed be friends." "yes, i will order the chaise." others had risen. mrs. pemberton and her daughter, and two or three more, had been bidden to supper. some of the ladies had come on horseback, the ordinary mode of traveling. they clustered about madam wetherill and praised her cake and said how glad they would be to get her in the city again. then they pinned up their pretty skirts and put on their safeguard petticoats and were mounted by cato and went off, nodding. the chaise took in two other ladies. the little girls had simply eyed each other curiously, but neither made any advance, and parted formally. then patty came and took primrose upstairs and gave her a supper of bread and milk and a dish of cut peaches and cream. afterward she undressed her and put her in one of the cots, bidding her go to sleep at once. she was needed elsewhere. but primrose felt desperately, disobediently wide awake. it had been such an afternoon of adventure after six months of the quietest routine that had made memory almost lethargic. the remembrances came trooping back--the long time it seemed to her when she had yearned and cried in secret for her mother, the two little girls that in some degree comforted her, and then the half terror and loneliness on the farm until she had come to love the dumb animals and her cousin andrew. this was all so different. a long, long while and then she must go back. what made people so unlike? what made goodness and badness? and what was god that she stood dreadfully in awe of, who could see her while she could not see him? thus, swinging back and forth amid unanswerable questions, she fell asleep. chapter iv. of many things. madam wetherill was much engrossed with visitors and overseeing the farm work, ordering what of the produce was to be sold, what of the flax and the wool sent away to be spun and woven, and the jars and boxes and barrels set aside to be taken into the town later on. patty was busy sewing for the little girl and her mistress, and sometimes, when she was bothered, she was apt to be rather sharp. at others she proved entertaining. primrose learned to know her way about the great house and the garden and orchard. now she must go with a bonnet to protect her from the sun and linen gloves to keep her hands white, or to get them that color. at night she was anointed with cosmetics, and her hair was brushed and scented, but needed no help from curling tongs or pins. it was like a strange dream to her, and in the morning when she awoke she wondered first if she had not overslept and missed the call of aunt lois; then she would laugh, remembering. she was a very cheerful, tractable child, and madam wetherill was much drawn to her. sometimes she went riding with her in the coach, which was a rather extravagant luxury in those days. and then they came into town and it was stranger still to the little girl. but now she began to be busy. there were some schools where boys and girls went together, but many of the best people had their daughters educated at home. it seemed quite desirable that they should learn french, as it was useful to have a language servants could not understand. they began with latin, as that gave a better foundation for all else. then there was enough of arithmetic to keep household accounts and to compute interest. madam wetherill had found her knowledge most useful, as she had a large estate to manage and had no such objections as many of the women of that period. there was the spinet and singing of songs, dancing and doing fine needlework. anabella morris was to come in for the accomplishments. her mother professed to hold the weightier knowledge in slight esteem. "anabella will no doubt have a husband to manage for her," her mother said with a high sort of indifference. "women make but a poor fist at money affairs." "indeed, niece mary, i do not see but what i have managed my affairs as well as most men could have done them for me. and look at hester morris, left with a handsome patrimony by an easy husband, and now dependent on relatives. i am glad there is talk of her second marriage." "mere talk, it may be." with her nose in the air, mary morris was not a little jealous that her almost penniless sister-in-law should capture the prize she had been angling for. "let us hope it will be something more. i hear miss morris hath promised her a wedding gown, and i will add a brocade with a satin petticoat. hester is a pleasant body, if not overdowered with wisdom." mrs. mary morris was not poor, though it needed much contriving to get along on her income. she was very fond of play, one of the vices of the time, and though she was often successful, at others she lost heavily. she was fond of being considered much richer than she really was, and kept her pinches to herself. one of her dreams had been the possibility of being asked to stay at wetherill house for the winter, at least, but this had not happened. she was not as near a connection as bessy wardour had been, but she made the most of the relationship, and there were not a great many near heirs; so all might reasonably count on having something by and by. she had received a goodly supply of provisions from the farm, and the offer had been made for anabella to share primrose henry's teachers with no extra charge. "you are very generous to the child," she said in a complaining tone. "i thought philemon henry was in excellent circumstances." "so he was." "and is not her guardian, the other one, a well-to-do quaker? why must you be so regardful of her?" "yes, she will have a nice sum, doubtless. i want her brought up to fit her station, which the henrys, being strict friends, would not do. her mother appointed me her guardian, you know. i do nothing beside my duty. but if you do not care----" "oh, 'tis a real charity to offer it for anabella, and i am glad to accept. she is well trained, i suppose, so no harm can come of the association." "oh, no harm indeed," returned the elder dryly. after the simplicity of life at the henrys' there seemed such a confusion of servants that primrose was almost frightened. mistress janice kent kept them in order, and next to madam wetherill ruled the house. patty was a seamstress, a little higher than the maid who made her mistress ready for all occasions, looked after her clothes, did up her laces, and crimped her ruffles. but patty wrote her invitations and answered the ordinary notes; and she was appointed to look after and care for primrose, who was too old for a nurse and not old enough for a maid. patty was a woman of some education, while mistress kent had been to france and holland, and could both write and speak french. patty's advantages had been rather limited, but she was quick and shrewd and made the most of them, though the feeling between her and janice kent rather amused madam wetherill. janice was always trying to "set her down in her proper place," but what that was exactly it would have been hard to tell. janice would not have had time to look after the child, and this responsibility rather raised her. then she had wonderful skill with caps and gowns, and could imitate any imported garment, for even then those who could sent abroad for garments made up in the latest style, though it was london and not paris style. primrose kept her bed in patty's room. there were plain little gowns for her daily wear, but white aprons instead of homespun ginghams. she came to breakfast with madam wetherill when there were no guests, or only one or two intimates. for the people of the town had much of the southern ways of hospitality, and when on their farms in summer often invited their less fortunate friends. it was not always lack of money, but many of the merchants in trade and commerce between the home ports had no time to spend upon country places, and were not averse to having their wives and daughters enjoy some of the more trying summer weeks in the cooler suburban places. so primrose sat like a mouse unless someone spoke to her, and it was considered not best to take too much notice of children, as it made them forward. then there were two hours devoted to studying, and sewing with patty until dinner, which was often taken upstairs in the sewing room. twice a week the tutor came for latin and french, the former first; and then anabella came for french, and after that the little girls could have a play or a walk, or a ride with madam wetherill. then there was a dancing lesson twice a week, on alternate days, and a young woman came to teach the spinet, which was a rather unusual thing, as women were not considered to know anything except housekeeping well enough to teach it. but this was one of madam wetherill's whims. for the girl's family had been unfortunate, and the elder woman saw in this scheme a way to assist them without offering charity. "do you suppose the little girls i knew last winter will ever come back?" she asked of patty one day. "oh, la, no!" was the reply. "five years of school lies before them--not like master dove's school, where one goes every morning, but a great boarding house where they are housed and fed and study, and have only half of saturday for a holiday. and they study from morning to night." "it must be very hard," sighed primrose. "and why do they learn so much?" "to be sure, that's the puzzle! and they say women don't need to know. they can't be lawyers nor doctors nor ministers, nor officers in case of war, nor hold offices." "but they can be queens. there was queen elizabeth, and queen anne. i read about them in a book downstairs one day. and if women can be queens, why can't they be something else?" patty looked down, nonplused for a moment. "i suppose it was because the kings died, and all the sons were dead, if they ever had any. well--i don't know why woman shouldn't be 'most anything; but she isn't, and that's all about it. there's more than one man wanted to marry the madam, but she's wise not to take a spendthrift--or one of the friends, who would be obstinate and set in his ways. she's good enough at bargaining, and she has a great tobacco plantation at annapolis, and is as smart as any man. and she can beat half of them at piquet and ombre and win their money, too." "what is piquet?" "oh, lord, child! i've always heard that little pitchers had big ears, and many a rill runs to the sea. don't you carry things, now, nor ask questions. little girls have no call to know such things. what were we talking about when i made that slip? oh, about those girls. they'll be trained in fine manners. the english ladies go to court and see the king and the queen and the princesses, and have gay doings." "have we any court?" "oh, dear, no! england governs us. but there's a good deal of talk--there, child, get some sewing--hemstitching or something--and don't talk so much." she was silent quite a while. then she said gravely: "i think i liked the other girls better than i do anabella. is she my real cousin? she said so yesterday. and once, just before i came here, andrew said i had no cousin but him." "that's true enough. andrew is a real cousin, your father's brother's son. and your mother had no brothers or sisters. but it's a fashion to say cousin. it sounds more respectful. mistress morris is a great one to scrape relationship with high-up folks." primrose suddenly wondered if anybody missed her at the farm. the little chickens must have grown into quite large ones, and all the other things she cared for so much. there was a sudden homesickness. she would like to see them. but--yes, she _would_ rather be here. there were so many things to learn. she didn't see any sense in the latin, and she was sure it didn't make the french any easier. but the spinet---"patty," she ventured timidly, "do you not think i ought to go at my notes? i didn't play them very well yesterday, and the mistress rapped me over the knuckles." she spread her small hand out on her knee and inspected it. "yes. dear me! you'll never get that kerchief done. but, then, run along. there's no one downstairs. they are all invited to mistress pean's to take tea, and pick everybody to pieces." "but they have no feathers," said the little girl with a quaint smile, as she folded up her work and ran her needle through it. then she put it in a large silken bag that hung on a nail, and remembered with a half-guilty conscience that there were some stockings to darn, and she almost expected to hear patty ask about them and call her back. down over the wide steps she tripped. she was half minded to take a plunge amid the down cushions on the settle. she had sometimes turned somersaults in the grass when no one was by, being very careful not to let aunt lois surprise her. she felt like that now, but she walked along decorously. the great company room was always a marvel to her. it held so many wonderful things. there was, even then, a good deal of luxury for those who had the money to buy it. england did not care how much her colonists spent so that it passed through her hands. she brought treasures from the far east--there were only a very few ports allowed to the americans. and here were oriental rugs on the polished floor; furniture carved and padded in brocade, tables with massive claw feet, and others in thin spindles that seemed hardly stout enough to hold up the top. there was a great carved chimney-piece with some tiles let in, and some curious iridescent bulbs not unlike the "bullseyes" over the wide hall door, but in different phases of light they gave out varied colors. there were queer, beautiful, and grotesque ornaments, some ugly chinese gods that had been brought hither by sea captains, but if to convert the new continent, the scheme certainly would prove a failure. primrose always looked at them with a shudder, and instinctively thought of the friends' meeting with the soft gray gowns and shawls with fine fringes, or in summer just a plain white kerchief crossed over the bosom. then there was a great blue-and-white chinese pagoda, ornamented with numerous bells, every story growing smaller. it stood on a solid clawfoot table, and beside it, also in china, a mandarin with flowing sleeves and a long pigtail in dark-blue. there were curious chairs as well, and no end of square ottomans covered with brocade or tapestry, sadly faded now and some of the edges worn. everywhere about were candlesticks and snuffers, for sometimes the room was brilliantly lighted. adjoining this, with a wide doorway between, was a room not quite so long, but jutting out at the side. in a sort of alcove stood the spinet. there were also two corner buffets, as they were called. one of them had drawers at the bottom, and the shelves above held various heirlooms, and quaint old silver, with the punch bowl over two hundred years old, bearing the crown mark. the other contained a good many books, for the descendants of the cavaliers were not averse to something lighter than the "book of martyrs." an old brown leather-covered shakspere, and some of his compeers, and bacon, lord verulam, reposing peacefully on the shelf underneath. mr. benjamin franklin had given an impetus to knowledge and ventured upon the writing of books himself. primrose wandered among them now and then, not understanding, and having a greater fondness for the versifying part than the prose. but she did pore over "rasselas," and an odd collection of adventures in eastern lands, very like the "arabian nights." but now she went straight at her spinet. she was thrilled through and through with the sound of the notes, and often before she was aware her little fingers would wander off in some melody, recalling how a bird sang or how a streamlet rippled over the stones. then she would stop in affright and go carefully over her lesson. anabella really succeeded better than she did. there was no singing bird in her brain that tempted her to stray. but sometimes the music master was quite angry with her, and said she "might as well be a boy driving nails or facing stone." but now she went over and over and would not be seduced by "wonderful melodies." it was quite dark when mistress janice called her to supper in the tea room, with patty. the two women had a great deal of sparring, it would seem. at the farm there was never any bickering. once in a while uncle james scolded some of the laborers. yet it seemed curious to primrose that they should talk so sharply to each other and the next minute join in gay laughter. the very next day she had a visitor. uncle james had been in once and had a long talk with madam wetherill. after he had given her a somewhat serious scrutiny and asked a few questions she was dismissed. but aunt wetherill was out now and andrew henry asked for her. "promise me you won't run off with him," exclaimed patty. "i must finish this gown, as madam goes to mrs. chew's this afternoon, and all these furbelows have to be sewed on. folks can't be content with a plain gown any more, but must have it laced and ruffled and bows stuck on it as if it was fair time!" "when is fair time?" asked primrose, as she was putting on a clean pinafore. "how you take one up, child! there are fairs and fairs. they started in england, where all things do. for all we put on such mighty independent airs we do but follow like a flock of sheep. there, child, run and don't stand gaping! and mind that you don't attempt to run off with friend broadbrim." she was glad to be clasped in the strong arms and have the hearty kiss on her forehead. "it is like a different place without thee," he exclaimed. "i cannot make the days go fast enough until spring opens and thou come back with the birds. we are such quiet folk. and here all is gayety. wilt thou ever be content again?" "is gayety so very wrong, andrew? it seems quite delightful to me," she returned wistfully. "and when the ladies move about in their pretty gowns it is like great flocks of birds, or the meadows with lilies and daisies and red clover-heads. why do they have all the bright colors?" a hint of perplexity crossed her brow. "surely i cannot tell. and the woods have been robed in scarlet and yellow, and such tints of red brown that one could study them by the hour. and the corn has turned a russet yellow and looks like the tents of an army. yes, there are divers colors in the world." "and sometimes i have wished to be a butterfly. they were so beautiful, skimming along. god made them surely." "yes. but he put no soul in them. perhaps that was to show his estimate of fine gear." primrose sighed. "they would make heaven more beautiful. and the singing birds! oh, surely, cousin andrew, they must be saved." "nay, child, such talk is not seemly. what should a thing without a soul do in heaven where all is praise and worship?" "and the worship at christ church is very nice, with the singing of psalms and hymns and the people praying together. why do we not sing, andrew?" he hugged her closer. the soft "we" went to his heart. she had not identified herself with these people of forms and ceremonies then, nor quite accepted their "vain repetitions." "thou wilt understand better in the course of a few years. there is much mummery in all of these things. they who worship god truly do it in spirit and in truth. but tell me what else thou art doing on week-days?" she told him of her studies. the latin and french seemed quite useless to him, although he knew it was taught at the friends' school, and many of the persuasion he knew did not disdain education. but his father was quite as rigorous as the church catechism about the duties pertaining to one's station in life, and as his son was to be a farmer and inherit broad acres, he cared for him to know nothing outside of his business. but the bits of history, of men and women, interested him very much. "i hear them talk sometimes," she said. "and some of them do not want a king. why is he not content to govern england and let us alone?" "i am not clear in my own mind about that," he answered thoughtfully. "so many of us came over here to escape the rigors of a hard rule and to worship god as we chose. and methinks we ought to have the right to live and do business as we choose. i should like to hear able men talk on both sides. i heard some things in the market place this morning that startled me strangely." "they will not have the tea," she said tentatively. "it is queer, bitter stuff, so i do not wonder." he laughed at that. "yes, i heard we were like to be as famous as boston." "patty knows about boston," she said. "she was a little girl there. but she doesn't like it very much." mistress kent came in with some cake and a home brew of beer, and asked politely after mrs. henry. then andrew rose to go. "i cannot take thee just yet," he said, twining the little fingers about one of his. "but the time will soon pass. and i shall be likely to come in on market day once in a while, if i do not make bad bargains!" with a grave sort of smile. "then i shall see thee, and take home a good account." "thou mayst indeed do that," said mistress janice, with high dignity. "she learns many things in this great house." he stooped and kissed her, and she somehow felt sorry to say good-by. "i suppose," exclaimed his father that evening, "that the child has been tutored out of her simple ways, and is aping the great lady with fine feathers and all that!" "she is not much changed and plainly dressed, and seems not easily to forget her old life, asking about many things." "my brother philemon's intentions will be sorely thwarted. he was called upon to give up his son, but i am not sure i should have done it for worldly gain. it was going back to the bondage we were glad to escape. and he had counted on other sons to uphold the faith. but the mother was only half-hearted, and the child will always be in peril." andrew henry wondered a little about this question of faith. he had heard strange talk in the market place to-day. the puritans of boston had persecuted and banished the friends, and the friends here could hardly tolerate the royalist proclivities of the episcopalians. if war should come, would one have to choose between his country and his faith? chapter v. a bouleversement. it was a winter of much perturbation. grave questions were being discussed--indeed, there had been overt acts of rebellion. and while the friends counseled peace and preached largely non-resistance, those in trade found they were being sadly interfered with, and this led them to look more closely into the matter and frequent some of the meetings where discussions were not always of the moderate sort. there had been a congress held at smith's tavern after captain ayres, with his ship _polly_, had thought it wisdom to turn about upon reaching gloucester point and hearing that the town had resolved he should not land his cargo of tea. boston and new york had destroyed it, and he thought it wiser not to risk a loss. they went, afterward, to carpenter's hall, where the reverend mr. duchã© made a prayer and read the collect for the day. the discussion was rather informal, if spirited, and the general disuse of english goods was enjoined. a sentiment was given afterward: "may the sword of the parent never be stained with the blood of his children." there were a number of friends present at the table. one, who had protested vigorously against the possibilities of war, said heartily: "this is not a toast, but a prayer. come, let us join it." christmas was kept with much jollity on the part of many who had no fear of the scarlet lady before their eyes, and whose affiliations with virginia and maryland were of the tenderer sort. there was great merrymaking at madam wetherill's, visitors having been invited for a week's stay. and just at this time the widow hester morris married again, and anabella assumed a great deal of consequence. wedding festivities lasted several days. primrose, in a flowered silken gown, was permitted to go and have a taste of the bride cake, with strict injunctions to refuse the wine. there were several children, and they danced the minuet, to the great admiration of the grown people. there were some other pleasures as well. the creeks were frozen over and there were fascinating slides,--long, slippery places like a sheet of glass,--and the triumph was to slide the whole length and keep one's head well up. you could spread your arms out like a windmill, only you might come in contact with some other arms, and the great thing was to preserve a correct and elegant balance. sometimes there were parties of large girls, and then the little ones had to retire elsewhere lest they might get run over and have a bad fall. one of the pretty ways was to gather up one's skirt by an adroit movement, and suddenly squat down and sail along like a ball. there was a great art in going down, for you could lurch over so easily, and you were almost sure to come down on your nose. primrose and bella went out together after the former learned her way about a little. and though anabella seemed a rather precise body and easily shocked over some things, she was quite fond of the boys, and often timed their play hour so as to meet the boys coming home from school, and have a laughing chat with them. primrose had a scarlet coat edged with fur and a hood to match. she looked very charming in it, and even a stranger could see the glances of admiration bestowed upon her. she was very shy with strangers, though she did make friends with two or three girls. "you must be very careful," declared the pretentious bella. "i wouldn't take so much notice of that hannah lee. they are very common people. her father is a blacksmith and her mother was a servant before she was married. and they are quakers." "so was my own father and my dear mother." "but your mother wasn't really, you know, and she had all those english wardour relations, and was well connected. but the lees are very common people, and poor. you see such people hang to you when you are grown up. my mother says one cannot be too careful. then i think aunt wetherill would not approve." she did like the fresh, rosy, brown-eyed hannah lee, though her dress, from crown almost to toe, was drab, and somewhat faded at that. her gray beaver hat was tied snugly under her chin, and her yarn stockings were gray. her shoes had plain black buckles on them. but there were other little gray birds as well, and some quaker damsels were in cloth and fur. primrose thought she would ask aunt wetherill. one morning she was up in the sewing room and patty was downstairs pressing out a gown that was to be made over. "you look nice and rosy, little primrose," said the lady. "a run out of doors is a good thing for you. i saw a flock of children sliding yesterday, and i thought i knew the scarlet hood. it is more sensible than a hat. did you like the fun?" "oh, so much!" answered primrose, her soft eyes shining like a summer sky. "and i can keep up a good long while. but, when i go down, i do often tip over." "thou wilt learn all these things. i am glad to have thee with the children, too. it is not good for little ones to live too much with grown people and get their ways." "i know some of the girls," said primrose. "i like hannah lee very much. she goes to master dove's school, but bella said she was poor." "fie! fie! children should put on no such airs! bella hath altogether too many of them, and her mother is not an overwise woman! let me hear no more about whether one is poor or rich." primrose was not at all hurt by the chiding tone. she was so glad that she might keep her friend with a clean conscience that she looked up and smiled. "thou art a wholesome little thing, and the training of the friends has some good points. let me see--i think thou canst have a white beaver this winter, and a cloak with swansdown. and i will give bella one of blue, so she shall not ape thee. i do not like one to copy the other when one purse is long and the other short." "oh, a white beaver! that would be beautiful!" and the eager eyes were alight more with pleasure than vanity. "she is like her mother," madam wetherill thought. primrose was really happy not to give up hannah lee. they could find so many subjects of interchange--what the children were doing at master dove's school, and the plays they had. the snowballing, although as yet there had been only one snow, had been almost a battle between two parties of boys. "but master dove said no one should dip the balls in water and then let them freeze, or he would get birched soundly. the soft ones are more fun, methinks; they often go to pieces in a shower. my brothers and i snowball after the night work is done. we can keep no servant, so we all have to help." that was being poor, primrose supposed. yet hannah seemed a great deal kinder and merrier than bella, and never said sharp things, or was haughty to a playmate. what primrose had to tell seemed like wonderland to the little girl whose only story was "pilgrim's progress"--the great house, with rugs and silken curtains, the chinese mandarin and the pagoda, the real pictures that had come from england, and a beautiful, full-length portrait of her own mother, the books in the library, and the gay companies, the silver and fine dishes, and all the servants. not that primrose boasted. she was very free from such a fault. it was not hers, either, and she had no sense of possession. she spoke of her life at her uncle's as well, of the quiet at the farm, of the sewing and spinning. "i shall learn to spin another year," said hannah with interest. "i like the merry, buzzing sound. and when i am tall enough for the big wheel i shall enjoy running to and fro. i have an uncle at germantown who weaves. mother lets us visit him now and then, and i delight in that." hannah had so many aunts and cousins that the little girl quite envied her. bella morris had a great deal to say about her newly married aunt, who, after all, was no real relation, but her father's sister-in-law. she had married a mr. mathews, a well-to-do widower with two growing-up sons who were among the mischievous lads of the day, for even then signs were reversed and gates carried off and front stoops barricaded; even windows were broken in sport, the sport seeming to be chiefly in the adroitness with which one could parry suspicion. they had a house on spruce street, set in the midst of a considerable garden, while not a few respectable business men lived over their stores and offices. polly morris really grudged her sister-in-law the good fortune, for hester had been left much worse off than she, but hester had no incumbrances, and was younger. in january another congress met, and there was a warm discussion about home manufactures. underneath was a seething mass ready to bubble over at another turn of the screws. england had utterly refused to listen to the colonists or accede to their wishes. franklin returned home heavy-hearted indeed, and though he counseled prudence and moderation, and could not believe there would be what he foresaw, if it came to an open issue, would prove a long and bitter struggle. but the gun was fired at lexington, and the state of massachusetts stood forth an undisguised rebel. one market day andrew came in again. primrose had wondered at his long absence. there had been many things to disturb the serenity of the peaceful farmhouse. a sister of aunt lois' who had cared for the mother during years of widowhood was taken down, and died after a short illness. the mother, old and feeble, and wandering in her mind, needed constant care. there were three children also, a lad of sixteen and two younger girls, one of whom was devoted to the poor old grandmother. there was nothing to do but to offer them a home, james henry felt, for lois would want to make her mother's declining years as comfortable as possible. they were not penniless, but the income was small, and the farm in debt, so it was judged best to sell it and invest the money for the children. penn morgan was a stout young fellow and would be of much assistance to uncle james, while he was learning to do for himself. rachel, at fourteen, was very womanly, and little faith was ten. all this had happened during march. james henry paid little attention to outside matters. he was prosperous enough under the king's rule, he thought, and he was not a man to take up the larger questions. "we can hardly have thy brother's child here this season," lois henry said to her husband one evening as she sat in her straight-backed chair, too tired even to knit when the cares of the day were over, and the poor, half-demented mother safely asleep. he looked up in anger. "not have her here?" he repeated vaguely. "there is so much more care for me. rachel is a great help and a comforting maiden. i never thought anyone could come so near to the place of the lost ones, the daughters i had hoped would care for my old age. faith is gentle and tractable, but two children so nearly of an age, yet with such a different training, would lead to no end of argument and do each other no good. i dare say madam wetherill has used her best efforts to uproot our ways and methods." "that would be a small and unjust thing, remembering her father's faith." there was something not quite a smile crossed lois' face, so tired now that a few of the placid lines had lost their sweetness. "yet it was what we did, james." lois had a great sense of fair-dealing and truth-telling. so far she had had no bargains to make with the world, nor temptations to get the better of anyone. "we thought it our duty to instruct her in her father's faith and keep her from the frivolities that were a snare to her mother. i dare say madam wetherill looks at the reverse side for her duty. they go to christ church, andrew said, and though christening signifieth nothing to us, she may impress the child with a sense of its importance. then the wetherill house has been very gay this winter. friend lane said there was gaming and festivities going on every night, and that it was a meeting place for disaffected minds." "but madam wetherill is a fine royalist. still there are many ungodly things and temptations there, and this is why i requested andrew not to go there on market days. he was roused in a way i could not approve and talked of the books in the house. indiscreet reading is surely a snare. i am not at all sure the ever-wise franklin, while no doubt he hath much good sense and counseleth patience and peace, hath done a wise thing in advocating a public library where may be found all kinds of heresy. yet it is true that james logan was learned in foreign tongues and gave to the town his collection. it was better while they were kept in the family, but now they have been taken to carpenter's hall, and some other books added, i hear, and it is a sort of lounging place where the young may imbibe dangerous doctrines. i am glad penn is such a sensible fellow, though andrew hath been obedient, but he will soon be of age." "the child has been subject to little restraint then, if she is allowed to read everything. and it would be better for faith not to have the companionship. then i do not feel able to undertake the training out of these ideas, as i should feel it my duty to do." james henry gave a sigh. he could recall his brother's anxiety that the child should not stray from the faith of the friends. "i will go in next week myself and have an interview with madam wetherill and see the child. i shall be better able to decide what is my duty." then they lapsed into silent meditation. if the prayers, since they are only fervent desires, could have been uttered aloud, they would have been found quite at variance. providence, which is supposed to have a hand in these matters, was certainly on lois henry's side, though she never took comfort in the fact; indeed, accepted the accident with the sweet patience of her sect and never disturbed her mind studying why it should have been sent at this particular time. for james henry had a fall from the upper floor of his barn and broke his hip, which meant a long siege in bed at the busiest season. penn morgan, a nice, strong fellow, was a great comfort. he had managed his mother's smaller farm and was not afraid of work. there was yet considerable farm produce, and much demand for the nicer qualities. andrew was instructed to call at arch street and request a visit from madam wetherill. the news had not yet come of the great battle at lexington, but all was stir and ferment and activity. for six weeks andrew had not seen the town. now on nearly every corner was a group in eager discussion. there had been patrick henry's incendiary speech, there was mr. adams from massachusetts, and benjamin franklin, so lately returned from england, and many another one from whom the world was to hear before the struggle ended. madam wetherill was out, but would surely be in at dinner time, and though society functions were sometimes as late as two, the ordinary dinner was in the middle of the day. he would have almost an hour to wait, but he had sold very rapidly this morning and made good bargains. "it is thy cousin," said mistress kent. "i have no time to spare, and if thou art not needed at lessons----" "oh, let me go to him!" cried primrose, her face alight with joyous eagerness. "it is so long since i have seen him. i can study this afternoon, as there are no more dancing lessons." "well, run along, child. don't be too forward in thy behavior." patty had gone out with her mistress to do a little trading, since she was excellent authority and had many gossiping friends who were much interested in the latest fashions. and now, in the disturbed state of imports, it would not be so easy to have orders filled abroad. primrose danced down the stairs and through the hall. "oh, andrew!" she cried, as she was clasped in the fond arms. then he held her off a bit. no, faith could not compare with her. yet faith had blue eyes, a fair skin, and light hair, straight and rather stringy and cut short in her neck. but these eyes were like a glint of heaven on a most radiant day, these curving red lips were full of smiles and sweetness, and this lovely hair, this becoming and graceful attire---"oh, why do you sigh!" in a pretty, imperious fashion. "are you not glad to see me? i thought you had forgotten me. it is such a long, long while." "did i sigh? i was surprised. thou art like a sweet, blossomy rose with the morning dew upon it." "prim rose." she drew her face down a little, drooped her eyes, and let her arms hang at her side in a demure fashion, and though andrew's vocabulary had few descriptive adjectives in it, he felt she was distractingly pretty. he wanted to kiss her again and again, but refrained with quaker self-restraint. she laughed softly. "madam shippen was here one day with big miss peggy, who can laugh and be gay like any little girl, and who is so pretty--not like my dear mother in the frame, but--oh, i can't find a word, and i am learning so many new ones, too. but one would just like to kneel at her feet, and draw a long breath. and she took hold of my hands and we skipped about in the hall with the new step master bagett taught me. and madam shippen said i was 'most like a rose, and that if i became a friend i should be called prim alone, since the name would be suitable. and madam wetherill said i was divided, like my name. when will it be time to go to the farm?" "would it be a great disappointment if thou didst not go?" he asked gravely. "what has happened, cousin?" her sweet face took instant alarm. the smiles shaped themselves to a sudden unspoken sympathy. "a great many things have happened." he would have liked to draw her down to his knee as he had seen penn hold his sister faith and comfort her for the loss of their mother. but primrose did not need comforting. he kept his arm about her and drew her nearer to him. "yes, a great many things. mother's sister, aunt rachel morgan, died in march, and grandmother and the three children have come to live with us. grandmother is old and has mostly lost her mind. penn is a large fellow of his age, almost grown up, and is of great service. rachel is fourteen and is wise in the management of grandmother, who cannot tell one from another and thinks my mother the elder rachel who died. and then there is little faith." "faith? what is she like? would you rather have her than--than me? do you love her most?" a sudden jealousy flamed up in the child's heart. since her mother had gone she had really loved no one until she had met andrew. perhaps it was largely due to the fact that he was the only sympathetic one in a lonely life. andrew laughed, stirred by a sweet joy. "i would a dozen times rather have thee, but faith is nice and obedient and my mother has grown fond of her. but there is something about thee, primrose--canst thou remember how the chickens followed thee, and the birds and the squirrels never seemed afraid? thou didst talk to the robins as if thou didst understand their song. and the beady-eyed squirrels--how they would stop and listen." "i made a robin's song on the spinet quite by myself, one afternoon. and the dainty phoebe bird, and the wren with her few small notes. do you know, i think the wren a quaker bird, only her gown is not quite gray enough. we went out to great-aunt's farm one day, and oh, the birds! some had on such dazzling plumage and flew so swiftly. we went to the woods and found trailing arbutus, that is so sweet, and hepatica, and oh! many another thing. i can't recall half the names. there was a tall, grave gentleman who talked much about them and said they were families. are the little birds the babies, and are there cousins and aunts and grandmothers all faded and shriveled up? and can they talk to each other with those little nods and swinging back and forth?" "thou art a strange child, primrose," and he smiled. "what were we talking of? oh, the coming of the children. and then father hath had a bad fall and has to be kept in bed for weeks. so we seem full of trouble." "oh, i am so sorry, andrew!" her head was up by his shoulder and she leaned over and kissed him, and then he held her in a very close embrace and felt in some mysterious way that she belonged to him, rather than to his father or to her grand aunt. "and you will hardly want me," with a slow half question answering itself. "that is one of my errands. father desires to see madam wetherill. he did not say--he wishes to follow out my uncle's will concerning you." then he looked her all over. her eyes were cast down on the polished floor that had lately come in. many people had them sanded; indeed, the large dining room here was freshly sanded every morning and drawn in waves and diamonds and figures of various sorts. the friends used the sand, but condemned the figures as savoring of the world. as primrose stood there she was grace itself. her head was full of loose curls that glinted of silver in the high lights and a touch of gold in the shade, deepening to a soft brown. her skin was fine and clear, her brows and the long lashes were quite dark, the latter just tipped with gold that often gave the eyes a dazzling appearance. her ear was like a bit of pinkish shell or a half crumpled rose leaf. and where her chin melted into her neck, and the neck sloped to the shoulder, there were exquisite lines. after the fashion of the day her bodice was cut square, and the sleeves had a puff at the shoulder and a pretty bow that had done duty in various places before. he did not understand that it was beauty that moved him so, for he had always been deeply sympathetic over the loss of her parents. she was not studying the floor, or thinking whether she looked winsome or no, though bella morris would have done for an instructor on poses already, and was often saying, "primrose, you must stand that way and turn your face so, and look as if you were listening to something," or "bend your head a little." "but i'm not listening, and i can't have my head bent over, it tires my neck," she would reply with a kind of gay decision. she was wondering whether she wanted to go out to the farm or not. would she be allowed to take her books along, or must she go on with the spinning and sewing? and she did love her pretty gowns and the ribbons, and the silver buckles on her shoes, and several times she had worn the gold beads that her mother had left behind for her. and there was the spinet, with its mysterious music, the drives about, and she was learning to ride on a pillion; and patty knew so many stories about everything, merry and sad and awesome, for her grandmother's sister had been thrust into prison at salem for being a witch. and patty also knew some fairy stories, chief among them a version of "cinderella," and that fascinating "little red riding hood." "i think i shall want thee always," he began, breaking the silence. "i have missed thee so much, and counted on thy coming back to us. but you might find it dull after all the pleasure and diversion. there would be faith----" "should i like her?" "that i cannot tell," and he smiled gravely. she did not altogether like bella, but she did not want to say so. it was queer, but she was learning that you could not like everybody to order. there was something about kind, gentle aunt lois that held one at a distance, and she was always afraid of her uncle james. "do you like her very much?" with a lingering intonation. "we are commanded to love everyone, chiefly those of the household of faith." "cousin andrew," very seriously, "i go to christ church now. i like the singing. and it says--in the scriptures, i think--'let everything that hath breath praise the lord!'" "one can praise in the heart." "how should another know it? one might be thinking very naughty things in the heart, and keep silence." "but the naughty and evil heart would not be likely to do good works." primrose was silent. the spiritual part of theology was quite beyond her. then there was a clang at the knocker and the small black boy in a bright turban went to answer. chapter vi. to the rescue. primrose was dismissed, though she saw her cousin andrew again at dinner. madam wetherill had quite settled the question. she was going out to her own country estate, and primrose would have a change of air and much more liberty, and under the circumstances it was altogether better that she should not go to her uncle's, and madam wetherill considered the matter as settled, though she promised to come out the next day. the dream of william penn had been a fair, roomy city, with houses set in gardens of greenery. there were to be straight, long streets reaching out to the suburbs and the one to front the river was to have a great public thoroughfare along the bank. red pines grew abundantly, and many another noble tree was left standing wherever it could be allowed, and new ones planted. broad street cut the city in two from north to south, high street divided it in the opposite direction. but even now "the greene country towne" was showing changes. to be sure the house in letitia court was still standing and the slate-roof house into which mr. penn moved later on. but market houses came in high street, the green river banks were needed for commerce, and little hamlets were growing up on the outskirts. there were neighborly rows of houses that had wide porches where the heads of families received their neighbors, the men discussing the state of the country or their own business, the women comparing household perplexities, complaining of servants, who, when too refractory, were sent to the jail to be whipped, and the complaints or the praises of apprentices who boarded in their master's houses, or rather, were given their board and a moderate yearly stipend to purchase clothes, where they were not made at home. young people strolled up and down under the great trees of elm and sycamore, or lingered under the drooping willows where sharp eyes could not follow them so closely, and many a demure maiden tried her hand on her father's favorite apprentice, meaning to aim higher later on unless he had some unusual success. up to this time there had been a reign of quiet prosperity. the old swedes had brought in their own faith; the church, so small at first as to be almost unnoticed, was winning its way. and though whitfield had preached the terrors of the law, religious life was more tolerant. natural aspects were more conciliatory. the friends were peace-loving and not easily roused from placid methods of money-getting. there was nothing of the puritan environment or the strenuous conscience that keeps up fanatics and martyrs. witchcraft could not prosper here, there being only one trial on record, and that easily dismissed. the mantle of charity and peace still hovered over the place, and prosperity had brought about easy habits. perhaps, too, the luxuriant growth and abundance of everything assisted. nature smiled, springs were early, autumns full of tender glory. and though the city was not crowded, according to modern terms, there were many who migrated up the schuylkill every summer, who owned handsome farms and wide-spreading country houses. chestnut hill and mount airy, stenton and the chew house at germantown, were the scene of many a summer festivity where friends and world's people mingled in social enjoyment; pretty quakeresses practiced the fine art of pleasing and making the most of demure ways and eyes that could be so seductively downcast, phraseology that admitted of more intimacy when prefaced by the term "friend," or lingered in dulcet tones over the "thee and thou." madam wetherill always made a summer flitting to her fine and profitable farm, and surrounded herself with guests. she was very fond of company and asked people of different minds, having a great liking for argument, though it was difficult to find just where she stood on many subjects, except the church and her decided objection to many of the tenets of the friends, though she counted several of her most intimate acquaintances among them. she had a certain graceful suavity and took no delight in offending anyone. but she was moved to the heart by lois henry's misfortunes. the old mother sat under a great walnut tree on a high-backed bench, with some knitting in her hand, in which she merely run the needles in and out and wound the yarn around any fashion, while she babbled softly or asked a question and forgot it as soon as asked. rather spare in figure and much wrinkled in face, she still had a placid look and smiled with a meaningless softness as anyone drew near. for a moment madam wetherill thought of william penn, whom her father had visited at ruscombe in those last years of a useful life when dreams were his only reality, still gentle and serene, and fond of children. faith was sitting at her knee and answering her aimless talk, and rachel had her spinning wheel on the porch. madam wetherill alighted from her horse, and rachel came out to her. she sometimes took her servant, but she was a fearless and capable rider. "i will call my aunt," the young woman said with a courtesy of respect such as girls gave to elders. "tell her it is madam wetherill. nay, i will sit here," as the girl invited her within; and she took the porch bench. lois henry showed her added cares in the thinness of her face and certain drawn lines about the mouth, but it had not lost its grave sweetness. "i hear you are full of trouble," began madam wetherill in her well-bred tones. what with education on the one side, and equable temperament on the other, perhaps too, the softness of the climate and the easier modes of life, voices and manners both had a refinement for which they are seldom given credit. the intercourse between england and the colonies had been more frequent and kindly, though the dawning love of liberty was quite as strong as in the eastern settlements. "yes, there is heaviness and burthens laid upon me, but if we are glad to receive good at the hands of the lord we must not murmur against evil. the spring is a bad time for the head of the house to be laid aside." "and you have added family cares. i have come to see if you are willing to be relieved in some measure. everyone counts at such a time, while in a family like ours, with the going and coming, one more never adds to the work." "i should be quite willing if we could be assured it was our duty to shift burthens in times of trouble. james is somewhat disquieted about the child. will you come in and talk with him?" the bed had been brought out to the best room, as it was so much larger than the sleeping chamber adjoining it. james henry lay stretched upon a pallet, his ruddy face somewhat paler than its wont. "i am pleased to see thee," he said gravely. "and i am sorry for thy misfortune." the use of the pronoun "thou" had its old english manner and was not confined to the friends alone. the more rigid, who sought to despise all things that savored of worldliness, used their objective in season and out. and among the younger of the citified friends, "you" was not infrequently heard. "it is the lord's will. we are not allowed our choice of times. though i must say i have been prospered heretofore, and give thanks for it. i hear there are other troubles abroad and that those pestilent puritans, who were never able to live in peace for any length of time, have rebelled against the king. i am sorry it hath come to open blows. but they will soon have the punishment they deserve. we are enjoined to live at peace with all men." "the news is extremely meager. there is a great ferment," madam wetherill replied suavely. "and in town they are holding congresses! the lord direct them in the right way. but we have many rebels among us, i think. this was to be a town of peace. william penn conciliated his enemies and had no use for the sword." "true--true! we shall need much wisdom. but i must not weary thee talking of uncertainties. there is another matter that concerns us both, our little ward. as affairs stand i think she had better remain with me through the summer. she will be on a farm and have plenty of air and take up some of the arts of country life. she is in good health and is, i think, a very easily governed child." "it is not following out her father's wishes. he hoped she would be of his faith. and the influence here might serve to counteract some follies. i would rather she came. but lois is heavily weighted and two children of the same age----" "primrose would have many strange things for her little cousin's ears. nay, they are hardly cousins." and madam wetherill smiled. a keen observer might have observed a touch of disdain. "except as to faith. she would be forbidden to talk over her worldly life. we discountenanced it before. it is a sad thing that a child should be so torn and distracted before she can hardly know good or evil. i do not think my brother meant this course should be followed." "yet he could not deprive the mother of her child. and he gave away his son for worldly advancement. it was merely that mistress henry and her child should live here half the year. the court decided she could transfer her rights to another guardian, and i was nearest of kin. and i shall have to seek heirs somewhere. but one summer cannot matter much, and it will be a relief to thy overtired wife." james henry started to raise himself on his elbow and then remembered that he was bandaged and strapped, and was but a helpless log. two months, the doctor had said, even if all went well, before he could make any exertion. he glanced at his wife. he must be waited on hand and foot, and now the child had been filled with worldliness and would need strong governing. andrew was overindulgent to her. "it hath caused me much thought. this time we might make it a year for good reasons. mr. northfield would no doubt consent. then she would come in the fall and remain." "nay, i will not promise that. her winters in town are important for education. it was for that partly that i preferred the winters. she hath no farm to go to afterward and will lead a town life." "but so much worldly education does not befit a woman or improve her." "yet we must admit that the earlier friends were men of sound education. they read greek and latin, and now at the friends' school there are many high branches pursued. and it is becoming a question whether spelling correctly, and being able to write a letter and cast up accounts, will harm any woman. widows often have a sorry time when they know nothing of affairs, and become the prey of designing people. i have had large matters to manage and should have had a troublesome time had i been ignorant." james henry sighed. he had wished before that this woman had not been quite so shrewd. and though he was a stanch friend and would have suffered persecution for the cause, wealth had a curious charm for him, and he was not quite certain it would be right to deprive primrose henry of any chance. she had seemed easily influenced last year. if faith could gain some ascendency over her! but faith was more likely to be swayed than to sway, he was afraid. "then let the case stand this way," said madam wetherill. "after a month or so matters may be improved with you, and she can come then, being a month or two later in town." "yes, that may do," he answered reluctantly, but he did long for a whole year in which to influence his brother's child. for surely she was born in the faith. he would not have gone outside for a convert; the friends were not given to the making of proselytes. everyone must be convinced of his own conscience. "then we will agree upon this for the present. thou hast my warmest sympathy, and i shall be glad to hear of thy improvement. i hope friend lois will not get quite worn out. good-day to thee. if there is anything a friend can do, command me at once." "my own patience is the greatest requisite," said the master of the house, while lois raised her eyes with a certain grateful light. she paused a moment for a word with rachel, a nice, wholesome-looking girl with the freshness of youth, and who responded quietly but made no effort for conversation. faith was still chatting with the grandmother. madam wetherill stepped on the block and mounted her horse as deftly as a young person might. "the youth andrew is not so straitlaced," she ruminated. "and he seemed much interested in the talk of war. if it comes to that, what will the quakers do, i wonder? they can hardly go among the indians to escape the strife, and if home and country is worth anything they ought to take their share in defending it. as mr. adams says, it would come sooner or later. the colonists are of english blood and cannot stand so much oppression. it is queer they cannot think of us as their own children. and we of the more southern lands have felt tenderly toward the mother country, especially we of the church." philadelphia believed herself on the eve of great changes, as well as boston. virginia had her heroes that felt quite as keenly the injustice of the mother country. patrick henry had fired many hearts with his patriotic eloquence. when governor dunmore had seized a quantity of gunpowder belonging to the colonies and had it shipped on board a man of war, henry went at the head of a party of armed citizens and demanded restitution, which was made with much show of ill feeling. not long after the exasperated people had driven the governor from his house, shorn him of power, and compelled him to seek safety. in north carolina there had been a declaration of independence read aloud to a convention at charlotte. "an appeal to arms and to the god of hosts, is all that is left us," said patrick henry. and joseph hawley said, "we must fight." the battle of lexington was the match that started the blaze. the other colonies were ready. philadelphia prepared herself for the struggle. at another meeting it was resolved, "that the united colonies are of right or ought to be free and independent states, and that they are absolved from all duties to the british crown." jefferson wrote this declaration, submitting it to franklin and john adams, and many discussions followed before it was adopted. and the continental congress had been much encouraged by the enthusiasm of virginia. washington had said publicly, "i will raise a thousand men, subsist them at my own expense, and march with them, at their head, for the relief of boston." mrs. washington had not been less patriotic, though her love of peaceful domestic affairs was well known. to a friend she had written, "yes, i foresee serious consequences, dark days and darker nights, domestic happiness suspended, social enjoyments abandoned, property of every kind put in jeopardy by war, neighbors and friends at variance, and eternal separations possible." there had come news of the seizure of fortresses at ticonderoga and crown point. ammunition, stores, and fifty pieces of cannon had been taken. general gage had announced his intentions of sending "those arch offenders samuel adams and john hancock" to england to be hanged. the latter brave rebel had laughed the threat to scorn. but the declaration was considered a bold step. there was a gathering of friends at madam wetherill's that very evening, for it was known that she would soon be out on the farm, and since she had much at stake in trade and property, many were curious to see which side she would really espouse. "the idea of a horde of common people running a government with no head but their own wills is preposterous!" cried the proud old tory ralph jeffries, as he settled his wig with a shake of the head and pulled out his lace ruffles. "are these canting puritans going to rule us with their quarrels?" "the whole country seems pretty well ablaze. it is like a latimer and ridley fire," was the retort. "we will put it out, sir! we will put it out! where would be the dignity or security of any such government? a pack of braggarts over a little skirmish. king george is good enough for us." "then you may have to emigrate again presently," suggested portly john logan. "the storm has been long gathering. little by little we have seen our rights abridged, while we have been growing up to the full size of manhood. we have tried our wit and ability. to-day we could enter the lists of trade with foreign nations, but our ports have been closed. england dictates how much and how little we shall do. we are not a nation of slaves, but brethren with them over the seas. we are not to be kept in the swaddling clothes of infancy. "it hath been a sorry hardship not to trade where we will when the country groweth steadily. it is a great and wonderful land and needeth only wise rulers to make it the garden of the world. but the taxes are grievous, and no one knows where this will end. i am a man of peace as thou all knowest, but when the iron is at white heat and has been struck one blow it is best to keep on." "and you believe," returned jeffries scornfully, "that a handful of men can conquer the flower of britain? how many, think you, will come to the fore if there is a call to arms? a few of these noisy brawlers like henry and jefferson and adams, and those pestilent puritans who have been ever stirring up strife, and a few foolish men easily turned with every wind that blows. good lord, what an army to cope with trained men!" "these same brawlers have done england some good service against the french. they have fighting blood, and when it is roused on the side of right will be a match for the redcoats at champlain." some of the women were gathered in the hall where there was tea and cakes, or mead if one liked better. "but, if there is war, we shall not be able to get anything," said vain and pretty madam jeffries, who was a second wife, and strong of will as her husband seemed, twisted him around her finger. "and i have just sent abroad for finery." "we must come to linsey-woolsey, though the weavers of germantown make fine goods, and there is silk already made in our own town. instead of so much gossiping and sitting with idle hands we must make our own laces. it is taught largely, i hear, at boston, and my mother was an expert at it. then there are fringes and loops--and, oh, i think we shall manage." "but will there really be war?--madam wetherill, it will begin in the room there," laughing and nodding her head. "they will come to blows soon. and hugh mifflin, methinks, has forgotten his quaker blood. how well he talks! and hear--he quotes from the farmers' letters. i thought the friends were resolved not to bear arms." "do they always turn the other cheek to the smiter?" asked someone, and a laugh followed. in the upper hall primrose stood by the end window, listening and wondering. patty found her there, large-eyed. "what will there be war about?" she asked. "and will they come here and take us all prisoners?" "nonsense, child! this is no talk for thee. come to bed at once." "patty, did you hear my great-aunt say if i was to go out to the farm? what if they make cousin andrew fight? i should be so sorry." "quakers do not fight." "but brave men do. i have read about them. and i am sure andrew is brave." "do not be sure of any man. thou wilt get a sight of wisdom between this and twenty years. and i believe thou art not to go out to cherry hill. there is too much illness. and we are to move to our own farm." "and will there be chickens and birds and squirrels, and little lambs playing about, and----" "do not string any more things together with an 'and,' like beads on a chain, but get to bed. yes, they seem to be having a fine noisy time downstairs. i know on which side the madam will be." "for the king?" "not strongly, i think," with an ironical laugh primrose did not understand. "and you, patty?" "the king would have poor luck if he depended on me to fight for him. there, good-night, and good sleep." chapter vii. at some crossroads. there was much confusion in the old house, putting fine things and ornaments away and packing family heirlooms and silver. there was also much going to and fro, and after a few days primrose, with her attendant, patty, went out to the farm, then in all its beauty of greenness, though the fruit blooms were over. but there were countless roses and garden flowers of all the old-fashioned sorts, and sweet herbs and herbs for all kinds of medicinal brews. for though dr. shippen and dr. rush had begun to protest against "old women's doses," many still had faith in them and kept to feverfew and dittany and golden rod and various other simples, and made cough balsams and salves. the house was large and plain, with uncarpeted floors that were mopped up in the morning for coolness and cleanliness, quite a virginian fashion. the kitchen and dining room were sanded, the chairs were plain splint or rather coarse rush or willow. there were a wide wooden settle and some curious old chests used for seats, as well as hiding places for commoner things. but it was the garden that attracted primrose. she had never seen so many flowers nor such lovely ones, for in the woods there was not this variety. life had been too busy, and wants too pressing, to indulge in much luxury where gardening was concerned. john bartram had many remarkable trees and plants, but they were things of families and pedigrees, and his house was the resort of curious and scientific men. although a friend, he had a tender heart for beauty, as well as many other things. but in general the friends cultivated simple and useful herbs. at the henry farm there was no pretense of a flower garden. primrose ran up and down the wide, smooth walk, made of dirt and small stones with much labor, where, through the summer at least, not a tuft of grass was permitted to grow. how lovely it was! the house stood on quite an elevation. one could see mount airy and clieveden and other summer homes, and the schuylkill winding placidly about, peeping through its embowered banks here and there. but the quiet, romantic stream was to witness many a tragedy and many an act of heroism that no one dreamed of that summer. the real alarms of war scarcely penetrated it. young people went sailing and rowing and had picnics and teas along its banks, and the air was gay with jests and laughter. the town was much divided in spirit and did not really pull together. there were rampant tories, who declared boldly for the king; there were more faint-hearted ones who had much business at stake and cared only for making money, and many of the friends who counseled peace at any price. but events marched on rapidly and in june congress declared for a continental army, and the host of patriots at cambridge called colonel washington from philadelphia, where he had been in consultation with some of the important citizens, and made him commander in chief of the american forces. the city had been prosperous and stretched out its borders in many directions. there were flourishing friends' meeting houses, there was christ church and st. peter's on the hill. for the hills had not been leveled, and there were many pretty altitudes crowned with brick residences that were considered fine at that time and certainly were roomy. the swedes had their church and all the denominations were well represented, for at this period religious, interest was strong. there were not many outside amusements. plays were considered rather reprehensible. there were a few bridges over the creeks where boys waded, and girls were not always averse to the enjoyment on a summer afternoon. there were flocks of geese and ducks disporting themselves. and along the shore front docks had been built, there were business warehouses and shipping plying to and fro, for the trade with more southern ports was brisk. there were some noted taverns where one might see foreign sailors, and shops that displayed curious goods. there was damask floreells silk, brocades and lutestrings done up in fair boxes, as you found when you entered. there were gold and silver laces and gold buttons and brocades of every variety and cost. the young damsels were sometimes allowed to go out with their elders and have a peep at the fine things and express their likings. some of the storekeepers who had laid in abundant stocks chuckled to themselves at the thought that now, when all importations on private account must be stopped, they would stand a better chance. in the early part of the century there had been an eloquent divine, a mr. evans, who had succeeded mr. clayton and who somehow had proved very attractive to the friends. they had flocked to church to hear him, they had even taken off their broadbrims with a timid desire to conform to the ways of the world's people. this had gone on until it awakened a sense of alarm, and at the evening meeting where business might be considered, they had been forbidden to attend the services. so there had grown up a broader feeling, and numbers, while they did not quite like to break with their own communion, were more tolerant, read disapproved books, thought more of education, and began to look with different eyes on the great world, while others, almost horror-stricken at the latitude, drew their lines tighter. from christ church, as an offshoot, had sprung up st. peter's. governor penn had his pew in the south gallery. benjamin franklin and many of the ã©lite thronged the stone aisles with pattering footsteps, in laced coats, queues, and ruffles; the women with their big hats tied under the chin with an enormous bow, a fashion that sent the top up with a great flare where puffs of hair were piled one upon another, or little curls, and stiff brocades that rustled along, little heels that clicked, lace or lawn scarfs coquettishly arranged for summer use, and great fans carried by a ribbon on the arm. in winter there were silk pelisses edged with fur, or a fur or velvet coat. the great distinction was the young girls in much more simple material, with pretty demureness and sometimes longing looks cast at the attire of the young wives or older matrons, and a thought of the time when this glory should be theirs. now that one must be for or against, madam wetherill, though not aggressive in her opinions, plainly showed on which side her sympathies were ranged. wiseacres shook their heads; even among those who came to drink tea in the summer house, made primarily by four large, over-arching trees and a latticework about, against which there was a bench all around, and a great table sufficiently rustic not to mind the summer showers. there was no spinet to practice on. there were no tutors, but primrose said a few lessons to patty, sewed a little, and ran about, her hands and arms encased in long linen mitts that left the fingers free, and a widebrimmed straw hat tied well down, or a quaker sun bonnet made of reeds and cambric. but there were so many visitors that she was often dressed up, and made much of by the young ladies. polly morris complained that "bella was in a very poor state and pining for country air. if her purse were long enough she would take her up to martha woolcot's, but boarding was high. the matthews had gone over to the jerseys. they had been very kind in giving her a fortnight's visit, but now the house would be shut up, and there was only her small cottage, that had been so built around by reason of business that one could hardly find a mouthful of fresh air." "i did say i would not ask her here again in the summer. bella is troublesome and forward amid company. but, poor thing! she has only part of her house, as below it is a shop and rented out, and her purse is a slim one at best," said good-hearted madam wetherill. "patty, suppose you write for me, and ask her for a fortnight. she will stay a full month. the children may play about and amuse themselves. 'tis not that i grudge what she eats and drinks, but i like not to have people take so much by right, and feel that your best is hardly good enough for them, and that you owe them something." "yes, madam," replied patty respectfully, though she set about it rather reluctantly. she was not over fond of bella. a week later they came with a chest of attire that did indeed presage a good long stay. bella was glad enough to meet her compeer. "for it has been utterly wretched since aunt matthews went away," she confessed to primrose. "we went there so often. and jonas, the younger boy, has so much drollness in him and tells about pranks at school. and one night he crept out of the window on a shed and slid down and went to a merrymaking at some tavern, where they had rare fun. he did not come in until nearly morning, and his head ached so he was ill the next day. aunt matthews made him a posset." "and did he confess this wrong to her?" asked primrose in grave solicitude. "confess! what a silly you are, primrose! that would have spoiled all the fun." "but it was not right." "well--his father would have been severe with him, and when one is sharp it is a pleasure to outwit him. the boys had carried off some gates shortly before, and they had changed the sign of the jolly fisherman to friend reed's coffin shop, and he never knew it the whole morning and wondered why people stared. both boys were soundly caned for it, and after all it was only a bit of fun. so then they kept their own counsel. jonas knows such pages of funny verses, and there are some in latin." "how did you come to know?" "oh, he told me!" bella bridled her head and half shut one eye that gave her an unpleasant look of cunning. "he swore me not to tell and said little girls were often better than big girls." "and did you swear?" primrose was horror-stricken. "well, i didn't say any wicked words. some of the great ladies say, 'i swear,' and the men often do, but it doesn't really mean anything when you say it in french." primrose asked patty about it. "swearing is swearing, whether you do it in french or dutch. what put such nonsense in thy head? i think the french a wicked language anyhow, and i don't see why madam wants thee to jabber any such gibberish." "it's very hard and i don't believe i ever shall," said the child with a sigh. "the better grace for thee then." bella was quite wise and precocious and learning ways of fashion rapidly. she stood a little in awe of madam wetherill and could be very demure when she saw that it was the part of wisdom. occasionally she made primrose a tacit partner in some reprehensible matter in a way that the child could not protest against. and then bella laughed at her love for birds and flowers and was always talking about finery and repeating the flattering things that were said to her. and she much preferred listening to the ladies and the gallants to gathering flowers or hearing the birds singing in the trees. one day andrew came. everything was better at cherry hill, and her uncle thought now it was time for her to come. "why, is your father getting about so soon?" asked madam wetherill in surprise. "oh, no, indeed! he mends but slowly. still he wishes to do his duty, and i think he broods over it more than is good for him. so my mother proposed to him that the little maid should be sent for, and he was eager at once. and he wished me to say if it was not too inconvenient to thee i would bring her back. i have a pillion." "nay, the child knows so little about riding. i meant to have her instructed this summer. and there would be some garments to take. i cannot get them ready so soon. and i am afraid she will bother thy people sadly. thou hadst better return and explain this. i will drive over in a few days and bring her. meanwhile thou art warm and tired. rest and refresh thyself a little. i think the children are roaming in the woods, but, like the chickens, they are sure to come home to supper." andrew henry washed his face and hands at the rustic out-of-doors toilette, and little casper, the black boy, brought him a thick linen towel, with velvet-like softness and smelling of lavender. then he must have some home-brewed beer to refresh himself, and a plate of janice kent's wafers, that were spicy and not over sweet and went excellently well with the beer. "dost thou go often to the city?" madam wetherill asked. she was thinking how finely this young quaker was filling out in the shoulders, how well set and soft his brown eyes were, and his cherry lips had fine curves with resolution, yet a certain winning tenderness. "i go in on market days, twice a week. these are stirring times. there are arguments on every corner of the street, and men almost come to blows." "the blows may be needed later on. thou art a peace man, i dare say." "that is the belief in which i have been brought up," he answered respectfully. "and i was brought up to honor the king. but if a king listens to evil rather than good counselors--kings were cut off in old times for not dealing justly. i am sure mr. pitt hath given excellent advice, but it has not been followed." "i know so little about it," andrew returned. "i went once to john bartram's for some rare cuttings my father desired, and met there the great franklin, who counseled peace and leniency in england. and they all think now that nothing can stop the war." "it hath begun already. we must decide which side we shall be on, even if we do not fight. but come down here where smiling peace sits gossiping with fair plenty. i wonder if next summer will give us such a scene?" she made a gracious little movement, and she took his arm as they began to descend the sloping path. she was a very fascinating woman and now she had resolved to do her best to win over those who stood in uncertainty if she could not move the uncompromising friend. it was a pretty scene. after the slope was a level of beautiful sward, with a circle of magnificent trees. then another varying decline that ended at the river's edge, where rocked two or three gayly painted boats. there were two young fellows in the attire of the gallant of the day lolling on the grass, and a young man in quaker garb of the finest sort, sporting silver buckles at his knee and on his low shoes. the ladies were some of the beauties of philadelphia, to be famous long afterward. there was the pretty miss shippen and becky franks, noted for her wit and vivacity; miss wharton and miss mifflin and the gay mrs. penn. "i have brought thee a new recruit, friend norris," she began smilingly, "since thou art of the same faith and texture. thy father knew philemon henry well, and this is his nephew. ladies, let me present friend henry, since the quakers will have no handle to their names. perhaps many of you know cherry hill, from whence some of our finest fruit is brought." the ladies courtesied. mrs. penn stepped nearer. "yes, i knew thy uncle somewhat and had met his lovely wife, who lives again in the little fairy she left behind. it must have broken her heart to go." young norris came around. andrew henry had blushed furiously under the scrutiny of so many lovely eyes, and then, recovering, stood his ground manfully. the scene affected him something as if he had been drinking wine, and yet the impression was delightful. "he has come to take our little moppet away. she belongs part of the time to her uncle." "oh, madam wetherill," exclaimed miss franks, "put her best gown on miss bella and send her by mistake. wait until dusk and no one will ever know." "not even in the morning?" asked andrew with a touch of merriment, while the others laughed. "nay, the best gown is not needed if you want to pass off someone in her stead," said norris. "that would be suspected at once. plan again." "oh, i forgot! little miss bella hath so much pretty attire. i do suppose she would be astray in a quaker frock. well, what can we do? mr. henry, we shall outwit thee, never fear." "madam wetherill hath refused me already," he answered. "but she was merciful." "and i brought him hither for consolation. an old woman's refusal cannot be so heart-breaking as that of a young lass." "but we have had no chance to refuse," said saucy miss mifflin, raising her coquettish eyes. "cherry hill is a large estate, but somewhat out of the way. i have ridden by it," said norris. "we of the town get spoiled by neighbors. it must be dreary in the winter." "the evenings are lonesome. in summer, what with being up at sunrise and busy all day, the nights are welcome, but in winter the city hath a deeper interest. although i have so far been content." "we are in a curious heat now. our staid town never saw such a ferment. every day we wait for news from some of the provinces, north or south. i suppose thou wilt take little heed to it. yet we number many of the friends on our side." "i have not paid much attention to what has gone before, i must admit, but one day i heard some speeches at carpenter's." "nay, you are not to talk war to friend henry. he will take us for a party of savages. is there no more inviting topic?" they found one that was full of light, harmless jest, and an hour passed so quickly that andrew henry was startled. he rode home alone without seeing primrose, who could not be found in the nearby haunts. and for the first time strange visions, strange longings filled his mind, as if he had suddenly come to manhood and outgrown the bands that had made his way so strait. was it some suggestion of the tempter? all the strong virile blood rushed through his veins, and he only made a feeble fight to subdue it. he did not really want to put it aside. it was much later than usual when he reached home. in fact the sun had gone down, julius with the great market wagon had been home hours before. "son, what delayed thee so? and the child--where is she?" asked his mother. he explained that she had gone off with her companion and that he had waited; that madam wetherill would bring her up in a day or two. rachel sat on the doorstep knitting, and some supper was spread in the living room. but he went in to his father first, and, after a few words about primrose, gave an account of his day's doings, except a little loitering to hear the talk. and he took from his pocket the leathern pouch tied tightly with a string, pouring the money on the bed and counting it over for his father. then he brought out a curious box much ornamented with copper, now black by age except at the sides where it had been handled, and, unlocking it, put in the money, giving the key back to his father. "you think friend wetherill is quite honest about the child?" he asked feverishly. "she is not one to place a light value on her own word. the child could hardly have been gotten ready in that brief while." "there was nothing to get," rather fretfully. "we do not want the vain clothing of the world. the child will be ruined by vanity." "she keeps very sweet, methinks." "how canst thou judge? thy mother hath more wisdom and may tell another story. there, get to supper. it is weary lying here, but the lord's ways are not as ours." andrew ate a little supper in the plain, bare room. on the green where the ladies had sat was a strong cherry table, containing some plates and glasses and a great stone pitcher curiously molded. how the trees had waved overhead and sifted golden gleams and shadows through! there had been a bit of peerless blue sky, the sweetness of the grass, the soft lap of the river that one could hear only when the talk stopped. how beautiful it all was! that was god's world. and the long ride home, the woods in solemn grandeur, the bits of river now and then. he was stirred mysteriously. he was a new man. rachel still sat on the doorstep. sometimes he came out, and, though they said little, there was a pleasure in the nearness. penn morgan returned from the great barn, where he and the hired man had left things comfortable for the night. anything was safe enough. no need to lock or bolt in this arcadian simplicity, except to keep cattle from straying. penn told over his day's work and the morrow's plans and went to bed. rachel had not been knitting for some time, but she folded up her work and passed in without a word. friends of the stricter sort were as careful of vain and idle words as the most rigid puritan. he missed something sorely to-night. it was the little girl who had kissed him. two days later madam wetherill brought her over in the neatest attire, with no furbelows or laces. primrose had demurred somewhat. "nay," said madam wetherill with a consoling sound in her voice, "they would not like it, and it is only for a few months. all the articles will be here on thy return or in the city," smiling. "it will not be long and thou must be a brave, good girl, and happy, too. sometime thou wilt choose. a hundred things may happen." she ran down the path and said good-by to the nodding flowers. she was sorry to part with bella and patty, and casper and the great dog, and the mother cat with the two kittens, and she was loath to leave the gay chatter and the visions of the radiant young women who petted her now and then. she was not afraid of mistress kent, though her tongue was still sharp, and she kept her riding whip handy to give casper and joe, the black boys, who were very full of frolic, a cut now and then. the ride in the clumsy chaise was a silent one. madam wetherill was surprised to find how the little one had crept into her heart. and she was growing ever so much prettier, more like her mother. it was the care, no doubt. they would let her get tanned and try to subdue the curl in her lovely silken hair. the lady smiled oddly to herself, thinking a mightier power than quaker rule had put it there. but it would be bad for the child, this continual changing. however, it could not be helped now. one consolation was that she was much too young to give anything but a child's love to her cousin. and he would be married to some thrifty woman before she was grown up. it was rachel who came to take the budget done up in a stout hempen cloth, and lifted out the little girl, then holding the horse while madam descended, and fastening it to the hitching post. the old lady sat under the same tree, but the little girl was weeding in the garden and stood up to look, covered with her widebrimmed hat. "they have been wondering," said rachel. "uncle is not so well. the fever hath been troublesome. wilt thou come in? and this is the little cousin? thou and faith will make nice companions." friend lois came to the door and received her guest with grave courtesy, saying to primrose, "we have been looking for thee, child," as they walked in. there was a pitcher of mead standing in a stone jar of cold spring water and both travelers were thirsty. friend lois had the name of making it in a most excellent fashion. "i am afraid primrose will be a care to thee this summer," madam wetherill said with kindly solicitude. "and thy husband is not so well, the young girl tells me." "my niece, rachel morgan. and though the loss of my sister was great and unexpected, her health being robust, and it hath added much to my cares, rachel is to me as a daughter and a great comfort." the young girl made a courtesy and stood undecided. "does not the broken limb mend?" "it is doing well. but he hath thought of his duty concerning the child overmuch. i assured him he might let it go for this summer, but he was not minded to." "it would have been quite as well." "he did not think so. and since it was on his mind i sent." she gave a soft sigh. "wilt thou come in and see him? he would rather." madam wetherill walked into the room and greeted the invalid. there was a flush on his cheek and a brightness in the eye that betokened feverish disarrangement. he began to explain in a quick, excited tone. "of course it is thy time. we shall not dispute about the law's decision, though mr. chew did think it would not be so good for the child, seeing that our lines are cast in such different places. i hope all will go well with you and she will not add to your cares. i will send over to hear now and then." "where is she?" in a half-suspicious manner. "primrose!" the lady called. the child came in reluctantly. "yes, yes. james henry has never shirked a duty. and one is entitled to make a fair fight for the soul that belongs to the faith. it was her father's wish." "i hope thou wilt mend rapidly. the warm weather is trying." there was no use of argument as to faiths. he nodded languidly. "and now i will return. i have a long ride before me, and guests at home. farewell." no one made any effort to detain her. there was little persuasion among the friends, who despised what they considered the insincere usages of society. primrose caught at madam wetherill's gown. her eyes were lustrous with tears that now brimmed over, and her slight figure all a-tremble. "oh, take me back with you; take me back!" she cried with sudden passion. "i cannot like it here, i cannot!" "child, it is only for a little while. remember. be brave. one's word must always be kept." "oh, i cannot!" the small body was in a quiver of anguish, pitiful to see. bessy wardour had loved, too, and then gone away to the man of her choice, if not the life of her choice. but she was much moved by the passionate entreaty, and stooped to kiss her, then put her away, saying, "it must be, my child. but thou wilt come back to us." chapter viii. a little rebel. as the carriage-wheels rolled away primrose burst into a violent paroxysm of weeping. rachel came forward and took her hand, but it was jerked away rudely. "primrose, this is most unseemly," said lois henry, looking at her in surprise. "if thou art indulged in such tempers at madam wetherill's, it is high time thou went where there is some decent discipline. i am ashamed of thee. and yet it is more the fault of those who have been set over thee." primrose henry straightened up and seemed an inch or two taller for the ebullition of anger. she looked directly at her aunt and the blue eyes flashed a sort of steely gleam. the mouth took on determined curves. "there is nothing to put me in tempers at home. i like it. i like everybody. and it is the being torn away----" "but wert thou not torn away from this house last year?" primrose was silent a moment. "i hate this being tossed to and fro! and i have learned to love them all at aunt wetherill's. i go to christ church. i shall never, never be a quaker. and i am a--a rebel! if i were a man i would go and help them fight against the king." lois henry looked horrified. "child, thou art silly and ignorant, and wicked, too. what dost thou know about the king? we do not believe in kings, but we obey those set over us until it comes to a matter of conscience. we leave all these turbulent discussions alone and strive to be at peace with all men. thou canst not be saucy nor show thy hot temper here." "then send me home. do send me home," said the child with spirited eagerness. "this is thy home for six months. rachel, take the bundle up to the little chamber next to that of faith and put away the things in the cupboard--and take the child with you. primrose, thou wilt remain there until thou art in a better frame of mind. i am ashamed of thee." primrose did not mind where she went. she knew her way up the winding stairs put in a corner off the living room. the house had a double pitch to the roof, the first giving some flat headway to the chambers, the second a steep slant, though there were many houses with nearly flat roofs. this was of rough, gray stone, and the windows small. there was but one, and a somewhat worn chair beside it, the splints sorely needing replacement. a kind of closet built up against the wall, and a cot bed with a blue and gray blanket were all the furnishing. the child glanced at it in dismay, not remembering that she had been happy here only such a little while ago. but it seemed ages now, just as she had almost forgotten what had passed before. there had been no one to talk over the past with her, and she had missed her tender mother sorely. children were not considered of much importance then except as regarded their physical welfare and a certain amount of training to make them obedient to their elders. that serious, awesome spiritual life that shadowed so much of childhood under puritan auspices was not a feature of the more southern colonies. they were supposed to imbibe religious impressions from example. early in the history of the town there had been some excellent quaker schools, that of friend keith, who sowed some good seed even if he did afterward become a scorn to the profane and contentious, because he started to found a sect of "christian quakers," and finally found a home in england and the anglican church. but the school flourished without him, and to the friends belongs the credit of the early free schools. the subtle analysis of later times found no inquiring minds except among a few of the higher scholars. it was not considered food for babes. rachel untied the bundle that had been bound up with a stout cord. "thou canst put them in the closet in an orderly manner. then, if thou hast returned to thy right mind, come downstairs." primrose looked out of the window without stirring. the great walnut trees were waving their arms and making golden figures on the grass that ran about everywhere. patty had told her stories of "little people" who lived in the north of england and scotland, but they only came out in the moonlight. ah, these were birds or squirrels--oh! there was a squirrel up in the tree, with his great bushy tail thrown over his back. and primrose laughed with tears still shining on her lashes. over at a distance was a hen with a brood of chickens, clucking her way along. and there were two pretty calves in an inclosure. but then there was everything at aunt wetherill's, and such rows and rows of flowers. patty brought them into the rooms in bowls, and the young ladies wore them. what was that? oh, the little old lady under the tree was walking away---"faith," said the clear, calm voice, "leave off thy gardening. grandmother is growing restless." primrose watched with strange interest. presently a girl of about her own size walked quietly out to the old lady and took her by the arm, turning her around, and led her back to the house. after that--nothing. she was almost frightened at the stillness and began to cry again as a sense of loneliness oppressed her. oh, she must go back! there was something in her throat that choked her. then a tall figure came across the field in his shirt-sleeves, and with a great swinging stride. suddenly her heart bounded within her body. like a bird she flew down the stairs, almost running over chloe, out of the door, skimming along the grassy way, and never taking breath until two strong arms lifted her from the ground and kissed her, not once, but dozens of times. "child, when did you come?" "oh, such a long time ago! it must be years, i think. and i hate it, the old house and everything! i cannot stay. andrew, take me back. if you do not i shall run away. i want patty and aunt wetherill, and little joe, who is always doing such funny things, and mistress kent whips him, but he does them over when she is not there, only she comes suddenly--and the pretty ladies who laugh and talk. it is so dreary here." she raised her lovely eyes that were to conquer many a heart later on, and the lips quivered in entreaty like an opening rose in the breeze. "nay--i am here," he said. "and i love you. i want you." she looked as if she was studying. a little crease came between her eyes, but it seemed to him it made her prettier than before. "but why must i come? why must i stay?" how could he make her understand? "and there are some other girls--faith and the big one. i do not like her." "but you will. i like her very much." "then you shall not like me." she struggled to free herself. "thou art a briery little rose," and he smiled into her eyes and kissed her. "i shall hold thee here until thou dost repent and want to stay with me. faith is not as sweet as thou and rachel is too old for caresses. then i am not sure they are proper." "when i get as old as rachel--how old is that? shalt thou cease to care whether i come or not?" "i shall never cease to care. if i could change places with madam wetherill i would never let thee go. but what folly am i talking! it is the law that thou shalt do so." "who makes the law? put me down, andrew; i feel as if part of my body would be drawn from the other part. oh," laughing in a rippling, merry fashion, "if such a thing _did_ happen! if there could be two of me! rose should be the part with the pink cheeks and the red, red lips, and the bright eyes, and the other, prim, might stay here." "thou naughty little midget! i am glad there cannot be two, if that is thy division. i will take part of the time instead. little primrose, it is a sad thing to part with those we love, even for a brief while. the place was not the same when thou went away. and surely, then, thou wert sorry to go." primrose was silent so long that he glanced into her eyes. there was such a difference in eyes the young quaker had learned. the pretty, laughing women on the green at wetherill farm had said so much with theirs when they had not uttered a word. rachel's were a dullish-blue, sometimes a kind of lead color, faith's light, with curious greenish shadows in them. but these were like a bit out of the most beautiful sky. "it seemed quite terrible to me then," she made answer slowly. "are people very queer, andrew? for then i was afraid of mistress kent and aunt wetherill and everybody, and i wanted to stay here. and now it is so merry and pleasant in arch street, and there is the spinet that i sing to, and the lessons i learn, and some books with verses in and tales of strange places and people, and going out to the shops with patty and watching the boys snowballing, and learning to slide." "but thou art not in arch street, and there is a farm here. come, let us find the early sweet apples. i think there are some ripe ones, and thou art so fond of them." they walked along together. "still, i do not understand why a thing should be so dear and pleasant and then change and look--look hateful to you!" there was a pang in the great fellow's tender heart. "nay, not hateful!" he said pleadingly. "but i did not want to stay. aunt lois looked stern and spoke crossly. and i am not a quaker any more. i told her so. and i am a--a rebel! i will have no english king." her tone accented it all with capitals. "thou art a rebel, sure enough." yet he smiled tenderly on her. whatever she was was sweet. "and i said i would fight against the king." "heaven send there may not be much fighting! even now it is hoped the colonists will give way a little and the king yield them some liberties, and we shall be at peace again." "but we will have a king of our very own," she said willfully, forgetting her protest of a moment agone. "the old one in england shall not rule over us. and why do not the people who like him go back to that country?" "they cannot very well. they have their land and their business here." "then they should try to agree." "dost thou try to agree when things are not to thy liking?" she glanced up with a beseeching, irresistible softness in her eyes, and then hung her dainty head. "but you have the other girl faith. and aunt lois thinks what i learn is wrong. and--and----" they paused under the wide-spreading tree. what a fine orchard it was! andrew pulled down a branch and felt of several apples, then found one with a soft side. "there is a good half to that. i will cut it with my knife and the chickens may find the rest. there are plenty more." "oh, how delicious! i had almost forgotten the apples. things ought to be sewn up in one's mind and never drop out. we have had none save some green ones to be gathered for sauce and pies." "and there will be many other things. the peaches hang full. and there are pears, but the cherries are all gone save the bitter wild ones. then thou canst find the squirrels again, and there is a pretty, shy little colt in the west field, with a white star in his forehead." "madam wetherill has three little colts," she returned rather triumphantly. "and calves, and oh! such a lot of pretty, little pinky-white pigs." he cut another apple and fed it to her. "we shall have walks and thou shalt ride on a pillion. and i have found some books up in the old garret that have verses in them. oh, wilt thou not try to be content?" she felt it was naughty, yet she cast about her for other protestations. "but i am not a quaker. i say the lord's prayer aloud when i go to bed, over and over again." "i like it myself," he returned reverently. "but one needs to desire--various matters." there had been serious questions among the friends; some insisting all forms were hampering, and that spiritual life was a law unto itself and could be moved only by divine guidance, as even the apostles were ordered to take no heed as to what they should say. yet, amid the many shades of opinion, there had not been much dissension. of late years not a few had been scandalized by the defection of the penns and several others from the ways of their fathers, and drawn the cords a little tighter, making the dress plainer and marking a difference between them and the world's people. "thou couldst take me to the farm some day when i have learned to ride on a pillion--just for a visit." how coaxing the tone was! how bewitchingly the eyes smiled up into his! "thou wilt stay and be content?" he said persuasively. "i will think. content? that is a great thing." "yes. and now let us return." "if there were no one but thou i should be quite happy," she said innocently. so they walked on. rachel was standing down at the end of the path with the horn in her hand. "it is nigh supper time," she said, "and thy father wishes to see thee. to-morrow is market day. primrose, didst thou put away thy things neatly?" "i will do it now." the child ran upstairs. "a self-willed little thing," commented rachel, "and she has much temper." "but a great deal of sweetness withal. and she hath been much petted. she will feel strange for a few days. be kindly affectioned toward her." rachel made no reply. she went to the kitchen where chloe had her master's supper prepared, a very simple one to-night on account of the fever, and carried it in. then she blew a long blast on the horn, which she had forgotten in her surprise at seeing primrose clinging to andrew's hand. when primrose reached the little room her old feelings returned. she frowned on the parcel lying on the floor, as if it were an alien thing that she would like to hide away. there were several shelves in the closet and some hooks at one end. oh, here were some frocks she had worn last summer, homespun goods! a pair of clumsy shoes, larger than those she had on, and she gave them a little kick. grandmother was in the living room, sitting by the window. very pale and frail she looked. "faith," she said. "faith," in a tremulous voice. "i am not faith. my name is primrose henry," and the child came nearer with a vague curiosity. "no, thou art not a true henry with that trifling name. the henrys were sober, discreet people, fearing the lord and serving him. what didst thou say?" lapsing in memory and looking up with frightened eyes. "thou art a strange girl and i want faith." she began to cry with a soft, sad whine. "grandmother, yes; faith will be here in a minute. this is andrew's cousin, his dead uncle's child, philemon henry." "and she said her name was--a posy of some sort; i forget. they used to take posies to meetings, sweet marjoram and rosemary. and there was fennel. it was a long while ago. why did philemon henry die?" primrose looked at her curiously. "that was my own father," she said with a feeling that these people had no right of real ownership in him, except andrew. aunt lois came out, and taking her mother's hand, said, "come and have some supper." then, turning to primrose, "i hope thou art in a better humor, child. it does not speak well for town training that thou shouldst fly in such a passion with thy elders." "who was in a passion?" repeated grandmother with a parrot-like intonation. "not one of the lord's people i hope?" "silence, mother!" lois henry spoke in a low tone but with a certain decision. she was like a child and had to be governed in that manner. they were all taking their places at the table, lois at the head and rachel next to grandmother on the other side, then faith and primrose. opposite the workmen were ranged, andrew with one on either hand. the colored help had a table in the kitchen. this was the only distinction the henrys made. lois henry accepted the burthen of a half demented mother with a quiet resignation. in her serene faith she never inquired why a capable and devoted christian woman should have her mind darkened and be made comparatively helpless while physical strength remained, though it was a matter of some perplexity why her sister should have been taken and her mother left. the master's seat at the foot of the table was vacant. lois would have it so. it seemed as if they were only waiting for him. primrose had turned scarlet at her aunt's rebuke and faith's scrutiny. after the silent blessing the supper was eaten quietly, chloe coming in now and then to bring some dish or take away an empty one. and when they rose faith led her grandmother out under the tree where she spent her half hour before bedtime, unless it rained. rachel went in to uncle henry, and lois took a careful supervision of the kitchen department, that did miss her steady oversight, though rachel was very womanly. primrose sauntered out and sat down on the doorstep, feeling very strange and lonely, and resenting a little the knowledge of having been crowded out. penn morgan gave her a sharp look as he went out with the milking pail. there was still considerable work to do before bedtime. when rachel was released she took grandmother to bed. the window had been made secure with some slats nailed across, for she had been known to roam about in the night. her room opened into that of rachel's instead of the little hall, and the girl closed the door and put a small wedge above the latch so that it could not be opened. james henry had asked in a vague, feverish way if they had allowed primrose to go back with her aunt. "why, no," answered lois. "wilt thou see her?" "no, no! i cannot be disturbed. it is but right that she should come. thou wilt no doubt find her head full of vagaries and worldliness. what can one do when the enemy sows tares? i cannot resign myself to letting them grow together." "yet so the lord has bidden." "nay, we are to do our duty in the lord's vineyard as well as in the fields. i uproot noxious weeds, or i should have fields overrun. and now that haying has begun i must lie here like a log and not even look out to see what is going on," and he groaned. "but andrew is almost like thyself, and penn this two year hath managed for his mother. we must submit to the lord's will. think if i had lost thee, james, and men have been killed by a less mishap!" james henry sighed, unresigned. faith came out timidly to the doorstep, and looked askance at primrose. she was not robust and ruddy like penn and rachel, and yet she did not look delicate, and though fair by nature was a little tanned by sun and wind. not that the friends were indifferent to the grace of complexions, but children were often careless. but even among the straitest there was a vague appreciation of beauty, as if it were a delusion and a snare. and the quaker child glanced at the shining hair, the clear, pearly skin, the large lustrous eyes, the dainty hand, and the frock that, though plain, had a certain air like lord's day attire, and was not faded as an every-day garb would be. then she glanced at hers, where a tuck had been pulled out to lengthen it, and left a band of much deeper blue, and the new half sleeves shamed the old tops. her heart was filled with sudden envy. "thou art not to live here always," she began. "it is only for a brief while. and i am to stay years, until i am married. mother's bedding and linen hath been put in two parcels, one for rachel, who will be married first, as she is the eldest, and the other will be mine." primrose stared. bella talked of marriage, but it seemed a great mystery to primrose. there was no one she liked but cousin andrew, but she liked liberty better, she thought. why should one want to get married? the pretty young girls who came out to the farm had no husbands. patty had none and she was talking forever about the trouble they were, and mistress janice and madam wetherill---"but if he should be ill in bed and thou had to sit by him like aunt lois----" "uncle is not ill. he hath a broken leg, and that will mend," was the almost rebuking reply. "i like the town better. i did not want to come nor to stay, and i am glad i am not to live here always," primrose said spiritedly. "i like my cousin andrew----" "how comes it that he is _thy_ cousin? my mother was own sister to aunt lois, and so _we_ are cousins. had thy mother any sisters?" primrose had not thought much about relationships. now she was puzzled. "our names are alike," after some consideration. "and i was here the first, a long while ago--last summer." "but i have been here many times. and now i am to live here. besides thou--thou art hardly a friend any more--i heard chloe tell rachel. thou art with the vain and frivolous world's people, and andrew cannot like thee." that was too much. the dark eyes turned black with indignation and the cheeks were scarlet. "he does like me! thou art a bad, wicked girl and tellest falsehoods!" primrose sprang up and the belligerents faced each other. then andrew came up the path, and she flew out with such force that the milk scattered on the ground, and he had to steady himself. "primrose----" "she said thou didst not like me, and that i am no relation. what didst thou say down in the orchard? and if no one likes me why can i not go back to aunt wetherill?" the usually gay voice was full of anger, just as he had heard it before. truly the child had a temper, for all her sweetness. "children--wait until i carry in the milk, and then i will come out and hear thee." chloe took the pail and penn followed with his. andrew came out, and looked at the girls with grave amusement. primrose was the most spirited. really, was he being caught with the world's snare, beauty? "she said you--you did not like me." primrose's lip quivered in an appealing fashion, and her bosom swelled with renewed indignation. "i did not say that," interposed faith. "not _just_ that. it was about vain and frivolous world's people, and chloe said she was not a quaker any more, and i--how canst thou like her, cousin andrew?" "children, there must be no quarreling. there are many families where there are friends and members of various beliefs. and if we cannot love one another, how shall we love god?" faith made a sudden dart to andrew and caught his hand. "thou art not her cousin, truly," she exclaimed with triumph. "as much as i am thine. our mothers were sisters. primrose's father and mine were brothers. that is why our names are alike. and if you are good i shall like you both, but i cannot like naughty children." "you see!" primrose said in high disdain to her crestfallen compeer. "i was right. if uncle james had not been my uncle i should not have had to come here. and i should not care for andrew." there was something superb in the defiance visible in every feature and the proud poise of the shoulders. a woman grown could hardly have done better. andrew henry was curiously amused, and not a little puzzled as to how he should restore peace between them. faith's face had settled into sullen lines. "i shall love best whichever one is best and readiest in obedience and kindliness," he said slowly. "i do not care." primrose turned away with the air of a small queen. "i shall go back to town and you may have faith and--and everybody." but the voice which began so resolutely in her renunciation broke and ended with a sob. "oh, my dear child!" andrew's arm was about her and his lips pressed tenderly to her forehead, and the relenting lines gave him an exquisite thrill of pleasure he did not understand. "what is all this discussion and high voices about?" demanded lois henry. "i will not have the night disturbed by brawls. both children shall be whipped soundly and sent to bed." "nay, mother, listen." andrew straightened himself up but still kept his arm protectingly about primrose, glad that the falling twilight did not betray the scarlet heat in his face. "it came from a misunderstanding. faith did not know we were cousins by the father's side, as she and i are on the mother's. it is hard for little ones to get all the lines of relationship, and this being faith's true home it seemed as if her right must be best. but now they are at peace and will be pleasant enough on the morrow. they did nothing worthy of punishment." faith was glad enough of the chance to escape, for she had already smarted from the rod in the resolute hands of her aunt. she came toward her now and said humbly: "i did not understand, truly. i will be wiser and never again think it untrue. and now--shall i go up to bed?" lois henry was not satisfied, but she did not want to have open words with her son before the children. "both go to bed at once," she said sharply. "rachel?" "i am here," said the elder girl quietly. "take primrose upstairs and see that she is fixed for the night, though, hereafter, she will wait upon herself. i like not to have children brought up helpless." "go, my little dear," andrew whispered caressingly. "to-morrow----" primrose was awed by aunt lois and followed with no further word or sign. rachel found her nightdress and half envied the daintiness. "what were thy words with faith about," she inquired in a somewhat peremptory tone. "thou art faith's sister, ask her," was the resentful reply. she must tell the truth if she spoke at all, and she did not want to run another risk of being blamed. andrew believed in her, that was the comfort she held to her throbbing heart. "thou art a froward child and hast been overindulged. but, i warn thee, aunt lois will train naughty girls sharply." rachel stood in a sort of expectant attitude and primrose leaned against the window. "get to bed," the elder said quickly. "go! go!" primrose stamped her rosy bare foot on the floor. "i want you away. i cannot say my prayer with you here." "thou needst prayer certainly. among other things pray for a better temper." rachel went slowly, and shut the door. primrose threw herself on the bed and gave way to a paroxysm of sobs and tears. once she thought she would creep downstairs and fly to the woods--anywhere to be out of reach of them all. oh, how could she endure it! patty scolded sometimes, and madam wetherill reproved and had on an occasion or two sent her out of the room, but to be threatened with a whipping was too terrible! chapter ix. fate to the fore. they were early astir at the farm. rachel in going downstairs called primrose and faith. the latter rubbed her sleepy eyes--it was always so hard to get up, but there were many things to do. grandmother was the only one allowed to sleep in quiet, and sometimes she would lie as late as nine o'clock, to the great relief of everyone. "come, thou sluggard!" and the child's shoulder was roughly shaken. "this is twice i have called thee, and what will happen a third time i cannot undertake to say." "patty!" primrose opened her eyes and then gave a little shriek of affright. "oh, where am i?" she had cried herself to sleep and forgotten all about her prayer. "i am not patty, and thou wilt find no servant here to wait upon thee. we are not fine arch street people. come, if thou dost want any breakfast." slowly memory returned to primrose. she leaned out of the little window. oh, what joyous sound was that! she smiled as the birds caroled in the trees and followed them with her soft, sweet voice that could not reach the high notes. then she began to dress, eager to be out of the small room that would have seemed a prison to her if she had known anything about a prison. but the wonderful melody filled her soul and lifted her up to the very blue heavens. so she loitered sadly about her dressing, and when she came down the table had been cleared away. chloe had received instructions to give her a bite out in the kitchen presently, but with a sense of injustice, growing stronger every moment, she almost flew from the house. rachel was working butter in the milk room and faith weeding in the garden. aunt lois had had a very disturbed night and was suffering with a severe headache. her husband's fever had abated toward morning, and now he had fallen into a quiet sleep. primrose made her way to the old orchard. ah, how enchantingly the birds sang! then there was a long, melodious whistle that she tried to imitate and failed, and laughed gleefully at her non-success. where was the old tree blown almost over by wind and storm that she used to run up, and fancy herself a squirrel? ah, here it was! bent over so much more that its branches touched the ground. she walked up the trunk, holding out both arms to keep her balance, and then sitting down where three branches crossed and made a seat. the apples were hard and sour, she remembered, regular winter apples. she rocked to and fro, singing with the birds and watching the white boats go sailing across the sky. she laughed in her lightness of heart, though there was no malice in it. she did not even give the household a thought. and then she was suddenly hungry. she sighed a little. were there any more ripe, sweet apples, she wondered! oh, how long would she have to stay at uncle henry's? it was early july now, six months. what a long, long while as she counted them up! and there would be winter when she could not run out of doors, and no lessons, no books to pore over, no music, no great parlor full of strange things that she never tired of inspecting, no pretty ladies in silk and satin gowns, chattering and laughing. what with the soft wind and the swaying motion she began to feel sleepy again. she crawled down and looked for the tree they had found yesterday. alas! its branches were too high for her conquest. she threw herself down on the grass and leaned against the trunk, and in five minutes was soundly asleep. rachel had gone about her duties in a quiet, rather resentful manner. once chloe had asked about the child. "i have called her twice," was the brief answer. then she heard grandmother stirring and went up to dress her and gave her some breakfast. she would not even look in the small chamber where she supposed primrose was lazily sleeping. afterward she called in faith, who washed her hands and changed her frock, as the dew and dirt had made it unsightly. "if thou wouldst only be careful and tuck it up around thy knees," said rachel in a fretted tone. "there is no sense in getting so draggled, and it makes overmuch washing." "shall i take the towels out to hem?" asked faith. "yes. thee should get them done this morning. aunt lois spoke of thy dilatoriness." faith longed to ask about the newcomer. it was sinful indulgence for her to be lying abed. and why was she not sent to weed in the garden or put at other unpleasant work? rachel heard the rap on the tin cup that answered the purpose of a bell to summon one. aunt lois was still in her short bedgown and nightcap. "thou must wait upon thy uncle this morning," she began feebly. "i have tried, but i cannot get about. there is a dizziness in my head every time i stir, and strange pains go shooting about me. it is an ill time to be laid by with the summer work pressing, and two people needing constant care." she looked very feeble, and there was an unwholesome red spot upon each cheek. her usually calm and steady voice was tremulous. "but i feel better. the fever is gone," said uncle james. "there will be only two weeks more and then i can begin to get about. when there is no head matters go loosely enough." "but i am sure andrew is capable. he hath been trained under thine own eye. and penn is steady and trusty." "but a dozen young things cannot supply the master's place," he returned testily. "and one almost feels as if the evil one hath gotten in his handiwork as he did on job." lois sighed. rachel washed her uncle's face and hands and brought him some breakfast. "shall i not bring thee some, too?" "nay, the thought goes against me. i will have some boneset tea steeped. and presently i will get out to the kitchen. perhaps i shall mend by stirring about." grandmother sat under the tree or wandered about, babbling of old times and asking questions that she forgot the next moment. there was a ham boiling in the great kettle over the kitchen fire, and a big basket of vegetables for the dinner. there were two neighboring men working, who were to have their midday meal. james henry would have enjoyed job's disputatious friends. there were several knotty points in doctrine that he had gone over while lying here, and he longed to argue them with someone. the days were very long and tedious to him, for he had never been ill a whole week in his life. lois crept out to the living room, then to the great shady doorstep. how fine and fresh and reviving the waft of summer air, with its breath of new-mown hay, was to her fevered brow. "where is the child?" she asked. "i called her twice. what with packing the butter and various duties she hath quite gone out of my mind. surely she sleeps like the young man in the apostles' time." "go summon her again. she must be broken of such an evil habit." rachel primed herself for some well-deserved severity. there was no one in the room. she searched the closet, the other rooms, then the "tuck place" as it was called, and went through chloe's room, over the kitchen. "she is not anywhere to be seen. chloe, hast thou observed her stealing out?" "nay," and the colored servitor shook her head. "strange where she can be." "the child was tractable and well trained through the past summer, but she hath grown lawless and saucy. when she comes i shall give her a good switching, if i am able. i will not have these mischievous pranks," said aunt lois feebly. "she deserves it," rejoined rachel with unwonted zest. she longed to see the child conquered. still primrose did not appear. lois henry took her herb tea, and after a severe fit of nausea felt somewhat relieved, but very weak and shaky. she was just thinking of retiring when andrew came across the field. but he was alone. "hast thou seen aught of that willful child?" she inquired. "primrose? no." he looked from one to the other. "what hast thou been doing with her?" rachel sullenly recapitulated the morning's experience. "and she had no breakfast? where can she have gone? surely she hath not thought to find her way to wetherill farm! we should not have insisted upon her coming at this time. mother, you look very ill," and the kindly face was full of solicitude. "i am, my son. and it was not my will to have her, but your father's mind was set upon it." "and then she is so different," began rachel. "what if we had allowed faith in such tantrums!" "she needs a sharp hand to cure her evil temper." "mother," said andrew with a sense of the injustice, and a rising tenderness in his heart for primrose, "we must consider. she is not to have our lives, nor to be brought up in our way. she hath her own fortune, and her mother was a lady----" "there are no ladies, but all are women in the sight of god. and as for such foolish, sinful lives as the townfolk lead, playing cards and dancing, and all manner of frivolous conversation, it were a mercy to snatch one from the burning. she was a nice little child last year. i must reduce her to obedience again, and some sense of a useful, godly life." "to have thy training upset by the next hand! it is neither wise nor wholesome for the child, and she will come to have ill will towards us. i can remember how bright and cheerful and easily pleased her mother was----" "she was never grounded in the faith. she had a worldly and carnal love for philemon henry, and it was but lip service. if he had lived----" lois henry had interrupted with an energetic protest in her voice, but now she leaned her head on the door post and looked as if she might collapse utterly. "mother, thou art too ill to be sitting up. let me help thee to bed, and then i must go look for the child." he lifted her in his strong young arms and, carrying her through, laid her on the bed beside her husband. "i am very ill," she moaned, and indeed she looked so. all her strength seemed to have gone out of her. "i heard high words about the child. hath she proved refractory? madam wetherill and the houseful of servants have no doubt spoiled her. it is god's mercy that there may be seasons of bringing her back to reasonable life." "do not trouble about the little girl. to-day i think the doctor will be here to examine thy leg, and i am sure my mother needs him. i am afraid it is a grave matter." "my poor wife! and i am a helpless burden on thee! i am afraid i have demanded too much." "the lord will care for us," she made answer brokenly. after giving some charges to rachel, andrew walked down the path that led to the road. was primrose afraid of punishment, and had rachel said more to her than she was willing to own? this was no place for her, andrew said to himself manfully. and if his mother was to be ill---he changed his steps and went to the barn. would rover remember the little girl of last summer? he raised the clumsy wooden latch. "come, rover," he said cheerily. "come, we must go and find primrose. i wonder if thou hast forgotten her?" rover sprang out and made a wide, frolicsome detour. then he came back to his master and listened attentively, looked puzzled, and started off again down the road, but returned with a sort of dissatisfaction in his big brown eyes. "the orchard, perhaps. we might look there first. she was such a venturesome, climbing little thing last year." rover ran about snuffling, and started off at a rapid rate, giving a series of short, exultant barks as he bounded to his master. "good rover!" patting the shaggy creature, who sprang up to his shoulder in joy. primrose was still asleep. the winds had kissed with fragrant touches, the birds had sung to her, the bees had crooned, and the early summer insects ventured upon faint chirps, as if they hardly knew whether they might be allowed to mar the radiant summer day. how divinely beautiful it was! her head had fallen on her shoulder and the old tree rose gray and protecting. the long fringe of lashes swept her cheek, her hair was tumbled about in shining rings, her dewy lips slightly apart, almost as if she smiled. she had been worn out with her crying last night, but now was rested and fresh. the dog's bark roused her, and she opened her eyes. "oh, andrew! where have i been? why----" "little runaway!" but his tone was tender, his eyes soft and shining. "oh, andrew!" she exclaimed again. then she clasped her arms about his body with a kind of vehemence and buried her face for a moment. "take me back, won't you? i can't stay here. i can't! i don't like anyone. even aunt lois is cross and rachel hates me." "oh, no, no! but thou shalt go back. this is no real home for thee." "oh, come, too!" she cried eagerly. "there is a great farm, and madam wetherill will be glad to have thee." "nay, my father is ill and i could not leave him. and there is so much work to do. but i will see thee now and then to freshen thy memory." "i should not be likely to forget thee." "didst thou have any breakfast?" "no, i didn't. i was very sleepy when rachel called. i think i must have run straight to the land of nod again," laughingly. "and when i came down the table was cleared. there was someone in the kitchen, but i was afraid. i do not know why it is," and her plaintive voice touched him, "only now i am afraid of everybody--oh, no! not afraid of you, for i like you so much. and then i wanted to run away, but i did not know how to go. i climbed the crooked apple tree and swung to and fro until i was sleepy and afraid i might fall out. then i came down here. oh, can i go back? truly, truly?" "truly." yet he said it with a pang. how sweet and dainty she was! he would not have used the words, they were strange to him, but they sent a thrill through his body, as music sometimes does. "come, dinner will be ready." "will anyone scold me?" fearfully. "no one shall scold thee." they walked together to the house. rachel was just blowing the horn. faith looked curiously at her and rather exulted in the punishment she would get. andrew went straight to the sick room. "i am afraid thy mother is ill beyond the power of herb teas," said james henry. "what a godsend that we should have rachel! and oh, heaven grant that it may not be as it was before! the strong and helpful one taken, and the helpless left." lois henry was deeply flushed now and lay with her eyes half open, muttering to herself. "mother?" he said, but she did not notice him. he went out to dinner in a thoughtful mood, but he had no appetite. primrose was hungry enough, but looked up smilingly now and then. dr. reed came in earlier than his wont and accepted the invitation to dine, asking questions occasionally as to how friend lois had been last week, and if she had shown any tendency to be flurried. "she hath not been quite herself, now that i come to recall it," answered rachel, "and complaining of being tired and not sleeping well. oh, i hope----" she was about to add, "it will not be with her as it was with my poor mother," but tears stopped her. it was a fever sure enough. it would be better to have her in a separate chamber, and if some old nurse would come in. "there was mistress fanshaw, only come home last week." "i will go for her," responded andrew. "i shall be in on the second day," the doctor announced, as he mounted his horse and settled his saddlebags. "a sad thing for all of us." rachel wiped her eyes with the end of her stout linen apron. "i shall take primrose back to wetherill farm." "oh, that will indeed be a relief. she and faith, i foresee, would not get along together, and i could not manage such a froward child." andrew made no reply. there was a little more work devolving upon him, and he deputed the rest of the day's management to penn. he had fortified himself with many arguments as to why primrose should return to her great aunt, but to his surprise, his father assented at once. he was much worried about his wife, who had never been ill before. primrose was glad with a great delight. she sat under the tree with faith and roused the child's envy with accounts of her life in town, and the time for pleasure. "but dost thou not sew or knit?" "nay, except lacework and hemstitching, but i shall as i grow older. there is patty to sew, and as for stockings, i do not know how they come, for no one knits them, and they are fine and nice, with gay clocks in them, and oftentimes silken. i like the pretty things. but all friends are not so plain. some come to us with silken petticoats and such gay, pretty aprons, just like a garden bed." faith sighed. and now she wished primrose might say, there was such witchery in her words. madam wetherill was much surprised to have primrose return so soon, but not sorry, she frankly admitted. she was greatly concerned about friend henry and hoped the fever would not be over troublesome. "good-by, little one," andrew said, holding her hand. "i hope thou wilt be very happy; and i shall come to hear how it fares with thee." did she pull the stalwart figure down with her small hands? he bent over and kissed her and then blushed like a girl. "fie, primrose! thou art a little coquette, and learning thy lesson young!" "but i like him very much," she replied with brave seriousness. "only--it's pleasanter to live with thee," and she hid her face in madam wetherill's gown. chapter x. to turn and fight. james henry mended slowly, and lois' fever lasted a month before she could leave her bed, and then she could only totter about. rachel had proved herself a daughter of the house, efficient, thoughtful, and capable, and although a few weak protests had been made, it was an undeniable relief not to have primrose to consider. the town had been stirred to the utmost by conflicting views and parties. washington had gone to boston to take command of the troops, and now sent for his family from their quiet retreat at mount vernon. most of the people had shut up their country houses and come into town, and now that it was announced that mrs. washington would make a brief stop on her way to cambridge, there was a curious feeling pervading the community in spite of a very pardonable interest. what if the war should be a failure? "but we have committed ourselves too deeply to draw back now," said some of the loyal women. "let us pay her all courtesy." the rebel party resolved to give a ball in her honor at new tavern. mrs. hancock was also in the city, and some fine preparations were made. there was a heated discussion. some of the more sedate people, who never took part in gayeties, represented that this would be a most inopportune time for such a revel when the country was in the throes of a mighty struggle. christopher marshall, who was a quaker by birth, but had espoused the side of the colonies warmly, went to john hancock, who was then president of the congress, and requested him to lay the matter seriously before mrs. washington and beg her to decline the invitation, "while her brave husband was exposed in the field of battle." she assented most cheerfully, and was in no wise offended. there was a bevy of women discussing this at madam wetherill's; the young ones loud in their disappointment, as gayeties had not been very frequent so far. "and i like colonel harrison's spunk in chiding mr. samuel adams," said someone. "he agreed there would be no impropriety in it, but rather an honor. and we should all have seen lady washington." "_lady_ forsooth! i did not know the widow custis had put on such airs with her second marriage. presently we shall hear of mount vernon palace if dunmore does not make short work of it. and some of the rebels sneer at good english titles, or think it heroic to drop them." mrs. ferguson was well known for her tory proclivities. she ran her cards over as she held her hand up, and the excellence of it pleased her. "but i am desperately disappointed," declared kitty ross. "and if we are to go in sackcloth all winter i shall die of the megrims. there is my new petticoat of brocaded satin, and my blue gown worked with white and silver roses down the sides, and across the bosom, with such realness you would declare they were fresh picked. and lace in the sleeves that my great-grandmother wore at the french court. and surely there would be many gallants ready to dance. i am just dying for some merriment." "not much will you see until this folly is over." "it does not seem to end rapidly. i hear the men at boston are very stanch and in earnest since the murder of their brethren." "murder indeed! truly we have grown very fine and sensitive. they had no more than they deserved. and massachusetts hath ever been one of the most turbulent provinces." "and virginia a firebrand! as for us, we have the congress, and i hear they are talking of putting some sort of declaration in shape. and it is said general washington hath a very soldierly and honorable mind. he will do nothing for pay, it seems, and only agreed that his expenses should be met. at this rate he will not beggar the country." "and you will see how general howe will make mincemeat of his straggling army. madam washington will hardly be recompensed for her journey, methinks," said mrs. ferguson. "yet it would be good to have a sight of her," cried sally stuart. "and it is said she dances elegantly, as do all virginians. like kitty, i am out of conceit with the wisdom of these fearsome men who want to suit everybody and end by suiting none. and it seems there hath been a division of opinion about calling. who hath gone?" and sally glanced at mrs. ferguson with a merry sort of malice in her laughing eyes. "not i, indeed, you may be certain, but i will not be backward on her return, i assure you." "i have been," announced madam wetherill quietly. "i thought it but a duty, having met colonel hancock and wishing to be presented to his wife." "oh, tell us!" cried half a dozen voices. "what is she like--very grand? for he is fine and commanding." "we shall never finish our game with so much talk about everybody," declared one of the tory ladies in vexation. "she is not commanding." madam wetherill laid down her card as she smiled, and trumped her adversary. "but she hath a certain dignity and intelligence that makes up for inches, and a face that is winning and expressive, with fine, dark eyes and fair skin showing just a natural blossom on her cheek. and her manners are most agreeable. i am sorry we could not have given her some sort of welcome. well, moppet?" as primrose entered shyly with a written message to her great aunt, "make your best courtesy, child, and tell the ladies how you liked madam washington." primrose obeyed with a pretty flush on her cheek, and an irresistibly shy manner. "i liked her very much. and she said she once had a little girl of her own, and then her eyes looked almost as if they had tears in them, they were so soft and sweet. her face was beautiful." "well, well, we all feel disposed to envy thee," said sally. "some of us should have the courtesy to go to-morrow." mrs. ferguson rapped on the table. "if no one means to pay attention to the game we may as well give up and devote ourselves to laudation," she said shortly. madam wetherill looked at the note and said, "yes," and primrose, courtesying, stole out softly. but afterwards the game was ended with a good deal of curtness on mrs. ferguson's part, who had lost; for, while people were strenuous enough on some points, no one disdained to play for money. the girls stopped for a cup of chocolate that mistress janice sent in, and renewed the talk of their disappointment, bewailing the prospect of a dull enough season. but there were much excitement and high and bitter discussions to mark the winter. the breach between the war party and the peace party of quakers widened greatly, and the outcome was the free quakers, or fighting quakers, as they came to be called. the departure of the british from boston was hailed as a sign of hope. thomas paine's "common sense" was widely read, and disputed the palm with dickinson's "farmer's letters" that had been so popular. adams and james allen, who disagreed with paine, issued pamphlets, and many writers aired their opinions under various assumed names. andrew henry came in regularly to market. his father had not regained his full strength, and his leg was rather untrustworthy in slippery weather. now and then he paused at some tavern, as they were considered respectable meeting places, to hear the discussions, for he was much perturbed in these days. he was made a welcome guest at madam wetherill's also, and met from time to time some notable person, and became much interested in mr. benjamin franklin. very little had been said about primrose at home. rachel was growing into daughterhood, and though lois henry would have denied the slightest suggestion of matchmaking, she saw with no disfavor that rachel was much drawn toward andrew. when spring opened grandmother failed rapidly and took to her bed a great part of the time, so that it was necessary to bring her downstairs for convenience' sake. it would be rather troublesome to have a discordant element, and the henrys felt that primrose was more firmly established in her willful ways, no doubt, and they did not care for a continual struggle like that which had begun and ended so disastrously the preceding summer. the spirit of revolt had gained ground in all the colonies; still it had been hard work to persuade them to act together. but, in may, congress passed resolutions leading to the better equipment of the colonies for the struggle. at dinners--the only sources of amusement now--the king's health was no longer drunk, but "the free and independent states of america" were toasted with acclaim. with the old assembly the political power of the friends waned, and philadelphia was taking upon herself a great and serious change. if bunker hill had electrified the country, the declaration of independence, read to the few people who gathered to hear it at the state house, was to be the imperishable crown of the city, although it was not signed until august. the king's arms were taken down and burned, the church bells rang, and the young people caught the enthusiasm from a few bonfires on the square and lighted them elsewhere, little thinking they were kindling a flame in men's souls that was to be handed down to posterity for ages. a very small beginning then, but among the hearers was andrew henry, who wondered mightily at the boldness of such a step, though the glory of it thrilled every pulse, and he was amazed at the fighting blood within him. at the yearly meeting he and his father had attended, the friends had counseled against open rebellion and shown each other the futility of such a step. all acts of violence and bloodshed were deprecated, and lexington and concord pronounced a useless sacrifice, and displeasing to god. but in the little knots that had gathered afterward there had been more than one low, dissentient voice concerning a man's duty, and the impossibility of a government so far away knowing what was best for the colonies. he was to meet madam wetherill, who had come in to her city home on some business. "i am glad thy father agrees about primrose," she began in her cordial tone, that invariably charmed the young quaker. "her attire, too, had an appropriate aspect in his eyes, as it gave her a fine dignity. he was secretly pleased that she was not of his persuasion. the changes are hard on the child even if all other matters were in accord. i think she will never be of her father's faith, but she is sweet and attractive and good at heart. i am afraid we sometimes lay too much stress on outward appearances. is thy mother well this summer?" "she is not as strong as she was, and we should not know how to manage without my cousin rachel. poor grandmother is nearing the close of her earthly pilgrimage. she may go at any time. dr. reed hath given us notice, and death is a sad and awesome matter even for little ones. so mother said she would rather have no added cares, though she would not shirk any duty." "set her heart quite at rest. tell her for me that the duties of god's sending are first. i have been consulting the other trustees, and they think the child is as well with me." "i think, now, better," returned andrew gravely. "she is fitted for a wider life and knowledge than my father thinks necessary. and we have two girls now to comfort my mother, and they are of the same faith. but i find there is a wide line of opinion even among friends. and the coming struggle will make it greater still. the town hath done a daring thing to-day. will the great and wise men sign the document?" "i think all but a few. they are not certain of mr. dickinson, although he hath been writing so boldly. but mr. richard penn advises that they all hang together, lest they may have to hang separately!" and she smiled. andrew henry drew a long breath. "but it hardly seems possible they can win. england can put such armies in the field." "yet i think we have shown that patriotism can make good soldiers. there will be much suffering and heaven only can foresee the end. still it is a glorious thing, and we shall strive hard for freedom." "thou art a patriot surely. the little girl must inherit some of thy blood, for she boldly declared herself a rebel." "she is an odd, spirited child, with a good deal of her mother's charming manner. i have grown very fond of her, though i thought myself too old to take up new loves. thou must come down to the farm sometime and see her." "that i will gladly," was the quick reply. "and thou must study this matter thou hast heard to-day. it is a great thing to make a country, and a trust above all others to keep it intact. and, though thy people are averse to fighting, i see some of them have ranged themselves already on the side of liberty and the colonies." "i have a great interest----" then he paused and flushed. "but it grows late, and i must bid thee farewell. give my respects to the little girl and say i do not forget her." every effort was now made to strengthen the defenses, and a bounty was issued for volunteers. gun-boats were ordered for the river front and the manufacture of gunpowder was hurried along. there was much watchfulness over those suspected of toryism, or caught carrying away stores. occasionally one saw a cart packed with tories, seated backward and being driven along to the tune of the rogue's march, and jeered by the populace. late in the autumn they buried lois henry's mother. james henry gave up more of the severe work and going about to the young men. penn morgan was large and strong, and grown very fond of his uncle in an admiring fashion. andrew puzzled him oftentimes. pinches were beginning to be felt and a great part of the commerce languished. salt, one of the importations, became very scarce. stores and shops were dull enough, and men hung about the streets with nothing to do. in november came the news of howe's successful march and the taking of fort washington. then he swept onward, dismaying the towns, and when he reached trenton he issued a proclamation that won over many who still hoped in their hearts that by some miracle the colonists would win. but philadelphia celebrated the anniversary of her heroic declaration of independence with much firing of guns all day and a great civic banquet in the evening. the streets wore quite a holiday aspect. many people came in from the farms and residences at a distance, and flags, made after the pattern that betsy ross had designed for the army when general washington went to boston, were shown in some houses. there was also a smashing of quaker windows, and much hooting at the peace men, who were bidden to come out of the shelter of their broadbrims. a new oath of allegiance had been exacted from the citizens of the whole state that created great consternation among the friends. many now openly espoused the cause of freedom, being convinced it was a duty, and their expulsion from the ranks followed. even among the women there were enthusiastic souls who gave aid and comfort in the years of trial that were to follow. james henry had ranged himself strongly on the peace side. indeed the household were a unit with the exception of andrew, who held his temper bravely when the talk was of the condemnatory order. there had been no open rupture on the little girl's account. in a way james henry resigned some of his powers, though he kept the trusteeship, and was sharp to see to the accounting of money matters. madam wetherill and primrose made journeys to the quaker farmhouse, and the henrys were cordially invited to the city to test the wetherill hospitality. primrose had listened to andrew's persuasion, and in the summer gone for several days. how queer it all seemed to her! the plain, homely rooms, the absence of the many little courtesies to which she had become accustomed, the routine of work that left no leisure for reading or enjoyment. for already in the city there was a great deal of intelligence. she had grown tall, but was very slim and full of grace in every movement. her hair still held its sunny tint, and even if combed as straight as possible, soon fell into waves and curling tendrils, and her complexion was radiant in pearl and rose. rachel was quite a young woman, with a thin, muslin quaker cap over her brown hair, and not the slightest attempt at ornament; a great worker and very thrifty in her methods. in her opinion idleness was a sin. faith had grown tall, but was not as robust. primrose was like a sudden sunbeam in the old house. her merry laugh rippled everywhere. as of old, every animal on the place made friends with her. and though uncle james looked stern and sour at times, she would not heed his frowns. not only andrew, but penn, acknowledged her witching sway. she could ride finely now on horseback or with a pillion, and the cunning little beauty persuaded one or the other to take her out on numerous excursions. "one could envy thee heartily," declared faith. "for when rachel and i desire any recreation or to go of some errand, there are a thousand excuses. what coaxing art hast thou? and how dost thou come by so much prettiness? was it on thy mother's side?" "am i so pretty?" she laughed in a gay, amused fashion. "sometimes patty says i shall grow old and yellow and wrinkled, but though aunt wetherill's hair is snowy-white, and there are tiny marks and creases in her skin, she is not yellow nor cross, and looks like the most beautiful of queens in her brocades and satins." "but what is a queen if there are no thrones here in america?" "oh, how dull thou art! it is because we call anyone a queen who is a beautiful and dignified woman, and can receive with graciousness, and hold a little court about her." "but the fine clothes are vain and wicked. and--and plaiting of the hair, and the much pleasuring--and the giddy talk----" the small quakeress paused with a sort of longing and envy that she could think of no more sins. "but my hair is not plaited. i think the good god curled it just as he makes the pretty vine creep up and twine about. and he makes a gay, beautiful world, where birds go flying and dazzle the air with their bright colors. dost thou know the firebird, with his coat of red, and the yellow finches and the bluebirds? the little brown wren greets them in her pert way, and i dare say takes pleasure in them. and how many flowers you find in the woods and the meadows." "i never go for flowers. it is a sinful waste of time, and we have no use for them, since they do but litter everything. and thou wilt some day be called to account for these idle, frivolous moments." "i do not know. i think god means us to be happy. and i cannot help being gay and pleased with all the things he has made. it is very naughty and unkind to despise them." faith knew in her heart there were many things she would be glad to have, and that she hated to sit in the house and spin and sew, when primrose was roaming around with penn and andrew, and riding on the hay cart amid the fragrant dried grass. "andrew, wilt thou always be a quaker?" primrose asked one evening when she found him sitting under the tree where poor old grandmother had spent so many of her days. "always? why, i suppose so. children generally follow in the footsteps of their fathers." "is that because you are a man?" "i like _thou_ better," smiling and putting his arm about her. "but i am only half a quaker. do you think my father truly meant me to be? there is a fine picture of him at mr. northfield's that is said to be worth a great deal of money, and was made in england by a great man, and is sometime to go over again. did you know i had a brother, andrew?" "yes." "it seems very unreal. a letter came one day from him, and he asked if there were any other children alive. a brother! how strange it sounds! why, it would be like penn and faith." "i hope he may never want thee," with a little hug that made her head droop on his shoulder. "oh, no; and if he does, he must come here. i should be afraid of the great ocean that it takes days and days to cross. and i might be drowned," plaintively. "then thou shalt never cross it." "thou wilt not let him take me away? though i think aunt wetherill would not consent." "nay, i would fight for thee." "then thou must fight for the country. it is _my_ country." "if any need comes in thy behalf i will fight," he returned solemnly. "and thou wilt put on some fine soldier clothes. the men all look so handsome in their blue coats and buff breeches, and the hats turned up in a three-cornered way." she only saw the glory in it. he hoped she might never know the other side. "what art thou studying about so gravely?" when primrose lapsed into silence and let her small white hand lie in his brown one. "i was thinking. penn is here, and does your father need two sons? aunt wetherill said, one day, that you were wasted on the farm, and that some of the generals ought to have you for your cool clear head, and your strength, and oh! i do not remember what else. and if you would come into town----" "if thou were older, primrose, thou couldst tempt a man to his undoing. but thou art a sweet, simple child. and when my country needs me she will not ask about my faith. already there is more than one quaker soldier in her ranks." "primrose!" rachel had been sitting on the old stone step until there seemed a curious fire kindled all through her body at the sight of the golden head on the broad shoulder. "primrose, come in. the dew is falling." "there is no dew here under the tree," returned andrew. "it is high bedtime. faith is going. come!"--peremptorily. there were times when primrose was fond of teasing rachel, but she rose now. when she had gone a step or two she turned around for a kiss. "i am ashamed of thee!" rachel said sharply. "thou art a bold child to hang around after men. didst thou kiss him? that was shameful." "it was not shameful. i will ask him----" rachel caught her arm. "aunt lois will be shocked! no nice little girl does such a thing! faith would be whipped for it. go straight along." she blocked the way, and primrose, in her sweet hopefulness, thought of to-morrow. aunt lois had overheard the talk. when rachel had mixed the bread, for chloe had a sore finger, the elder said gravely: "thy uncle goes over to chew house to morrow, and i think primrose had better return home. she is too forward and light to have with faith. i like not city manners and freedoms. her mother was not to my fancy. men are weak sometimes, but i hope ere long, rachel, my son's fancy will be fixed where it will afford me great satisfaction." rachel colored with a secret joy. she could have clasped the mother to her heart for the admission, but she would not spoil the commendation by any lack of discretion. while primrose was waiting for uncle james in the morning she ran out to the barn. "andrew, i am going. it hath been very pleasant, and i hoped thou would have taken me. andrew"--with a strange, new hesitation--"is it--is it wrong to kiss thee?" she looked up out of such clear honest eyes in all their sweet guilelessness that he took the fair face between his hands and kissed it again. "nay, there could never be a wrong thought in thy sweet young heart. and thou art my cousin." she wondered, as she was retracing her steps, if he kissed faith and rachel, since they were cousins. chapter xi. a rift of suspicion. lois henry had no especial fear of any serious matter with such a mere child as primrose, as she was far too young. but she had been trained in a repressed, decorous fashion, and many of the friends were as rigorous as the puritans. young men were better off without caresses, even from mother or sister. and she was compelled to acknowledge within herself that primrose had a large share of what she set down as carnal beauty, the loveliness of physical coloring and symmetry. neither of the morgan girls would ever be temptingly pretty, and she gave thanks for it. rachel would make a thrifty and admirable housewife. she could not wish her son a better mate. andrew would be needed on the farm, which would be his eventually, and she would have no difficulty in living with such a daughter-in-law. but she resolved that the old arrangement, whereby philemon henry's daughter was to spend the summers with them, should remain no longer in force. she did not ask that her husband should view the matter at once through her eyes; she knew a quiet, steady influence would better gain her point than an outspoken opposition. james henry was rather surprised when she proposed that he should take primrose home, as they had begun to call madam wetherill's. "there is no great haste," he replied. "but thou art going at least half-way there, and it was to be merely a visit. thou must see, james, that all her ways and habits are very different, and our good seed would be sown on sandy ground. when the child comes to be a year or so older we may have more influence, and presently, i think, madam wetherill may tire of her. she distracts faith with her idle habits and light talk, and just now we are very busy with the drying of fruit and preserving, the spinning, and the bleaching of white cloth, as well as the dyeing of the other. it takes too much of my time to look after her. and, since my illness, i have not felt equal to the care of doing my duty to her." "certainly; as thou wilt, wife. i foresee that we shall gain no great influence over her, since every season our work must be undone. and i will discuss the matter with friend chew. if he considers that some part of the duty may be abrogated, we will not push our claim at present." friend chew thought there was nothing really binding in the agreement. philemon had requested that his wife and daughter should spend a part of the year with his brother, but here had been the mother's fortune and the appointment of a new guardian. and since madam wetherill had a fortune and so few relatives, perhaps it would be as well to allow her some leeway. the good lady was surprised at the speedy return. she ordered some refreshments for james henry and begged that the horses might have a rest. then they talked of farming matters and the state of the country, hoping hostilities might be confined where they had their first outbreak, mostly to the eastern colonies and new york. "thou dost know that i am bitterly opposed to war," he said. "it is unchristian, inhuman, and we cannot think to conquer the british armies, therefore it is folly. i was sorry enough to see the town william penn reared on peaceful foundations with the service of god, turn traitor and range herself on the side of the king's enemies. many a friend, i hear, had his windows destroyed in that ungodly rejoicing a short time ago, and men of peace have been persecuted and ridiculed. we know little of it on our far-away farm, but friend chew hath kept account of both sides. and the rebel lines seem to have fallen in hard places." "we must give thanks that it hath come no nearer." she would not argue nor offend him, for the sake of primrose. "there is another matter," he began, after a few moments of silence, occupied in sipping his ale and munching some particularly nice wafer biscuits that janice kent had made quite famous around the country side, and though she willingly gave the recipe, no one could imitate them exactly. "it is about the child. it hath been a matter of conscience with me whether i ought to expose her to the temptations of the world, but since i cannot by law keep her altogether----" and he hesitated a moment. "we have not quarreled about her since the judges made the decision, though thou knowest i would like to have her altogether," and madam wetherill smiled amicably, sipping her ale to keep him company. "it seems folly, like the man's two wives who plucked at his hair, the first to take out the white ones and the other the black." "there was the illness last summer, and i think my wife hath not been so strong since, and we have two girls----" "and since good fortune brought them to thee and i have none, i shall beseech thee to waive thy claim, and let me keep the child. i know our ways are different, but if presently she should choose thy faith,--and we have many of thy persuasion dropping in,--and desire to return to thee, i will be quite as generous and kindly as thou hast been, and not oppose her." "that is as fair as one can expect," the man said with a sigh. "i would my brother had lived and managed the matter. friend chew thinks there will be hard times before us all, especially those who have laid up treasure in perishable money." "but, whatever comes, i shall care for her to my last penny." "and if thou shouldst die, as we are but mortal, the best of us, wilt thou transfer her back to us?" "her guardians will do that. i promise no will of mine shall be left to oppose it." "and that she shall visit us now and then." "i agree to that." "we are busy now--thou knowest the many things that press in the summer--and two children of an age are troublesome unless brought up together. so we thought it best to return her just now." "and i am glad to have her. there is so much help here that a child's trouble is scarcely noted." but on his way home james henry wondered if he had not given in too easily to the worldly and pleasing way of madam wetherill. she smiled a little to herself as she called primrose from the summer house to say good-by, and to receive some sage advice. "thou naughty little moppet," she said when the stout quaker had ridden away, as she caught the little girl's hand in hers and gave her a swing, "what didst thou do that thou wert sent home in disgrace?" "was it disgrace?" the color deepened on the rose-leaf cheek. "aunt lois found no fault, only to call me an idle girl. faith is busy from morning to night and cannot even take a walk nor haunt the woods for flowers. rachel is very stern and hath sharp eyes----" should she confess last night's misdemeanor? but what right had rachel to condemn it? cousin andrew had kissed her in this house. oh, was so sweet a thing as a kiss wrong? "truly thou must be set about some task. i think i will have thee taught to work flowers in thy new silk petticoat, for we shall have no more fine things from england in a long while. and that would be vanity in the eyes of thy uncle james." "i should not like to work every moment." "thou art a spoiled and lazy little girl. does faith read and spell and repeat latin verses, and write a fair hand?" primrose laughed. "she reads in the bible slowly. and the latin uncle james thinks wicked. i have half a mind to think so myself, it is so bothersome. and the french----" "thou mayst marry a great man some time and go to the french court. perhaps thou wouldst rather spin and churn, and make cheese and soap. but when there are so many glad to live by doing these things it seems kindness to pay them money for it. and so thy aunt lois did not really take thee to task?" "she did not set me about anything. and rachel would not let me go to feed the chickens, nor gather up eggs, which is such fun." "and what didst thou do?" "nothing but sit under the tree as the old grandmother used. it was very tiresome. and a walk in the orchard. then i found a cornfield where penn was plowing, and i waited to see him come out of the rows and get lost in them again." "and did you like this master penn?" "he was very pleasant. he showed me a nest with tiny birds in it that were naked and ugly, but they grow beautiful presently. and he picked a great dock leaf of berries, so that i should not get my hands scratched, and we sat down on a stone to eat them. but i like my own cousin andrew better. penn is not my cousin--rachel said so." madam wetherill nodded with piquant amusement. perhaps there had been a little jealousy. "well, i am glad to get thee back. i am afraid i spoil thee; mistress kent insists that i do. but there will be time enough to learn to work. and if this dreadful war should sweep away all our fortunes, we shall have to buckle to, and, maybe, plant our own corn and husk it, and dig our potatoes as our fore-mothers helped to when they lived in the cave houses by the river's edge, before they built the real ones." "caves by the river's edge? did the river never overflow them? and is that where the penny pot stands----" "who told thee about that?" "i walked there once with patty. she knows a great many things about the town. and she said i ought to learn them as i was born here, lest the british come and destroy them." madam wetherill smiled at the sweet, earnest face. "they did not destroy new york, but i should be sorry to see them here. and i will tell thee: in that cave was born the first child to the colonists. he was named john key, and good master penn presented him with a lot of ground. but i think he should have been called william penn key, to perpetuate the incident and the great founder. there are many queer old landmarks fading away." "and where were you born?" asked primrose, deeply interested. "not here at all, but in england. and i grew up and was married there. then my husband put a good deal of money in the new colony and came over, not meaning to stay. but i had some relatives here, and no near ones at home, being an only child. the wardours did not run to large families. my husband was much older than i, and when his health began to fail, instructed me in many things about the estate. so, when i lost him, i was interested to go on and see what a woman could do. there was a cousin who was a sea captain and had been to strange places, the indies it was called then, and the curious ports on the mediterranean, and brought home many queer things." "oh, that is the portrait hanging in the big room at arch street, and is captain wardour?" exclaimed primrose. "and where did he go at last?" "to a very far country, across the great sky. he was lost at sea." madam wetherill sighed a little. how long ago it seemed, and yet, strange contradiction, it might have been not more than a month since captain wardour bade her good-by with the promise that it should be his last voyage and then he would come home for good and they would marry. this love and waiting had bound her to the new world. she had made many friends and prospered, and there had been a sweet, merry young girl growing up under her eye, which had been a rather indulgent one, and who had fallen in love with philemon henry, and perhaps coquetted a little until she had the quaker heart in her net he did not care to break if she could come over to his faith. it had disappointed madam wetherill at first, but having had business dealings with him, she had learned to respect his integrity. but as if there seemed a cruel fate following her loves, just as it was settled for bessy to come back with her little primrose, death claimed her. and madam wetherill had tried to keep a fair indifference toward the child since she could not have her altogether, but the little one had somehow crept into her heart. and now that there were two girls at james henry's farm, the wife's own nieces, she could see they would the more readily relinquish her. the sending back of the child seemed to indicate that, though she had only gone for a visit. "art thou sad about captain wardour?" and the little maid looked up with lustrous and sympathetic eyes, wondering at the long silence. "and do you think he could find my mother and my father? it must be a beautiful world, that heaven, if it is so much finer and better than this, and flowers bloom all the time and the trees never get stripped by the cruel autumn winds and the birds go on singing. i shall love to listen to them. but, aunt, what will people do who are like rachel and think listening idle and sinful, and that flowers are fripperies that spoil the hay and prevent the grass from growing in that space?" "i am not sure myself." madam wetherill laughed at the quaint conceit. there were many gay friends in town whose consciences were not so exigent, who believed in education and leisure and certainly wore fine clothes, if one can trust the old diaries of the time. but the other branch, the people who thought society worldly and carnal, reduced life to the plainest of needs, except where eating was concerned. there they could not rail at their brethren. "do not bother thy small brain about this," the elder went on after a pause. "it is better to learn kindness to one's neighbor, and truth-telling that is not made a cloak for malicious temper. i am glad to have thee back, little one, and they will not be likely to need thee at the farm, nor perhaps care so much about thy faith." the whole household rejoiced. they had grown very fond of primrose. often now in the late afternoon madam wetherill would mount her horse with the pillion securely fastened at the back, and primrose quite as secure, and with a black attendant go cantering over the country roads, rough as they were, to belmont mansion with its long avenue of great branching hemlocks; or to mount pleasant, embedded in trees, that was to be famous many a long year for the tragedy that befell its young wife; and fairhill, with english graveled walks and curious exotics brought from foreign lands where debby norris planted the willow wand given her by franklin, from which sprang a numerous progeny before that unknown in the new world. they would stop and take a cup of tea on the tables set under a tree. or there would be ale or mead, or a kind of fragrant posset, with cloves and raisins and coriander seed, with enough brandy to flavor it, and a peculiar kind of little cakes to be eaten with it. discussions ran high at times, and there was card-playing, or, if water was near, the young people went out rowing with songs and laughter. a lovely summer, and no one dreamed, amid the half fears, that from the town to valley forge was always to be historic ground. "madam wetherill has grown wonderfully fond of that child," said miss logan. "and what eyes she hath! they begin to look at you in a shy way, as if begging your pardon for looking at all; then they go on like a sunrise until you are quite amazed, when the lids droop down like a network and veil the sweetness. and a skin like a rose leaf. it is said her mother had many charms." "and her father looked courtly enough for a cavalier. there is a portrait of him that mr. northfield hath stored away, that is to be sent to england to the son by a former wife. though i believe the great hall the boy was to inherit hath a new heir, the old lord having married a young wife, 'tis said. the lad sent word that he would come over, but nothing hath been heard, and now there are such troublous times upon the ocean." "nay, england is mistress of the seas. and a new recruit of troops is being sent over. some think virginia will be the point of attack." there was but little news except that by private hands. no telegram could warn of an approaching foe. in july washington, leaving a body of troops on the hudson, pushed forward to philadelphia, where he met, for the first time, the young marquis lafayette, who had been so fired with admiration at an account of the daring and intrepidity of the americans in confronting a foe like england, and declaring for freedom, that he crossed the ocean to offer his services to the continental congress. the british fleet under sir william howe did not ascend the delaware, as was anticipated, but landed at the chesapeake bay and were met by washington on their march up, and after a day's hard fighting, at chad's ford, washington was compelled to retreat with many killed and wounded, among the latter the brave young frenchman. and then the city had its first bitter taste of war, and all was consternation. many packed up their valuables and fled, others shut up their country houses and came into town. general howe crossed the schuylkill, intending to winter at germantown, but, after the battle there, in which he was victorious, resolved to place his army in winter quarters at philadelphia. promise was given that all neutrals should be respected in property and person. the advent of the english was regarded with conflicting emotions. there were stately tories, who held out a hand of welcome; there was a large and influential body of friends who had resolutely kept to business, having, perhaps, little faith in the ultimate triumph of the colonists. and now the aspect of the town was changed, in a night, it seemed. officers were sent to the wealthier households, and general howe finally established himself in the house of richard penn. barracks were hastily thrown up for the soldiers who could not find refuge elsewhere. madam wetherill was summoned to her parlor one morning, though, thus far, she had not been molested. "there are two redcoats, full of gold lace and frippery," said janice kent severely. "in god's mercy they have let us alone, but such fortune cannot last forever. still they are more mannerly than those who invaded mrs. wray's, for one of them, a very good-looking officer, asked to see you with an air of seeking a favor. but we have hardly chambers enough to accommodate even a company, so heaven send they do not billet a whole regiment upon us!" madam wetherill gave a little frown. "no, we cannot hope to be let entirely alone. let me see thy work, child," to primrose. "yes, do this part of the rose; it requires less shading, and keep at it industriously." then she went down the broad staircase in stately dignity. the wide door space made her visible to the young man, who had been examining the chinese pagoda standing on a table in the corner. "i must beg your pardon for coming unceremoniously upon you," he began in a well-trained voice that showed his breeding. "i reached the city only yesterday after a variety of adventures, and as it would have taken a long epistle to explain my history, i resolved to come in person. there was a connection of yours who married a mr. philemon henry. i bethink me that the quakers disapprove of any title beyond mere names," and he smiled. "yes," the lady answered gravely, eying the young man with a peculiar impression of having seen him before. "i knew friend henry very well." "and you have quite forgotten me? i hoped there would be some resemblance. i have been in this house as a little lad with my stepmother----" "it is not--oh, yes! it must be philemon henry's son!" "that was my father, truly. i had thought some day to come over, when i heard there was a little girl still living, my half-sister. and i remember i was very much in love with my pretty, winsome stepmother. i took it rather hard that i should be sent to england. and, as events turned out, i might have been as well off here in the city of my birth." "pray be seated," rejoined madam wetherill. "this is singular indeed." "allow me to present to you my friend, lieutenant vane, who is in general howe's army, where i expect soon to have a position myself. i hope, madam, you are not too bitter against us?" "there will be time to discuss that later on," she answered in a guarded tone. "yet i am almost surprised to find thee in arms against thy father's country." "i suppose he would have been a peace man. i have memories of a tall, rather austere person, yet of great kindliness, but it was the pretty, playful stepmother that made the most vivid impression. and now tell me of the little girl. where is she?" "in this house. in my care partly. she has two trustees, or guardians, besides. one is your father's brother, james henry, who lives not far from germantown. but i forget--you know nothing of our localities." "an uncle! really that had slipped my mind. and has he any family?" "one son of his own. a youth and two girls, orphans, whose mother was his wife's sister, have a home there. they are friends of the quite strict order." "i must find them. my remembrance of him had faded, but i think i do recall his coming in to dinner at my father's. so my little sister is here? i have said the name over many times. primrose. is she as pleasing as the name? if she favors her mother she must be pretty enough." "she is very well looking," was the quiet answer. "and somewhat of an heiress." "no one can tell about property in such times as these. i am sorry thou shouldst have been disappointed in this respect." the young fellow shrugged his shoulders and smiled with a kind of gay indifference. "a young woman when sir wyndham was up at london captured him. he had gone many a time and had his yearly carouse with no danger, but she made him fast before he could fairly escape. she pays him much outward devotion. there was a great family of girls and they were glad to get homes, having little fortune, but being well connected. then her child, being a boy, knocked me out altogether; the estate and title going in the male line. still, he was generous to me. and being of a somewhat adventurous disposition i thought to enlist in the king's guard, but there being a call for men to subdue the rebelling colonies, i decided to come hither." "thy philosophic acceptance speaks well for thee. few young men could take a disappointment so calmly." "i raved a little at first," laughingly. "but i was given a journey on the continent, and there are chances still. it is said old men's children are seldom robust, while i can frolic for a week and remain sound as a nut." now that she saw more of him he did resemble his father somewhat, though not so tall and of a more slender build. "well," he said presently, veiling his impatience, "am i to see the little girl?" "julius," to the hall boy, who was shooting up into a tall lad, "go upstairs and ask mistress primrose to come down to me." the child entered shyly, julius having announced "two britisher redcoats" with bated breath and wide-open eyes. she walked swiftly to madam wetherill's side. "this is little mistress henry. primrose, thou hast inquired about thy brother. this is he. hast thou taken thy father's name?" "i have added nevitt to it. in a certain way i am still an appanage of nevitt grange--next of kin and in the succession. my sweet little maiden, i am your half-brother from england, and i knew and loved your mother." he crossed over to primrose and would have taken her hand, but she clung closer to madam wetherill, looking at him with half-frightened eyes. "nay, do not be so doubtful, my pretty child. if i have convinced your protectress, and i think general howe has sufficient credentials to vouch for me, you may safely acknowledge me. at least, shake hands. i will prove the kindest of brothers if you do but give me a chance." she glanced questioningly at her aunt and then ventured one small hand, while her cheeks flushed in a delicate pink. he bent over and carried the hand to his lips. "we must be friends, little primrose, for now we shall see a good deal of each other, i hope. will you not give me one smile? as i remember your mother, she was most generous of her sweetness." "the child is strange of course. and she hath not heard much about you." "is it truly my brother?" she glanced up at madam wetherill as if not convinced. "i have no doubt. i think i had an impression at once," smiling. "and when she is better acquainted----" "but i do not like general howe to take possession of our city. patty says the streets are full of redcoats and i cannot go out." she stiffened herself with great dignity, and now she looked squarely at him out of beautiful eyes. "who may patty be? and you will see that general howe has a right to be here. he will soon settle the rebels if he keeps on as he has begun." "i am a rebel. and your general shall not conquer me. he is cruel and wicked!" "primrose!" said her aunt, though much amused. "you have found a foe already," laughed gilbert vane. "one you cannot fight, but must persuade." "but my cousin andrew has promised to fight for me. he is larger than you, and i like him very much." she looked so spirited and daring that he wanted to clasp her in his arms and conquer her with kisses. he would soon oust this cousin andrew in her affections. "little girls must not be so fierce," reproved madam wetherill. "we have talked on all sides and the child hears it. then some of my old servants are strong patriots, rebels i suppose they will be called. your friend is right--a little patience is best for conviction." "at least you will let me try to win your regard?" and he glanced steadily at his little sister, but she kept silent. "it is best that girls should not be too forward, or too easily won. we shall hope to see thee often. thou wilt meet people of many beliefs here; some ardent tories, some as ardent rebels, perhaps. i place no restrictions on the beliefs of my friends. now, primrose, run away to thy work. i have still a few matters i wish to talk about." "surely you will wish me a farewell in a kindly fashion?" exclaimed her brother. primrose had walked across the room with great dignity. at the door she paused to bestow a smile and courtesy on her aunt, then a very dignified one on each of the gentlemen, holding up one side of her skirt daintily. chapter xii. true to her colors. the american forces had not gone on triumphantly. the two battles, fierce as they had been, had not decided anything. after the battle at germantown howe broke up his encampment there and proceeded to philadelphia, resolved to make that his winter quarters. to be secure against starvation it was necessary to reduce fort mercer and fort mifflin, since supplies were to be brought into the city that way. washington prepared to go into winter quarters at whitemarsh, but later moved to valley forge, that he might the better afford protection to the stores at reading, and the congress that had fled to york. the defeats had cast a gloom over the continentals, but they were not utterly disheartened. in spite of his wound the marquis de lafayette carried himself hopefully, and helped inspire the waning courage of the men. the news of the glorious victory at saratoga was sedulously kept from them for some time. there were quarters to construct, wounded to tend, and winter at hand. philadelphia was crowded. hospitals were full, prisons overflowing. the english settled themselves for the winter, many in the belief that the spring would see the crushing out of the rebellion. in this serene hope they began to cast about for amusements. they found not a few of the tory young women charming and affable. they resolved upon weekly balls at the city tavern. there were club dinners and gay suppers at the indian queen, and ferry tavern, that often degenerated into orgies. for the ruder sort there were cockpits, where the betting ran high, and no end of dice and card-playing. there was among many of the lower classes an insolent revolt against an established order of things that had not brought them prosperity, and tradesmen had felt the pinch of hard times severely. the influx of british gold was hailed with delight, and some timorous souls that had longed for the larger liberty, yet feared the colonies could never win independence, went over to the other side with sudden fervor. those of royalist proclivities opened their houses to the gayeties that swept over the town like sudden intoxication. there were private balls and dinners and tea-drinking, with no end of scarlet-coated young officers, and card-playing was rampant. the shabby little theater on south street was no longer relegated to opprobrium, but put in some repair and made a place of fashionable entertainment; the versatile englishmen turning their hands and their wits to almost anything in that line, from scene-painting to acting in comedy, farce, or tragedy. it was soon noised about that madam wetherill's grand niece and protã©gã© had a brother among the english officers. many people could recall the fine old quaker philemon henry, and his pretty second wife bessy wardour. "surely you are in luck, madam wetherill," said bright, inconsequent sally stuart. "will you not be generous enough to give us a peep at this handsome captain? my mother remembers his father well. and what does the child say to this fine surprise?" "she is not as enthusiastic as one might suppose." "ah! i remember; she is quite a little rebel, and her patriotism becomes her well, since she is but a child, but she will mend of that." "thou shalt see the young man, with pleasure. i shall choose some of the young people who have a hankering for scarlet." "well, they are going to give us a gay winter, and, heaven knows, we have been dull as ditch water. the theater has been refitted. and there is talk of racing again and no end of diversion." so madam wetherill gave a dancing party and asked the favorite young women of the day, since captain nevitt had proposed to bring some brother officers. miss franks and miss kitty ross and betty randolph were to be among the belles of the evening, and many were pleading for invitations. "i hardly know how to manage," the mistress said with a sigh to janice kent. "many have had soldiers quartered upon them with hardly a moment's notice. mrs. norris was relieved, it is true, and lord cornwallis proved himself a gentleman. elizabeth drinker protested since her husband was from home, but it was not regarded. and we have been favored, whether from the influence of this young nevitt or not, i cannot decide. i like not to be so identified with the tory party, but i cannot be ungracious to my little girl's half-brother and the child bessy henry loved. i think he must favor his mother's people; he has not much of the old henry blood in him." "i am not sure it is so bad a thing, madam, for we shall be less suspected of kindliness to the poor fellows who need it so much. and we may hear news to their benefit occasionally." "ah, if a turn could be brought about for our brave men! i hear that mrs. washington is to join her husband and share his hardships. it will put courage into many a loyal fellow that misfortunes have well-nigh disheartened." so the great apartment was cleared of some of its ornaments that there might be more room for dancing, in that and the spacious hall. primrose had been curiously distant and wary. it had amused her brother very much, and he teased her about being a little rebel and said he should take her to england to cure her of such folly and that she should be presented at court. for certainly the continentals could not hold out when all the principal cities were taken and trade stopped. he was proud of her beauty, and his flattery might have turned the head of almost any child. "i shall insist upon taking her back to england with me," he announced to his friend. "and this fine old lady, madam wetherill, can be induced to go along, i think, when she realizes the hopelessness of the cause, for she is, by birth, an englishwoman. and primrose, it is true, will be quite an heiress. what a pretty name her mother gave her, and it seems that in it she outwitted my father. he was one of the strait sort as i remember him, and my pretty stepmother planned many a bit of indulgence for me, and hid some childish pranks from his eyes that would have brought severe punishment." "you have good reason, then, to care for her and love the child. it seems to me a curious thing that your father should let you go abroad--his only son." "but, if he had lived, he might have had half a dozen sons. he was a hale, hearty man, much too fine looking for a friend. you must go with me to see the portrait of him, which, with some other keepsakes, belongs to me." "and these cousins they talk about?" "yes, i must pay my respects to them. the days go so rapidly that one does not get through half one's plans. i had no idea there was so much interest in this old town of william penn's. the winter will be a merry one." "it seems not much like war," returned gilbert vane thoughtfully. the party at madam wetherill's was a most brilliant affair. it seemed as if every conclave except the continentals were represented. there were staid friends in the rich attire of the better class; some in drab, others in coat and breeches of brown velveteen and silk stockings, and the younger men with various touches of worldly gauds. there were other citizens in the picturesque attire of the day, with embroidered satin waistcoats, powdered hair, and side rolls beside the queue, lace ruffles and gold lace and gold buttons. and the belles were not to be outdone by the beaux. there were gowns of almost every degree of elegance, in brocades and glistening satins, wrought with roses or silver thread, turned back over beautiful petticoats. gowns of venise silk and velvet, with elbow sleeves and ruffles of rich lace, and square corsages filled in with stiffened lace called a modesty fence, through which the younger girls ran a narrow ribbon that was tied in a cluster of bows. the hair was worn high on the head, with puffs and rolls held in place with great gilt or silver pins, and an aigrette nodding saucily from the top. the elder women had large caps of fine and costly material. few were brave enough to go without, lest they might be accused of aping youthfulness. there were fans of white, gray, and lavender silk, bordered with peacocks' eyes, and their fair owners needed no japanese training to flirt with them. there had been numerous discussions about primrose. her brother longed to see her attired quite as a young lady. "nay, they grow up fast enough," protested madam wetherill. "and there will be a host of town beauties to whom you must pay court, who would be jealous of such a chit and think her forward." "but she dances so beautifully. i can never be grateful enough that you have had her so well instructed, and brought up a churchwoman. and really she must dance. lieutenant vane is almost as much smitten with her as i am." "the more need for me to be careful, then." "nay, i shall guard her well, for i want to take her to england fancy-free, so that she may have her pick among titles. she is fast outgrowing childhood. and there is nothing so sweet as an opening bud." "mine shall not be pulled open before the time. remember she has guardians, and thou art not one. her quaker uncle may have a word. he hath only lent her to me." "we will settle that with other questions," the young man replied laughingly. that very morning he had brought her in a pair of pretty bracelets that had delighted her mightily. he clasped them on her slender wrists. "now you are my prisoner," he said. "i will not let you go until i have a sweet kiss from your rosy lips." she turned her cheek to him gravely. "nay, that will not do. truly thou art stingy of kisses. and i am thy own brother!" "i am not thy prisoner!" turning her eyes full upon him with a spirit of resistance. "yes, indeed. i will get a requisition from general howe that you shall be delivered over to my keeping." "but i will not go. americans are born free." "yes, i have heard that they so declared. and equal, which is very amusing, seeing there are slaves and work people of all sorts, with no more manners than a plowboy at home. and elegant women like your madam wetherill and that charming miss franks and the handsome shippens. still, i adore thy spirit." "thou mayst take back thy gifts. i shall never go to london with thee." "oh, primrose! what does possess thee to be so cruel! i am half a friend for thy sake, and our soldiers laugh at my thee and thou. what else shall i do to win thee?" "thou shalt fight on the side of my country instead of against it. i cannot love a traitor." "nay, i am no traitor. there was no question of this war when i was sent to england. there are many friends siding with us and longing for peace and prosperity. it is these in arms against us who have forgotten their fealty to their king. they are the ones to be called traitors." "nay, there is no king here. and many of them came hither to be free and away from the king's rule, and they have the right to choose." "what a saucy little rebel! and yet thou art so daintily sweet! love me just a little bit because thy mother did. many a time she kissed me. and hast thou no word of praise for the bracelets?" "they are pretty, but i will not be a prisoner for their sake," and her eyes sparkled with resolution and a spice of mischief. "thou shalt be quite free if thou wilt wear them for my sake and give me a tender thought. come, can i not be liked a little? i have heard thee declare an ardent love for the woman patty. am i of less account than a serving woman?" there was something persuasive and plaintive in his tone. "patty makes my clothes and helps me with lessons when they are difficult, and she knows how to cure earache and pains, and lets me go with her to do errands, and tucks me up at night. and she has promised to keep watch that no british soldier shall surprise us." "it is a long list of virtues truly, but i will see the house is not molested, and i might help with lessons. as for the earache--i do not think such pretty ears can ever ache." there were some quivering lines about her mouth, and now both laughed. "and i will dance with thee to-night. some day i will come and sing songs with thee. and all i ask is one poor little kiss in return for my gift." "i would not give away a poor little kiss," she answered with well-feigned indignation. "no. forgive me. it shall be the sweetest thing in the whole wide world. primrose, i am glad i can never be a lover to sue to thee. thou wilt wring many a heart. and now i must go. it is a pleasure to me to bring thee pretty gauds, whether thou carest for me or not." "i do care for thee," she said softly, a delicious color stealing over her face. "then one kiss." she stood up on tiptoe and her soft, rosy lips met his. "heaven bless thee, little primrose. thou art very dear to me. go show thy gift to madam wetherill. i asked her permission beforehand." she ran to madam wetherill's room, holding up both arms. "see!" she cried. "yes. it is a new fashion, and i said when thou wert old enough for rings and gewgaws there is all thy mother's. but he coaxed so to give thee something. i hope thou thanked him prettily." she hung her head, while a warm color came into her face, and raised her eyes hesitatingly. "i would not be pleased at first because he said i was a prisoner, and that americans were traitors." "he loves to tease thee, primrose. yet he has a deep and fervent affection for thee." primrose hid her face on the ample shoulder. "i kissed him," she murmured softly. "was it very wrong? for he coaxed so about it." "why, no, child. thine own brother? but it is not proper to kiss outside of one's family, and now thou art growing a large girl and may see many gallants. so be wise and careful." patty did her hair high on her head, but madam wetherill bade her take it down again and tie it with a ribbon. and her white muslin dress was short and scant, just coming to her ankles and showing the instep of her pretty clocked stockings. there were lace frills to her puffed sleeves, and a lace tucker, with a pretty bow on one shoulder. but it seemed as if she looked more beautiful than ever before. everybody made much of her. it appeared to be an easy road to captain nevitt's heart. even the handsome major andrã©, who had come because nevitt had talked so much about his little sister and madam wetherill, and also because he was likely to meet some of the attractive young women of the town, and "primrose was like a little fairy for beauty, and that her smiles were bewitching." a very great time it was indeed. there were ombre and quadrille tables, piquet and guinea points for the elders, while the black fiddlers in the end of the hall inspired the feet of the younger portion. with the dancing there were jest and laughter and compliments enough to give a novice vertigo. primrose was daintily shy and clung close to her brother, of which he was very proud, as she had never shown him quite such favor before. anabella morris was setting up for a young lady, being nearly two years older than primrose. mrs. morris had taken a certain captain decker in her house to lodge, who seemed very devoted to her daughter. she had not succeeded in capturing a husband yet, but it seemed quite possible with all this influx of masculines. the glowing and attractive description of "fairemount" given before, as a place "where no woman need go without a husband," had not held good of late years. the supper was in keeping with all the rest. there were solids in the way of cold meats served up in various fashions, there were wines of all kinds, and lighter refreshments of cake, floating islands, jellies, whipped sillabubs, curds and cream, and all the delicacies in vogue. there were healths drunk, toasts and witty replies, and, after a complimentary mention of the hostess, someone asked whether that pestilent old quaker samuel wetherill was any relative, expressing ironical regret that he was not present. madam wetherill rose tall and stately, with the most courteous self-possession. "my husband and mr. samuel wetherill's grandfather came from different towns in old england, but there may have been some of the same blood in their veins. and i think if my husband had espoused a cause he believed right, and gave of his means and influence courageously, fought, and should, perhaps, die for it, i should honor him as a brave man. for there will many brave men die on both sides." there was a moment's silence, then hearty applause without a dissentient sound. and when, toward morning, the servants were carrying away dishes and putting out lights, madam wetherill came and jingled three guineas in her hands, close to janice kent. "i was thinking of our poor fellows and the sick and wounded to-night, and resolved that when they return to the city they shall have a greater welcome than this. and that rampant old tory ralph jeffries, whom i should not have asked but for his daughter's sake, insisted upon playing when he was half fuddled. he is shrewd enough when sober, but to-night i won his guineas. and now i tell thee, janice, what i will do. these new people are ready enough with their play and have plenty of money. whatever i win i shall lay aside for our poor fellows." "that is a fine scheme," and janice kent laughed. "we must get out to the farm some day and see if we cannot send provisions before these british troops lay hands on it. for it will take a great deal to feed eighteen thousand men, and i doubt if they suffer at any time from honest scruples." "it was a grand time. there are many handsome young men among them. but i think that major andrã© bears off the palm. there is music in his laugh, and his handsome face is enough to turn a girl's head. they are to act a play, i believe. miss becky franks was talking of it to the shippens." madam wetherill sighed a little. already the quiet streets of the town had taken on a new aspect. there were fiddling and singing in many of the decorous old taverns. men were shouting tory broadsides of ridiculous verse; selling places for the races, when tarleton was to ride, as that was sure to draw crowds, or hawking tickets for plays. women were careful about going in the streets unattended, and cavaliers became general. a few days later captain nevitt came in to escort the ladies out to cherry farm, as, somehow, many duties and engagements had intervened since his arrival until, as he admitted, he was quite ashamed of the lack of respect due his uncle. it was a bright, clear winter day, with a sky of wonderful blue, against which the distant trees stood out distinctly, the hemlocks looking almost black against it. the soldiers' barracks stretched out, giving a strange appearance to the once peaceful city. groups of men were lounging idly about, and confusion seemed to predominate. but they soon left the city behind them, and rode along the schuylkill, where the wintry landscape, leafless trees, and denuded cornfields met their glance, dreary now, but to be ruinous by and by. primrose had a pony of her own and rode beside her aunt, with her brother as her guard, while lieutenant vane was her aunt's escort. primrose wore a blue cloth coat and skirt, trimmed with fur, and her white beaver hat was tied under her chin. many women used a thin, silken sort of mask to protect their complexion from wind and dust, but madam wetherill had discarded it and did not always insist upon primrose wearing one. many of the beautiful houses destroyed later on were standing now. a few had been taken as outposts for the army, others looked lonely enough closed for the season, as it had not been considered prudent to leave even the farmer in charge, after the battle of germantown. "primrose does credit to someone's training," captain nevitt remarked. "is it a long ride?" "we are used to this fashion of getting about and hardly think of fatigue. it would be a poor weakling who could not stand a few miles. the roads are rough for the chaise." how pretty she looked in her white and blue. she smiled at him. they had been quite good friends since the night of the dance, though there had been no opportunity of teasing each other. but she was not thinking of his regard nor his pleasure just now. she seemed to have changed mysteriously, to have grown out of careless childhood, and taken a great deal of thought about the country. when she remembered that general howe had come with his army to subdue it and that her brother was in the soldiery she shrank from him. how could she love him? he had pleaded for her sweet mother's sake, and that touched her inmost soul. she had listened with frightened eyes and a breathless throbbing of the heart to the account of the battle of germantown, and her fears for her beloved country often outran her hopes when she had a quiet time to think. the servants had been forbidden to tell her the more awesome part of it, only she knew general washington had been beaten and forced to retreat, and the british hailed it as a great victory. the young lieutenant and the stately dame found many things to talk about, as well-bred people often do, skirting over the thin places, for by this time he understood that madam's heart was not on the english side. but he was confident when it was all over that she would accept defeat gracefully. the ascent from the city was gradual. in the distance they noted the small gray stone houses, looking frosty in the wintry air, with here and there a larger one, like the chew house, to be famous long afterward in history. then they turned aside and lost sight of it. captain nevitt thought he would like to have been in the fray, but he did not say so. "thou art very quiet, little one. i have heard people offer a penny for one's thoughts, a big english penny," smilingly. "mine do not go as cheap as that," answered the maiden. "a crown, then?" "i do not think i will sell them." "thou art not very much in love with the cousins?" he said presently. she colored quickly and turned her face to him, quite unaware of betrayal until he laughed. "ah, i have thy thoughts without the penny! is it the tall quaker cousin madam talks about, or the other--william penn?" "his name is simply penn, penn morgan. and he is not an own cousin. surely it is not strange if i did think about them." "do not be offended. i shall like them if they have thy affection." "thou hast small mind of thy own if thou takest a girl's whims for thy pattern," she answered with a show of disdain. "whether i like them or not is my own affair. and patty declares i change about with every puff of wind." "nay, i shall not believe that until i follow the changes, or they are made in my behalf." "oh, you know why i am cross to you! i cannot like a redcoat! but because my own mamma loved you----" "primrose, thou art quite too peppery in temper with thy brother," interrupted madam wetherill gently. "the henrys will think i have indulged thee ruinously." she looked up laughingly. the soft yellow hair was blown about her like a cloud, and the great bow under her chin gave her a coquettish air. what a changeful little sprite she was! they were coming in sight of the great barns and outhouses for the cattle, and nestled down among them was the house, looking really smaller. a line of blue smoke from the chimney was floating over to the west, betokening a storm wind not far off. someone was coming from the barn, a stoutish man who walked with a cane, and paused to wonder at the party. "that is your uncle, your father's brother," said madam wetherill. chapter xiii. under the rose. madam wetherill made her brief explanation to show why she had ventured to bring two dashing redcoats, in their military trappings, to the home of the plain quaker. james henry looked at his nephew with many lines of doubt in his face and evident disapprobation. "i have planned for the last two years to come over," said the winsome voice with the sound of glad, merry youth in it that jarred on the sedateness of his listener. "i was waiting for a promotion, and then had permission from the king to join general howe. so i found him in possession of my native city, and in short order i discovered my little sister." "we are men of peace," returned his uncle gravely. "william penn founded his colony on the cornerstones of peace and equity, and all we ask is to live undisturbed and away from carnal pleasures and the wanton fripperies of the world. and it pains me to see philemon henry's son come among us in the habiliments of war. still i suppose thou must do thy duty to thy master, the king, since thou hast strayed from thy father's faith. there is no discipline now for children, and they follow evil counsel as they will." "it was my father's will rather than mine. i remember, big boy that i was, crying many a night on shipboard for my stepmother's affection and kisses." "it was an error of judgment, and he hath no doubt bewailed his mistake if it is given us to sorrow in the next world. but come in. and though thou art of the world, worldly, there is much in kindred blood. come in and take welcome among us." the keeping room was cheerful with a great fire of logs in the wide stone chimney-place. there was a spicy fragrance of pine knots and hemlock. in one corner rachel morgan sat at her spinning wheel, with a woman's cap upon her head, and a bit of thin white muslin crossed inside her frock at the neck; a full-fledged quaker girl, with certain lines of severity hardly meet for so young a face. mother lois sat beside the fire knitting. she had never been quite so strong since her fever, and faith had a basket of woolen pieces out of which she was patching some shapely blocks for a bed comfort. she sprang up with a face full of joy. the summers were not so bad, but she dreaded the long, dreary winters when she had to stay indoors and sew and spin, with none of her own years to speak with. "oh, primrose! and is it really thy brother? what a pretty habit thou hast with all the fur, and the hat makes a picture of thee! there is one upstairs of a great-grandmother, and thou lookest like it, but it belongs to andrew and not to our side, and," lowering her voice, "uncle henry thinks it vain. andrew wanted it in his room, but uncle would not listen. oh, i am so glad to see thee. i am so lonely," piteously. the little quaker girl in her sudden delight had forgotten her superior virtue. her eyes fairly danced as they devoured primrose. all the others seemed talking and explaining, so she had dared to step over the traces in the din. "we have some odd old portraits in arch street. if thou couldst visit me, faith!" "faith," said her uncle, "go and call andrew. i left him threshing in the farther barn." faith rose with sober gravity, running her needle through the patch, and walked placidly through the room, though she had telegraphed to primrose with her eye. and just as she opened the door primrose gathered up her skirts and, saying, "i will go, too," flashed along before anyone could frame a remonstrance. "i wish thou wert here--nay, not that, for thou would be kept straitly, and there would be no pleasure. rachel has grown severe, and works so much at her outfitting, for she means to be married sometime." "who will she marry?" there seemed no one besides andrew, and the child's heart made a sudden fierce protest. "oh, i do not know. william frost hath walked home with her when the meetings were at friend lester's. all girls marry, i think, and i shall be glad enough when my time comes. if it were not for andrew i hardly know what would become of me. he is so good. he reads curious books and tells them to me. and sometimes there are verses that i want to sing, they are so sweet--but such things are wrong. andrew! nay, hide here, primrose," pushing her in a corner. "andrew, guess what has happened, and who hath come! an elegant soldier in scarlet and gold, and--and--someone thou lovest. i was mad one day when i said i hated her----" "not primrose!" in a surprised but gladsome tone. there was a swift rush and primrose was in his arms. he did not kiss her, but held her so tightly that she could feel his strong heart beat. "truly, faith, thou didst not hate me?" she said when released, turning to the girl. the maiden's face was scarlet. "she does not hate thee now, dear," said andrew softly. "it was most wicked and hateful! thou hadst so many joys and pretty things and lessons, and a beautiful face, and then andrew said thou didst have the sweetest big heart in all the world and could love me and would be glad to share thy joys with me. is it so, primrose?" primrose clasped her in her arms and kissed her many times. "i wish thou could come. there are so many things, and it makes no one poorer by sharing them." "and then i learned to love thee. we talk of thee until at night, when i shut my eyes and draw the coverlid about me, i can see thee like a star coming out in the blue. and andrew thinks sometime he may take me in on market day, when the spring opens, for i would like to see the great city. and thou might come to meet us. i think aunt lois and rachel would be angry if i went to madam wetherill's. but i am forgetting. thou hast a soldier cousin, andrew." "he is my brother," explained primrose with curious dignity. "and--i do not like him to be a king's soldier." andrew gave a long whistle of amazement, and studied primrose so keenly that she flushed. "thy brother? of course, then, being uncle philemon's son he is my cousin. is he not lord somebody?" "he is captain nevitt. and at times i love him, but he teases and threatens to take me to england, and--and he is to fight our soldiers. it does not seem right, then, to love him at all. andrew," looking up out of the softly radiant eyes, "i wish thou wert in his stead." andrew henry was satisfied then. for an instant his soul had been wrung with jealousy. but his look of tender regard answered hers and both understood. "and i must go see this british cousin. faith, hand me that brush, even if it does get used at times on dobbin's sleek coat." he brushed the dust of the grain out of his clothes and gave his hair a stir with his fingers. "and primrose hath a pony!" cried faith. "it is pretty, with great, soft eyes! next summer i shall learn to ride." she caught the hand of her visitor and pressed it with pervading rapture. primrose wondered how she could have grown so different. "thou hast stayed finely!" said rachel reprovingly. "it is ever the way when two do an errand. and madam wetherill will take dinner with us, it is so near noon. the horses must be put out, and penn and jonas are down in the wood lot. go to the kitchen and help chloe." there were tears in faith's eyes, but she dared not even loiter, for rachel's hand was not light when it came with a box on the ear. there were so few visitors at the house that this was a great treat, and faith hated to be shut out. philemon nevitt surveyed his cousin with some curiosity and decided that the plain young quaker farmer was no great rival after all in his young sister's favor. for he was not likely to fight for his country, the great test primrose seemed to require. but when andrew went out to care for the horses the two young men asked permission to leave the ladies and take a look around. "the country surprises me," declared captain nevitt. "we have heard much talk about the wilderness and the forests, and the few towns such as penn's colony, which is a much greater city than one could imagine. and there is the town the dutch started, new york, and the puritan boston, beside many lesser places that must show wonderful capacity for settling the new world. there are industries, too, that have amazed me. 'tis a great pity a people doing so well should rebel against all law and order, and be willing to have their country destroyed rather than yield while they have something to save." "we shall not agree upon this matter," andrew henry replied with quiet dignity. "and since we are of blood kin, we will not dispute. there are other subjects of talk." "but my uncle is strong for peace," in a tone of surprise. "yes. i, too, am for peace, unless manliness and honor goes not with it. and when one has seen wrongs and usurpations creep in gradually, and privileges taken away--but," checking himself, "i was not to discuss such points. we are plain people but we may have some stock, and browsing for it, that will interest thee." the cattle were certainly fine and well fed. there were stacks of hay and piles of indian corn, great pits of vegetables, and potatoes enough to feed an army, it seemed. everything was so well kept, and there was a great sheepfold with shelter for the flock in storm. "and, now, which way retreated the rebels after their defeat?" asked captain nevitt. "they went on up the schuylkill, on the other side, to whitemarsh first, and then to valley forge." "a blacksmithy town?" "there was once an old forge there. it is not a town." "there seems many comfortable country houses about, as if there might be gentry." "some of them now are filled with the wounded and the ill. they were worth seeing in the summer." then they discussed horses and found the young quaker no mean authority. the horn blew to summon them within, where a bountiful feast was spread, to which they all did ample justice and talked of family affairs. captain nevitt had another view of his father from his brother's comprehension of him, and though it was much narrower, not less complimentary than that of madam wetherill. certainly there was nothing to regret on the henry side. he was beginning to feel proud of these clean, wholesome people of strong character. when they had risen madam wetherill said they must leave presently. the sky was getting to be rather lowering, with a grayish cloud in the south that betokened snow, friend henry said. "i will go out with thee, andrew, and see about the horses," said the lady. "nay," interposed captain nevitt smilingly. "it is hardly a lady's business----" "i have some privacy with andrew," she returned. "i have had some useful hints from him, young as he is, and you must know if women are not equipped for soldiering, they make excellent farmers at times. but you may all come, though if i extract any grand secret from andrew as to how to double the value of a crop next year, i shall not bruit it abroad, i promise you." faith looked up wistfully. "child," she said, "thou and primrose go take a little run in the keen air. thou art not very rosy for a farmer's maid, and primrose hath been housed overmuch of late, our streets are so full of roysterers." "faith hath some work----" "nay," interposed madam wetherill, "ten minutes' run will make her all the brisker for work. run along, children; and have a little visit with each other." there was something in madam wetherill not easily gainsaid. rachel saved up her displeasure for a scolding presently. andrew attended the lady to the stalls where the horses had been led. "thou hast not been in to market of late?" "there had been so much disorder, and i believe a permit is needed. then there have been people about, buying up produce of all kinds." "dost thou know anything of the other army?" her voice was very low. "somewhat," in a hesitating tone. "they are likely to need many things. howe's purpose to attack them was frustrated by a timely warning. there may be other warnings as well, for the army contains many braggarts. and their winter of dissipation, of gambling and betting and carousing, will not fit them for a spring campaign. i heard it said that philadelphia was capturing them by allurements, and it may be a poor victory for general howe. i have a faith--i cannot tell thee of any tangible groundwork, but i feel assured we shall win." "it is dark enough now." "but there was the splendid capture of burgoyne, and our army made much richer by stores sorely needed. canst thou get things to valley forge?" "i know of someone who can," and he studied her eyes. "even if it is gold--british gold? it will not stick to anyone's fingers?" "i will warrant that," and the delight encouraged her. "i have a small fund that will come in from time to time. here is a little bag. it is not much, but it will help. and if i could get needful things to them, clothes and blankets? if thou wilt sell provisions to me for them--thy father keeps a sharp lookout?" "he hath a shrewd mind and far sight. and i would not render him liable to trouble. i think i could manage that way. oh, madam, i ought to be with those brave fellows whom nothing disheartens. the general's wife hath left her pleasant, peaceful home to share his hardships. it is _my_ country." "wait a little and be patient. it is a pity this fine cousin is on the wrong side. it would amuse thee to hear primrose dispute with him. now i trust thee to get this gold thither." "thank thee a hundred times for them. there are many loyal hearts in town, as i well know." "and many disloyal ones. it angers me. come in some time. primrose will be overjoyed to see thee. she is growing tall fast, too fast for my pleasure. i would fain keep her a little girl." "i am jealous of my cousin," declared captain nevitt coming out to them with the air of a spoiled boy. "when wilt thou give me a confidence?" "all the way home," she answered readily. "and i have so many good points i think i shall bet on the next race. how many of you will ride?" "why do we not have some hunts?" he asked eagerly. "if there is no fighting there must be diversion." they mounted the ladies and rode up to the door of the cottage to say good-by. "i shall dream of thee to-night," faith whispered to primrose. the wind blew up colder and sharper. they were glad to get home. there was a slight fall of snow and everything was frozen up hard enough to last all winter. the streets seemed merrier than ever. all the creeks were frozen solid, it seemed, and the schuylkill was a sparkling white band, winding about. skating had broken out into fashion, and the prettiest belles of the day were out with trains of military men at their beck. the river banks would be lined with spectators, who envied, criticised, and carped. women were muffled up in furs and carried huge muffs, their wide hats tied down under their chins with great bows, some wearing the silken mask, in much the fashion of a veil, to protect their skins from frosty touches. the skaters, in skirts that betrayed trim and slender ankles, spun along like a whirl of the wind, or with hands crossed with a partner, went through graceful rocking evolutions, almost like a waltz. the scarlet uniforms of the officers made a brilliant pageant. it was indeed a winter long to be remembered, and recalled with keen relish when the british, with lovers and friends, had flown. captain nevitt had insisted upon taking his sister out, as primrose was a very fair skater, and, under his tuition, improved wonderfully. she looked so pretty in her skating dress with her soft, yellow hair flying in the wind, and her lovely face half hidden in her hat, to be revealed like a vision at the various turns. nevitt had been taken on general howe's staff for the present. foiled in his endeavor to call out washington by any maneuver, and feeling that another battle was quite impossible and useless in the extreme cold, which was more bitter than for years, he too, gave himself over to diversion, and looked leniently on the frivolities of his officers and the ruder dissipations of his men. the most fascinating game on the ice was skating after a ball. a man called the hurlie propelled half a dozen balls along with a long, sharp-pointed stick, between two given points, often far enough apart to make a trial of speed and endurance. the fortunate one was he or she who caught a ball before it reached the goal, and then the merriest shout would ring out on the air. a tall, fine-looking young fellow in civilian attire had captured two of the balls one afternoon and was flying at his most vigorous speed for another. primrose had paused for a moment while her brother stopped to chaff a companion. the ball rolled swiftly along, and from some slight inequality in the ice deflected. the arm was outstretched to catch it, and she could not quite remember afterward whether she had stooped, but he came against her with sufficient force to knock her over. he caught the ball and held it up in triumph, with a joyous hurrah, and then turned to see what the oath and the exclamation meant. "good heavens! you have killed her, you brute!" captain nevitt cried angrily. "i was under such headway and i had no thought the ball would go in that direction. let us see at once. is she unconscious? dr. shippen is here. i passed him not ten seconds ago. i will find him." nevitt took primrose in his arms, limp and white as a lily. there was a little circle about them, but the others went on with their gayety. a fall was no such uncommon thing. dr. shippen had been out for a little exercise, and withal had some curiosity to see the mad carnival that had broken out in the staid city. "ah, it is madam wetherill's little girl!" looking sharply at nevitt. "i thought i had seen the child somewhere," said the young man who had caused the accident. "can we not take her home at once?" "i am her brother," was nevitt's stiff reply. "you have done enough mischief with your awkwardness. i hope your silly victory repays you. let me pass, with no further parley on your part." "what do you think, dr. shippen?" "it is a faint, of course. whether she is more severely injured i cannot tell. let us take her home, for she will be chilled through, and i have an errand in second street." the doctor sat down on a stump to unbuckle his skates. nevitt had taken his off a few moments before, but primrose had begged that they might skate all the way down. "can i do nothing to assist?" asked the other. "go on with your prize-winning," said the captain haughtily. "you may run over someone else if you have good luck." "you british think you own the town and can order us about like slaves!" was the fiery reply. "tut! tut! wharton! don't get into a fight. you are hotheaded." "i will not be insulted by any interloper, even if he wears a red coat." wharton's face was flushed with anger, and his eyes sparkled with passion. "where will a note reach you?" captain nevitt was in a flame of anger as well. "come along at once! allin wharton, go over yonder and cool your temper talking to the pretty women. and if you are the child's brother, get along as fast as you can with her, and let us see what it amounts to. a fall like that is enough to knock the breath out of anyone." wharton did not attempt to follow them. they hurried on, nevitt's anger giving him strength. he pressed his face against the cold, white one. "who was that boor?" he cried passionately. "if my sister is injured i shall half murder him!" "if you are her brother then you are philemon henry's son, and he was a man of peace. i have had a great desire to see you, since your father was a good friend of mine. i heard you had come over, i must say on bad business. here, this turn cuts off some distance, though we have been squared according to plummet and line; and then down here. let me take the child. is there no sign of returning animation?" they reached the wetherill house, and its mistress caught sight of them from the window. "oh, dr. shippen!" she cried in alarm. "the child has had a fall. take off her hat and coat. now let me see!" he laid her on the settle in the hall and began chafing her hands, and ordering some restoratives. "are you sure there are no bones broken?" "not quite. it really was not that kind of a fall. there, she is coming around. now, madam wetherill, here is a pepper-pot of a young soldier that you must cool down with some soothing potions, and i will find the other firebrand. we won't have them shooting each other unless in up and down warfare." "i think you will bear witness that i was insulted," declared nevitt. "and gave an insult. it is about even. no fighting, therefore. dueling for trifles is cold-blooded murder. i ask it for your father's sake. my little dear, wake up from your nap." "what is it?" primrose said in a faint voice. "i feel queer." then she lapsed into insensibility again. "take her upstairs if you will, please. and, doctor, what mystery is there about this mishap? how did it occur? patty, come hither." the child opened her eyes again and half smiled. "she will do now, i think; her pulse is stronger. here is a small injury; nothing worse than a sprain, i think. she was run down on the ice. our town goes crazy over a trifle now. the wrist is bruised and sprained. patty, if you are the owner of so useful a name, undress the child, but i think she hath no broken bones." the men retired to the adjoining room while patty alternately scolded and petted her young charge. "i hope you will reconsider your threat," said the doctor. "there are too many good uses for life to throw it away foolishly. if you are a king's man your life belongs to him, and is not to be wasted in a fit of temper." philemon nevitt flushed with a sense of shame. he had been hotheaded, unreasonable. there was no serious injury, they found. the bruised wrist was to be bound up with the old-fashioned remedy of wormwood and hot vinegar. and to-morrow primrose would be all right again. "do you know this allin wharton?" nevitt asked of madam wetherill. "i know his family well, only young people have such a way of growing up that one loses track of them. he cannot be more than twenty. and words between you ought not to lead to any serious matter. you should have kept better watch of primrose in such a crowd." "i think i ought," he admitted frankly. "and i was hasty." he recalled the fact that he had given the insult, and that the other had the right to seek satisfaction. in london duels were common enough. but by great good fortune young wharton called on madam wetherill the next morning to inquire about the mishap to primrose and found her none the worse except a bandaged wrist. "is it really true that this fire-eating young captain is--what shall i say? a relative, since this pretty flower is your niece, is she not? and polly was so taken with him, but for his red coat, that when i began to talk of him i found i had fallen into a hornets' nest. and now, madam wetherill, what shall i do? some hot and hasty words passed between us. can i safely show the white feather? for no doubt your captain is a fine shot, and, truth to tell, i have some other plans for my life. since he is even half-brother to miss primrose i should not want to shoot him." primrose looked up with languid sweetness. she felt rather sore and inert from the shock. "why, were you going to shoot him?" she asked. "we had some words. you know i ran over you. it was very rude and careless. and it might have been much worse, and then i should really have been guilty." "but you caught the ball! i saw it as i went down. i should not have been so intent and moved a little. but i had not taken off my skates. brother phil wanted me to, but i was quite determined to have my own way. and so i went over more easily. it would be very cruel and wicked to shoot each other on account of me." "and silly, too," said madam wetherill sharply. "i shall take the case in my own hands, and arrange matters," laughingly. "i think captain nevitt was unmindful for a moment. and there is no great harm done but a sprained wrist." "and if you had shot phil----" "well, what would you have done?" "i should never, never want to see you or to think of you again!" "and if he had shot me?" "then, i think, i should send him away and never see him again." allin wharton wondered how it would be in the future if they should meet on the field of battle. for he had just wrung a reluctant consent from his father that he should respond to his country's call, whose need would never be more urgent than now. "i wonder if you are on the side of the king? it would seem so natural with a brother in the ranks," and he recalled the entertainment in his honor at madam wetherill's hands. polly, his sister, had thought the captain charming. "i am a rebel," she said proudly. "and i shall never be content until he comes over to the side of the country, to the buff and blue instead of the red." "surely, surely; you are a brave, patriotic girl. wish me success in case i want to join the rebel army," with a half-embarrassed smile. it was not wisdom to confess all one's plans. she put out her right hand. it was the other that had been hurt. "i wish thee success. that means victory and a safe return," she replied with sweet solemnity. chapter xiv. for native land and loyalty. they all made so light of the occurrence that a note of apology from mr. wharton settled the matter. captain nevitt felt in his cooler moments that he had been a little to blame, also hasty and unreasonable. and when, a few evenings after, he met pretty and vivacious polly wharton and danced with her, he was very glad the matter had gone no farther. primrose was soon well again, but madam wetherill would not consent to her going out on the river among the gay crowd, though she felt it a great deprivation. there were two or three quiet spots on the creeks where children could go without harm, and patty used to take her when phil was engaged, though lieutenant vane was always inquiring if he could not accompany them. he seemed younger and more boyish than the captain, and proved quite delightful to the groups of children, though he admitted laughingly that he found a great many rebels among them. and so the days went on, one and another indignant over the "rollicking winter" as mr. allen termed it, and others storming at general howe for the wanton destruction everywhere visible. groves of trees were cut down for firewood, gardens despoiled, and some of the houses taken possession of by the troops were cut and hacked with insulting boasts, and really ruined. others, continentals confessedly, railed at washington for his inaction and supineness. howe had planned one surprise and possible capture of the troops, but heroic lydia darragh, having overheard the plot, walked to washington's camp while it was at whitemarsh, and forewarned them. finding the rebels prepared with a warm welcome the british retraced their steps. there were small skirmishes outside the lines, and once the impetuous lafayette advanced, hoping to surprise the enemy, but nothing came of this. baron steuben was training the continentals, as many of them were raw recruits, but, used to hunting as they were, most of the young men had a quick eye and correct aim. but stories crept in concerning their hardships and sufferings. every avenue was closely watched that no supplies should be sent directly from the city, but more than once keen wit evaded them. there were passes for the farmers to come in on market days, and many were glad even to supply their enemies for british gold. james henry thought this no sin, and was given a pass for his son and nephew. penn had imbibed many of his uncle's beliefs, and took home rather rose-colored accounts of the prosperity of the city. he kept, too, a watchful eye over andrew, who was more than half suspected of being quite as willing to deal with the rebels, and madam wetherill's was considered a rather tempting and unsafe place for sober-going friends. but one day he came alone, and made his way to arch street, leaving his empty wagon at a nearby tavern that he knew he could trust. "it is thy cousin," whispered madam wetherill, who had some callers. "take him upstairs in patty's sewing room." primrose ran out with delight in her eyes, but she had grown wise, and, instead of a cry of joy, placed her finger archly on her lips and motioned him through the hall. "i saw a glimpse of a red coat," he said in a low tone. "i have no desire to run into a hornets' nest. oh, primrose, thou hast grown taller since the day thou wert at the farm. thou wilt soon be a young lady. and the sweetness of childhood will be ended." "is girlhood sharp, then, and--and sour?" her eyes danced with a merry, mischievous light. "nay, sweeter than ever; but it's sweetness is more sacred. and presently comes the time of lovers." "i shall not have any lovers. they say pert things and talk about pretty faces, or else are silly like anabella's lover, and forever kissing one's hand. and what think you lieutenant vane did when we were going to ride a few days since? there was pretty mistress wharton here, and my brother is much taken with her, though she is such a rebel. but i was not allowed to mount the stepping stone, and his hand was placed under my foot. so i pressed down hard, wishing i could squeeze the british blood out of him. they do nothing but run about and have pleasure. but if i were a hundred years old i would have none of them for lovers. i want no one but my brother and my cousin, and sometimes i think thou art dearer, because thou would fight for thy country. and i am ashamed when i think it is his country as well." "what preachment is the little maid making, andrew?" said the older voice as the ample figure entered the doorway. "i sometimes think i shall have to keep her shut up in one room, people talk to her so much and spoil her." "nay, she is not spoiled," protested andrew. "she is a wise little thing, and saucy, too, and often amuses the company by bits of patriotism that are shrewd and wholesome. i think people in this mad revel are forgetting they are americans and have a country to fight for. and, now, what is the news? there is much dissatisfaction, i hear, with general washington. it cannot be that they will give up the rallying point, the wisest man of them all, and break up into factions." "they will not give him up, madam. it is a bitter winter, and the stores at york are sadly depleted. they are watched on every hand. while the town is dancing to british music, and giving aid and comfort to the enemy, our men are living in rude huts that hardly shelter them from the storms and are glad for crusts. but the men will stand by him to the last. it is only idle talk about superseding him. and the men worship madam washington and madam knox. if you could see them! they minister to the sick, they patch the worn-out clothes and blankets. there is so much need of these things, stockings, and shoes." "my heart aches for them. i have been gathering a store----" she paused and eyed primrose. "you need not be afraid," cried primrose eagerly. "is it not _my_ country? and, cousin andrew, i have saved some money that my brother gave me to buy frippery and sweetmeats with. and i am knitting socks." "thou art a brave girl, and quite able to keep thy own counsel. i have known that aforetime," and he smiled. "indeed, madam, we could trust her to the uttermost." "there is quite a store of some things----" "i will tell thee--there is a false bottom to the wagon that i can raise up after the load is sold. that is my secret. and i can trust him at the pewter platter. i have carried more than one lot." "there is a bagful," pulling it out of the cupboard. "it will look like a sack of potatoes." they all laughed. "there is a blanket in my room. come thither. then thou hast little fear? it is a great relief to hear this." "madam, such courage must be rewarded. i should want to be with them, but that i think i can be of more service here. when the spring opens----" he paused and looked from one to the other. "wilt thou go, then?" primrose slipped her hand in his, and though her voice was just above a whisper it was an inspiration to him. "i shall go, then. penn can fill my place at home. the country's need will never be greater." there was another half fear that the loyal soul barely breathed to itself. he must be away before it came to anything beyond the half fear. the beautiful eyes were grave, and the face had a new solemnity. her faith inspired him. "we have not much time to lose," he said. "you see, i must go up the rough perkiomen road to meet the friend in waiting. we have safe points," and he smiled gravely. madam wetherill pulled out the stout sack and held the top open. "that will be a godsend. madam, many a poor fellow's heart will be glad and his toes warm. heaven reward thee!" "heaven has rewarded me in many things. if i could see the end more clearly!" primrose brought her little purse with its gilt clasps, and poured out her money. madam wetherill added her store to it. "art thou sure there is no risk?" she said. "i shall be careful. one learns much shrewdness." he shouldered the bag. "let me out the side way like any other servant," he said, as he bade them farewell. "and now, little primrose," cautioned her aunt, "thou must keep guard over thy tongue as if with a steel chain, for thy cousin's sake." "it will never be a traitor tongue," returned the maiden proudly. patty had been down in the kitchen helping with some ironing, and now she came up with an armful of stiff skirts. for many women on state occasions wore a big hoop, and others swelled out with starched petticoats. "i have to go among the stores to find some things that have grown scarce as hen's teeth. and thou hast not been out these two days, primrose. thy gallants have deserted thee. what sayest thou to a little run in the brisk air. we shall not go in public places, madam, and she will be safe by my side." "as she likes. there are plenty of pretty girls in town, perhaps better worth being looked at. and it is early yet." primrose enjoyed these small shopping expeditions. there were some very nice places kept by friends who had been famous in merchandise a few years before, but stocks had sadly diminished and prices gone up. patty's yankee blood came to the fore in such times as these, and she had become rather a dread to clerks and shopmen. this part of it amused primrose very much, as patty was sure to make a good bargain. "there seems nothing at all to buy now," she cried in disdain, finding some difficulty in getting what she wanted. "there will be less yet unless the war ends presently," was the reply of the shopkeeper. "then we must turn our old gowns, though in truth there seems no lack of fine attire if one looks at the gay maidens on the street. they seem turned into butterflies. and it must take a mint of money for their wings." the clerk smiled. "let us go round by the creek," pleaded primrose. "the skaters are so merry." "if thou wilt not coax to stay more than a moment." the child promised. as they were turning a corner a young man eyed them sharply. primrose did not see him, and patty hurried on, for he was a stranger. but he took some long strides and caught up to them. "it is mistress primrose henry----" the little girl turned. "oh, patty, it is miss polly wharton's brother," she said, holding out her hand. "who runs over thee again," said patty sharply, for she had heard the story. "nay, but it is quite a godsend, as i have been to thy aunt's to say good-by. in an hour's time i shall be on my way to valley forge to cast in my lot with the brave fellows there, and i wanted to take thy godspeed with me. i have great faith in it." "oh!" primrose gave a little cry. "i want thee to be both sorrowful and joyful. glad that thou hast a patriot friend, and sorry that there should be war. i could not wait any longer and wrung my father's consent from him, though he thinks we are right. and i believe we shall have a great and grand country some day that soldiers will be proud of defending. i go this very night with a party of young men who have planned to elude observation. and so--good-by." "i wish thee--a safe return." "thanks. keep me in mind when thou prayest for soldiers and victory." then he was gone like a flash. "i have no heart for the skaters now," primrose said with a sigh. "let us go home." the whartons kept the news very quiet, for it would have made them a marked family to have it bruited abroad just now. but polly was less gay, and primrose watched her wonderingly. and now the long cold winter was drawing to a close. in march came gleams of warmth, welcome sunny days that softened the ice and spoiled skating, and the great delaware sent floating cakes down to the sea. buds began to swell and grass to spring up, and there was a great deal of drilling among the troops, and sickness as well. england began to think that howe might have captured washington, cooped up in a desolate wild as they considered it from their imperfect news. the capture of burgoyne had been an unexpected blow and led to eloquent arguments in parliament. mr. pitt's great speech had reached america, and thrilled every patriotic heart. leaning on his crutches he had denounced the purchase of german hirelings and brutal savages. "if i were an american, as i am an englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, i never would lay down my arms, never! never! never!" he had exclaimed. then king louis of france acceded to the treaty of alliance and informed the american commissioners "that it was decided to acknowledge the independence of the united states." howe was to be recalled and succeeded by sir henry clinton. even this news inspired the camp at valley forge, where the word from france had not yet been received. at the henry farm there had been an undercurrent of dissatisfaction. lois henry had set her heart on rachel morgan as a daughter-in-law, and her husband was nothing loath, since she was a good housekeeper and strong in the faith. it was feared that andrew was wavering. he never spoke at the meetings, and absented himself from home now and then with no explanations. it was well known that his sympathies were with the army at valley forge, and it was surmised in some way that he had a hand in sending supplies. several of the young men about had joined the army. "andrew," his father began one morning when they were sorting seeds of various kinds for planting, "andrew, i have somewhat to say to thee. thou art of age, and a good marriage is the best ballast for the journey of life. i am elderly and shall never entirely recover from my accident, but the farm is large, and some day it will all be thine. a wife that we should agree with would pleasure us both fervently. it is true thou wilt be able to marry well in a worldly point of view, but we do not care so much for that. thy mother and i have decided it would gratify us greatly in the lord, if thou shouldst see thy way clear to take thy cousin rachel." "rachel!" he had more than half suspected this and dreaded it. there was also a feeling that rachel cared for him. he could not imagine himself in love with her. love was something more than a cool, friendly regard, meals properly cooked, and a house well kept; thriftiness and laying farm to farm. "well, does it take thee so by surprise? moreover, we both know she has a deep regard for thee." "i have not thought of it in that way. i am in no haste to marry," the young man replied hesitatingly, casting about for a more forcible rejoinder. "a good wife is a good thing, and thou mayst look far and wide and not find thy cousin's equal. she is well grounded in the faith, and i have observed with sorrow thy tendency to stray from the old landmarks, but youth hath such seasons until the carnal will is subdued. then it will need to make no change in our living. thy mother and i can grow old in this, the home of our youth, and see our children, and our children's children, mayhap, growing up, well trained in the faith." "i will consider it," andrew said gravely. "lay my counsel to heart for thy mother's sake." andrew henry went on with his work, but he knew a crisis had come in his life. like many another friend trained in the ways of peace he had a horror of the cruelties of war, of which he had heard and seen much since the battle of germantown, and shrank from the thought of taking any human life. on the other hand was the brave and boundless aspiration for liberty and a country of one's own, that had thrilled him when he heard the declaration of independence read. and now that france had held out a helping hand, and the english parliament was divided, the aspect looked more hopeful to him. but for his parents he would go at once and cast in his lot with the heroes at valley forge, to whom patriotism was as brave a religion as that of roger williams. and rachel! no, he could not marry her. all his soul rose up in revolt. not but what such marriages often occurred among friends and were reasonably happy. very few sons or daughters went contrary to the advice of their parents in such matters. and he knew to refuse would be giving up his home. if rachel was soft-tongued and attractive like his mother, for lois henry was still fair of face, visions of the pretty, graceful maidens in town danced before his eyes. he had seen them on the streets chatting merrily, on the ice flying swiftly like so many gay birds. he had listened to primrose playing on her spinet and singing pretty old love songs that she did not understand aught of but the rare melody. and he enjoyed madam wetherill's house--he had borrowed a few books from the old case, and, plain as he was, he had been charmed by some volumes of verse. surely this master quarles must have been a man of deep feeling and godliness. and there was one ben jonson, and a master suckling, though he was not quite sure about his dainty conceits. queer old books in stained leather covers and print hard to read. volumes of one john milton who, he learned, had stood out bravely for liberty. madam wetherill had come upon him one morning browsing deeply in the case of books. "take anything that pleaseth thee," she said kindly. "they are old things in the wardour family that came to my father, and he knew many of the scholars of his day. they had not such a fear of learning then. and he knew this mr. pope and addison and many another. and even our master franklin, with all his many businesses, found time to write verses for his wife, it seems, and with james logan, has been much in earnest that the town should have some sort of library." he had carried home a thin, old book and kept it closely in his waistcoat pocket that no one should surprise it, and read it by odd spells. and a volume of john milton's tracts stirred him mightily. all these things he would have to give up if he was rachel morgan's husband. he felt that he had grown out of the narrow bounds and could never get back into them. james henry went into the house. his wife sat alone, knitting. "i have spoken to andrew," he said, "and he will take time to consider. but he did not say aught against rachel, and he certainly hath no other fancy. i am thankful my brother's daughter is a mere child, since he shows such fondness for her, and thou wert wise, wife, in not having her here. she would have been an unmanageable firebrand, since we could not control her wholly. and i have good hopes for rachel. we will not delay when the matter is settled, but have them man and wife speedily. marriage is a cure for many wayward notions." rachel had come downstairs in her list boots, that she was fond of wearing indoors, and could make herself. the door was ajar and she had heard all her uncle said. her heart beat exultantly, and she crept back again softly, with a flush on her face and a pleased light in her eye. for she was very much in love with andrew, though she did not call her preference by that name. she would give him decorous opportunities to speak. but he went away and left her sitting alone by the fireside, and poured over john milton in his cold room. and if she went out to the barn at meal time he made some excuse for not walking back with her. "dost thou know," she asked of penn one day, "where andrew goes in these curious absences? his father is troubled, but he will not say a word." "he went, one day, across the river to swede's ford. it was about some wood," he said. "and he hath a friend on the lancaster road. now that i think, i am afraid there is mischief in it. he hath a soft spot for the rebels at valley forge. but he always brings home money for what he hath sold." "uncle james hath spoken to him about marrying." "marrying! whom, pray?" rachel flushed swarthily. "if thy eyes were keen thou couldst have seen what they both desire. i shall marry him ere long. it will be a good thing for all of us, and no change of home." penn simply stared his amazement. "he is an obstinate fellow in many things. well--if thou canst manage him," doubtfully. "he hath no plans for marriage at present, i know that." "he will heed his father, i think. and, penn, it will be to thy interest to help me. thou canst put in a word here and there." penn morgan soon learned some things that astonished him. his cousin was giving aid to the rebels. yet it was odd that these starving men could pay in gold and silver when the congress had issued so much paper money. penn half suggested the marriage one day when they were working together. andrew glanced at him with resolute eyes. "it is a fancy of my father's," he answered, "but i have no mind toward it, as i shall tell him presently." "is anything displeasing to thee about rachel?" was the rather nettled response. "rachel is a good girl and my parents are fond of her. but i have other plans for my life," was the quiet reply. rachel was vexed at his coldness and studious avoidance of her. she boldly walked by his side on sunday to meeting, but, coming home, there was always someone to talk with, until they passed the cross-roads, and then he would take faith by the hand. penn morgan was never quite sure that he had meant to betray his cousin, but, finding that several others were trafficking with the rebels, fancied he might mention their names as men on whom a sharp eye might be kept. andrew went unsuspiciously into town one day, eager to learn something about the british army, and if it were true they were preparing for an active campaign. as he stood in market square with his load nearly disposed of a whisper caught his ear. "the tall quaker. he will go to the pewter platter. jonas evans has been suspected for some time. when he has loaded up afresh and is about starting will be the time to seize him." andrew henry did not move a muscle while two men scrutinized him closely. afterward one of them approached with a half-insolent air. "is trade fair to-day, friend broadbrim? the winter seems quite broken up. and round about country places they are plowing, no doubt. if thou hast made a good bargain thou mightst stand treat. we have drained the king's men pretty dry." "nay, i am busy just now with some bills to collect, but if thou wilt meet me an hour hence at the pewter platter, thou shalt have thy fill of meat and drink. and since my start was early this morning i shall bring a hearty appetite myself." "thou art a good fellow, truly," nodding with a slight leer. "and since thou hast to wait, here is a shilling for ale. there are pot houses near by," returned andrew. he watched the man enter one. then he summoned one of the idle boys about. "keep my horses for five minutes," he said, "and thou shalt be well paid." then he dashed among the crowd, and could not have been told from a dozen other men in drab coats and wide hats. chapter xv. parting. madam wetherill sat deep in her account books. primrose was studying arithmetic, and the tough rules were not at all to her taste. janice kent paused at the door. "madam," she said, "friend henry is here on urgent business. and he begs that he may come up to you." primrose's pretty face was in a glow, and she sprang from her seat. "it may not concern thee, moppet. go to patty. thou canst not be in everything." the child rose reluctantly, but obeyed. "i am in trouble," andrew began briefly. "we have been informed about--how much i know not. i thought it best to come and warn thee. still i do not see how thou can be brought in, and thy shrewd wit will, i think, save thee. but i must get out of the town some way. i may be accused of spying about, and i am not over anxious for a hempen necklace, nor lodgings in walnut street. so i have little time to spare." with that he related his morning's adventure and how he had left his team. "canst thou send a blind message to the pewter platter at once? jonas evans will understand." "yes. patty will be best. we can trust her, and she will hardly be noted. and thou?" "i must get out of the town in some sort of disguise. there is much behind this that i do not know." patty was dispatched on her errand. "sit still, child, with thy book, and presently thou shalt know what is meet," said she. andrew henry went briefly over his inner life for the last two months, his desire to enlist in the continental army, his shrinking from the pain it would be to his parents. "but now, madam, it would bring greater trouble on them for me to go home. the british would likely arrest me." "yes, i see. and thou hast resolved to be a soldier lad? not from the teasing of little primrose, i hope." "no, madam, though i shall be her soldier as well. but those brave men at valley forge have been before my eyes night and day. i should have done this a little later, anyhow. my father and mother are in good hands." "heaven keep thee! but better a hundred times perish on the field of battle than be thrust into that vile den, the walnut street jail, where that fiend in human shape, cunningham, works his cruel will on helpless men. not a day but dead bodies are carried out, some of them bruised and beaten and vermin-covered. faugh! the thought sickens me! yes, thou must escape. primrose, child, come in." she ran eagerly to andrew, who greeted her with a smile. then patty returned breathless. "it is all right. they will find nothing from cellar to the top layer of the chimney. but master evans says get out of the town as fast as you can." madam wetherill was considering. "a disguise," she said. "a suit of captain nevitt's is here, but thou couldst hardly squeeze into it. at thirty thou wilt be the counterpart of thy uncle philemon. thou wilt go to valley forge?" "yes. after i have struck into the old perkiomen road no one will look for me. it is getting through the city. and the time is brief. i would not for worlds raise any suspicion for thee." "patty, exercise thy quick wit. if we could dress him up as a young man of fashion--or make him into ralph jeffries, who is more barrel-shaped. but there, the pass!" "i have it," cried patty with a merry laugh. "order up gray bess, and dress him to personate thee. he can put on a mask and drop his shoulders. thy plaided camlet cape will do well. and put moppet on a pillion behind. someone else must go. ah, madam kent! who will enjoy it mightily and sit up like a brigadier. then, when he is out of harm's way, she can bring primrose home." "but the mare--how shall i get her back?" "thou mayst need her; if not, present her to madam washington. patty, thy brain has served us as well as in the matter of making gowns. come, we must make ready." janice kent was summoned, and ready enough for the adventure; and the horses were ordered up. then came a great deal of amusement in attiring andrew. "since it is quite muddy put my linen safeguard petticoat on him, patty, the better to conceal his long legs, for it will be somewhat awkward riding woman-fashion, but my saddle is broad. now my bedgown of paduasoy. alack! how short the sleeves are! here are the long cuffs. that will do. now the camlet cape and my black beaver hat. a mercy it is, andrew, that thou hast no beard. patty, tie the bow. upon my word, thou art so good-looking, with the coquettish bow under thy chin, that i am half afraid some saucy redcoat may stop thee. janice, guard him well. and you must wear my silken mask. april wind is bad for complexions and might freckle thee." primrose had been dancing about, not comprehending the gravity of the case. "oh, aunt wetherill, how queer it all is! he is like and unlike thee." "and if thou shouldst meet a friend, be careful and remember that 'tis thy aunt. and now, janice, make thyself ready. meanwhile i will go into retirement under patty's wing." patty went down to see that all was ready. old cato stood with the horses. luckily sharper-eyed julius had gone to market. janice helped her mistress, who was rather awkward, it was true. the skirts were adjusted, the mask dropped over the face, and then primrose was put in her seat. "not a word out of thee for thy very life," said patty. "look as demure as if on the road to church." mistress janice sprang into her saddle. as they were going out of the courtyard, she exclaimed: "let us take fairemount, madam wetherill, and find some wild flowers. the spring is late, to be sure, but they must be in bloom." "there will be no danger, i think," said patty softly, as she re-entered the room. "i will have my netting and sit here by the child's bed. what a queer caper, and so quickly managed! but it is what i thought would come presently. not the suspicion, but andrew henry's going over to the rebels. he is more like his uncle than phil nevitt. ah, if it could be true that the british would decamp before they have quite ruined our city we should all give thanks." there was an imperious knock presently that made the great door rattle. the small black factotum, in his barbadoes suit and red turban, opened the top door and glanced at the caller. "madam wetherill----" "madam and missy and mistress janice have gone out ridin' som'er." "out riding, hey! with mud a foot deep! tell your mistress that i came to have my revenge for her beating me last night at piquet. the young people made such a rumpus with their talk i lost my head," and ralph jeffries looked vexed. the youngster nodded and grinned. later on came polly wharton and miss stuart, to meet with the same reply. at the corner of the street they encountered captain nevitt and vane, and an elderly officer. "it is a fine day save for the mud!" exclaimed sally. "fine overhead, but few are going that way." "we did not set out for that," returned vane, smiling. "and if you have set out for madam wetherill's it will be quite as useless. she and the young one have gone off larking, for wild flowers, i believe. mistress kent went with them for dragon." then the men looked at each other. "how long have they been gone, i wonder." "oh, since about high noon!" patty had looked up from her sewing at the second knock. "thy ride will get noised about and throw suspicion off guard, which will be so much the better," she exclaimed. they waited impatiently for the return of the guard, laughing over another call or two. it was almost dusk when janice and primrose returned. "friend henry escaped safely, though, madam, if thou shouldst be taxed with rudeness in not bowing at the proper time, pray apologize. we met some old friends, but he was somewhat stiff. and the saddle is left with one master winter at fairemount. i ripped it that he might have the job of sewing and earn a few pence. friend henry was glad enough to doff petticoats and jump on astride; 'tis about the only thing i envy in a man. and then i put on thy skirt, and we slunk into town quietly. quite an adventure, truly! if one could only hear the end of it!" james henry heard the next day that there was a warrant out for his son, who was suspected of carrying messages and other matters to the rebel headquarters at valley forge. he had left his horses and the wagon in the market place, and disappeared. no one remembered letting him out on his pass. it might be that he was still hiding in the town. "there has been too much of this carrying back and forth," declared the sergeant. "it is time there was a sterner hand at the helm, and not so much pleasuring." there were reasons why captain nevitt said nothing to his little sister about the matter, and she was strictly forbidden to suggest it. the wetherill household had not seen andrew, as he had watched his opportunity to slip in unaware; consequently, nothing was gained by questioning them. "they would certainly have known if he had come in our absence," said madam wetherill with an air of interest. "of course we must be sorry to have him in danger, but we will not lay the matter before primrose." there were stirring events on both sides. on the 7th of may the news reached the continental army of the recognition of france. the warmer weather and the replenishment of food and clothing had inspirited the men. many new enlistments from the country around had come in. on this morning they were assembled for prayers and thanksgiving. general steuben had drilled them until they presented a really soldierly appearance. but their enthusiasm broke bounds when the salutes were fired. "long live the king of france!" ran through the army with a shout. another salute was fired. "long live the friendly european powers." and the third, "the american states," was received with the wildest joy. they all forgot the suffering of the long, dreary winter. after a discourse by one of the chaplains, there was a collation. when the general and mrs. washington retired the soldiers lined the way with the cry of "long live general washington!" "long live lady washington!" a title that seemed to follow her, and that had been given her before by colonel hancock. it was supposed the campaign would open almost at once. but general howe's army had been demoralized more by dissipation than the continentals by hardships, and weakened by numerous desertions. the officers had been in one round of gayety, and the city recalled their charms long afterward. they had made the theater a reputable place of amusement, and the higher-class balls had been well patronized by the tory ladies. but the farewell to general howe was to excel all other gayeties, and to be an event long remembered, including a regatta, a tournament, and a dance. decorated barges left knight's wharf in the afternoon, full of handsomely attired guests, who were carried to old fort, and escorted by troops to the beautiful and spacious lawn of walnut grove. the english fleet lay at anchor, flying their colors, and the transport ships were crowded with spectators. the tournament, with its two sets of knights ready to do battle for their favorite ladies, sounds like a chapter out of the middle ages. new york had abounded in gayeties, but this eclipsed anything yet attempted. the apartment had been decorated by the british officers, foremost among them young andrã©, little dreaming then what fate had in store for him, and how his life would end. after the tournament, with its stilted magnificence, came a dance, a display of fireworks, a supper with twenty-four slaves in oriental costumes, with silver collars and gilt armlets. the walls were hung with mirrors, and thousands of wax tapers reflected the brilliance of silken gowns and jewels, of scarlet and gold uniforms, of fair women and brave men that made the mischianza a glittering page of history. it was true that many beside the tory ladies graced the occasion. there had been an undeniable friendliness between both americans and british, and many a heart won and lost, as it was said six hundred or more deserters from clinton's army found their way back to philadelphia and made worthy citizens, some of them indeed entering the american army. captain nevitt had importuned madam wetherill to attend, for he was resolved primrose should see the pageant. polly wharton had, as she admitted, nine minds out of the ten to go, as thomas wharton, the owner of walnut grove, was her uncle. but her brother was in the american army, and her heart really went with her country. "as if a little dancing could matter!" said phil nevitt. "nay, miss polly, i doubt not but that some day i shall see you at the court of our king, and perhaps dance with you in a palace. and i want primrose to go, but madam wetherill will not, though major andrã© himself sent the invitation. he is such a charming, generous fellow that he can do more with his winning air than many with their swords. but primrose i must take. she is such a pretty, saucy, captivating rebel that it is charming to tease her. and, if you will go, her aunt will give in, i know." "i'm not sure," primrose declared with dainty hesitation, "whether i want to go or not. i am certain, phil, i shall be a worse rebel than ever, afterward." "nay, primrose, when you see the gallant gentlemen who have come over to help the king restore peace and order, and punish some of the ringleaders, you will be convinced of the great mistake the americans have made. and then we shall be friends again." "i wish you were all going back to england with general howe!" "and you give me up so easily--your own brother?" with a pathetic upbraiding in his tone. "only a half-brother! and the tory half i can't like. the other, the henry half----" "well----" studying her mischievous, dancing eyes. "i like that--a little," demurely. "i shall be patient, sweet darling. i have come to love you dearly--your mother's half, and your father's half." she glanced up with her warm, frank heart shining in her eyes, and he kissed her fondly. "when thou lovest me well i shall know it by one sign: thou wilt kiss me of thy own accord." she had to steel her heart hard when he adopted the old phraseology, and smiled in that beseeching manner. "we shall not be converted, little primrose," said polly wharton. "i shall think of allin at valley forge, and thou of thy splendid quaker cousin that so adroitly escaped the snare set for him. and we shall twist the festivities about. when they drink to the king and the redcoat army, we shall say to ourselves, 'washington and the buff and blue.' and when we dance, for there will be your brother and young vane and captain fordham, so we are sure of three partners, and as we whirl around we shall say to ourselves 'hurrah for the flag of the thirteen colonies!'" "it looks quite patriotic that way," answered primrose archly. it ended by their going. mrs. stuart and sally, who were hardly whig or tory, promised to keep watch of them. and though miss auchmuty had been crowned queen of beauty at the tournament, and there were the fair shippen women and the chews, men paused to look at the sweet, golden-haired child who was so simply gowned that her dress did not detract from her beauty. and long afterward, when she was an old lady, she could recount the famous scene that ended, as one might say, the british possession of philadelphia. for even as they danced amid the gleaming lights and fragrant flowers, a premonition of what was to come, although unexpected, and a bloodless victory, occurred. the redoubts were sharply attacked by a daring body of rebels, but so well protected that surprise was not possible. sir henry clinton arrived and the accomplished andrã© was made his adjutant general. then came the news that a french fleet would sail up the delaware. sir henry prepared to leave at once, and the city was shaken with both joy and alarm. at midnight, on the 18th of june, the british stole away silently, to the great surprise of the inhabitants, who knew washington was preparing to descend upon them and feared a bloody battle, for now the continentals were well equipped, well drilled, and strong in numbers. primrose sat poring over a book of verse. for a wonder there was no one in to play cards. madam wetherill had been a little indisposed for several days. "do go to bed, child," she said rather sharply. "thou wilt turn into a book next." "i hope it will have a new, bright cover and not this musty, old one." "i dare say, miss vanity." "good-night," and she made her pretty courtesy. then she stood still at the quick knock. barely was the door opened when captain nevitt rushed in and caught her to his heart. "little primrose, darling primrose, for i have learned to love thee dearly, i have come to say good-by. we are ordered to new york and leave at once. when i shall see thee again i cannot tell, but i may send, and will write thee letters and letters. hast thou one kiss that i may take with me, holding all the sweetness of generous accord?" "oh, do not go! do not go! i have teased thee often! i have tried not to love thee, but, after all----" and she was sobbing in his arms. "it is a soldier's duty, dear. wish me well, and i will take it as a guerdon." "oh, i cannot wish thee well to fight against my country. my heart is torn in two." her cry pierced his inmost soul. with all his love and persuasion she had kept her loyalty. gifts and pleasures had not won her. there was a great gulf still between them. "but for love's sake." "if your men win i shall have no country. if they lose----" "and if i should be lost----" "oh, heaven bring thee back to me again!" there were captain fordham and the lieutenant thanking madam wetherill for her charming hospitality. but philemon henry nevitt could only wring her hand, as his eyes were full of tears and his voice drowned in the grief of parting. then the big door clanged on the night air, and there was a little sobbing heap at the foot of the broad stairway. "come, dear," said madam wetherill, much moved. "thou shalt sleep in my bed and i will comfort thee." it was true enough that the continentals, marching down, found an empty city. general charles lee had held back some information and acted in an unpatriotic manner when his commander had reposed unlimited trust in him. and a few days later his indecision was made manifest at the battle of monmouth, when he was courtmartialed and disgraced. but another tall soldier came in buff and blue, and so amazed primrose that she hardly knew him. with him was allin wharton, who had much to say about andrew's work through the winter, and that no gift had ever been more timely than madam wetherill's great bag of stockings that was still talked about; and lady washington had esteemed it as one of the most providential happenings. "i have much to tell thee, sometime," andrew said. "there is only a moment now, for we are after the runaways." and then he gave her a long, fond kiss. madam wetherill glanced at them. would it be the old story over again? the battle of monmouth was hard fought, but a victory for neither side, since sir henry saved his stores at the sacrifice of many lives, and escaped. washington came back to the city for a brief stay and new plans. lovely old philadelphia, that had been william penn's dream, was no more. british occupation had overthrown its quaint charm. gardens had been destroyed, houses ruined, streets were a mass of filth and rubbish, the country roads were full of lawless gangs who plundered inoffensive people. "oh, how sweet is the quiet of these parts, freed from the anxious and troublesome solicitations, hurries, and perplexities of woeful europe," penn had exclaimed, on his return from his first visit back to england. but the quiet had disappeared; even the old quaker homes, that had held out alike from blaming foe and encouraging friend, were full of apprehension. washington at once placed general arnold in command. his marriage with mistress margaret shippen, and his beautiful home at mount pleasant, where elegance and extravagance reigned, had rendered him an object of disapprobation with the sober-thoughted and solid part of the community. joseph ross, the president of the executive council, brought many charges against him, which though angrily repelled at the time were proved sadly true later on. there were some trials of tories, and two men were hanged for high treason, both quakers, one of whom had enlisted in howe's army, and the other was accused of numerous crimes. many had to choose between exile, or contempt that was ostracism at home. dr. duchã© had in the darkest period written a letter to general washington beseeching him to submit to any proffer of peace that england might hold out, having lost his ardent patriotism, and he went to his old home to meet with charges of disloyalty there. but people began to take heart a little, to clear up their wasted gardens and fields and repair their houses. some of the pleasure haunts were opened again, and women ventured on their afternoon walks on the streets, well protected, to be sure. there was, too, a certain amount of gayety, tea-drinking and cards, and excursions up the river were well patronized. andrew henry, now sergeant, was detailed for a while among the troops to remain in philadelphia. now that he had embarked in the war he preferred a more active life, and it was too near his old home to be satisfactory. but as soon as possible he reported to madam wetherill. "i can never thank thee sufficiently for thy assistance and quick wit," he said to her. "through it i escaped without harm, but i found afterward they had more proof than i could have safely met. and when i arrived at camp i dispatched a messenger to my father, telling him of my changed mind and plans for the future." "and he was angry enough!" interposed madam wetherill. "it was worse than that. mere anger is, perhaps, outlived. he had some other plans," and the young quaker flushed. "he gave me a fortnight to return, and, if not, would put penn in my place and i need expect nothing more." "see what thy talk hath led to, primrose! for i was afraid thy patriotic rebellion was contagious." andrew smiled down on the child. "she hath been a wise little one, and i am not sorry to be her soldier. with women like you, madam, to bring up girls, and lady washington to care for disheartened soldiers, there will be still greater victories, and there can be but one end." primrose looked up with an enchanting smile. "i am proud of thee," she made answer with an exultant ring in her voice. "and there is polly wharton's brother who ran over me on the ice, and--my own brother that i pray may come around." "i feel very much as if i had been on both sides of the fence," remarked madam wetherill. "still i could not have helped so much if i had been outspoken on the rebel side. i heard many a little thing that could be passed on, and found how a few supplies could be forwarded without suspicion. but, andrew, wilt thou never regret this step?" "i considered well for many weeks. there were some other conditions i could not wisely accept. and penn will be a good son to my father. otherwise i could hardly have left him. but 'tis done now, and though i shall long many times to see my dear mother's face, i shall fight none the less bravely for our land. i hope to follow our intrepid washington, and may soon be transferred." "and leave the city?" cried primrose in dismay. "i do not quite like our new general. i am afraid the coming winter will be like the last, and i, for one, would have no heart for pleasure until we have won our independence." andrew promised to come in again when he was off duty, and primrose reluctantly let him go. yet she watched him with glistening eyes, and could hardly decide how much was glory and how much tears. chapter xvi. love and true love. "a very plain stiff quaker downstairs, primrose, who demands to see thee alone. there is a sharp air about her. i think she must be one of those the madam spoke of who are importuning about repairs and want rents for nothing." "to see me?" asked primrose in surprise. "i have nothing to do with the houses." "she would not allow her business was with anyone else. she does not look like one of the begging women with whom the city is overrun." primrose walked slowly down the wide staircase full of curiosity. polly wharton asked for her sometimes, and anabella morris. the visitor had on the close hat with the big round crown that but few of the younger women wore, and rarely in black. her gown was straight and plain, the long sleeves coming down over her ungloved hands, and a square of gray twilled silk crossed over her bosom. she did not stir until primrose was well into the room and then she turned. "oh, rachel!" was the surprised exclamation. rachel morgan stared at the vision before her. an unwonted envy stirred her. it seemed as if faith grew plainer every day, and this girl took all the beauty! "how are they all at the farm?" primrose inquired with pretty graciousness. "is uncle james quite well and strong?" "how could one be well with such a great sorrow?" the visitor asked sternly, fixing her eyes on primrose, who shrank from the hard gaze, and felt her heart beat in strange protest. "but--andrew is well--is here----" "we heard a part of the army had been retained, and a neighbor hath seen andrew henry in the attire of the sons of cruelty and worldliness, and that bitter spirit toward the law that mr. penn besought his brethren not to use. but no one seems to heed duty or obedience any more." primrose stood gazing as if the voice held her in a half-frightened thrall. "he hath been here, in this house?" "yes, yesterday," with some hesitation. "and he will come again?" "oh, yes!" there was a confident ring in her voice that angered the other. "the world and its sins hath grown greatly upon him. i will venture to say he feels more at home amid these gauds and giddy flowered damasks and soft cushions and numerous things the elect would term idols of the carnal sort," glancing around. "and the vain women who frequent houses like these. i see thou art tricked out with much worldly vanity, and thy father was one of the straitest friends. how canst thou do it?" primrose opened her eyes wide at this tirade and shook back the curly, glistening hair that she did not yet wear high on her head, for madam wetherill hated to have her leave the cloisters of girlhood. and her frock was white muslin, lengthened down a little and the piece covered with an artful ruffle. there was a silver buckle at her belt, and on each shoulder a knot of blue ribbon. she hardly knew what to say, but presently she ventured--"truly, cousin rachel, i do not feel vain. i seldom think of my gowns." "i am in no mood to discuss attire," as if primrose had begun it. "i come to thee on an urgent errand. thou knowest, perhaps, that andrew hath angered his father beyond everything. instead of heeding the admonition to come out from the world and have no part in its wickedness, he hath all winter been a go-between, encouraging rebellion by carrying supplies to the camp at valley forge----" "it was noble and kindly to take a great danger upon himself, to feed sick and starving men, and to clothe their poor bodies. it surely made one's heart bleed to hear of their sufferings. nay, thou shalt not say hard and bitter things against him!" cried primrose spiritedly. "the truth is wholesome, if it hath a bitter tang. we surmised that he found encouragement in this house, and had beforetime listened to thy childish and unreasoning folly. and he made himself a criminal in the eyes of the law. his father's house was searched, and a man of belial abode with us to see if he would not come back. and the two fine animals and the market wagon were carried off. if they had found him it would have gone hard with him." "but they did not," primrose said triumphantly. "thou didst see him then?" "yes. and we knew--we saw him safely on the old perkiomen road. then someone came the next day to inquire about him, so we know he had eluded them. and now they have marched in and philadelphia is free!" "there were anxious days and nights about him until the word came that he had joined the camp of rebels under washington." "but long ago he said if the country needed him he would go. and there was penn to take his place." "penn will be a good son to my uncle. but, after all, it is andrew's place. he is needed. his mother's heart is sore for him, and i can see that uncle james is not at rest. so i have put my pride in my pocket as a sinful thing, and come to thee. perhaps thou mayest have some influence over him. wilt thou try to persuade him?" primrose looked down on the floor as she laced her slim hands together. "i will tell thee the whole story. he was to marry me. aunt lois wished it and said i was a daughter after her own heart. i should have cared for them as if i had been an own child. uncle james had spoken to him and he had promised to consider. at the meeting it had been talked of as most proper and suitable. i had not much money, for our small farm hath to be divided among three. but uncle james thought a good wife better than wealth." primrose stared in blank amazement. had not andrew said there was a condition he could not fulfill? was it this? "i should have made him a good wife and roused him out of that dreaminess he allowed to hang about him. and because it was to be so, i plead with uncle james until he relented. he hath promised me to take him back----" "but he will not leave the army until they have driven the english across the seas again. and if thou couldst see him so straight and tall and proud, holding up his head as he never did before! and all his heart is in it." "but the lord made him a son and not a soldier. it is against our belief. we have come out from the world, and are not to fight its sinful battles. he hath a higher duty. thou hast a smooth and persuasive tongue, and if thou wouldst use it to restore peace between a sad father and wayward son, and assure him he hath only to come back and fulfill his promise and all will be peace--if thou carest to do a good work, this will be one." rachel morgan rose, and looked so steadily, so sternly at primrose henry that she felt a shrinking all over her. "thou wilt do this," she said. "it seems as if thou hadst cared a little for aunt lois and thy dead father's brother, and if thou hast any love thou wilt try to restore peace." "i will tell him what thou sayest," in a weak tone as if she was hardly persuaded. rachel caught her hand, which was soft as a rose leaf, and wrung it in hers until she could have cried with pain. "nay, not in that cold way. thou hast the eyes and the tongue to move whomever thou wilt, and he set strange store by thee. men often yield to a honeyed voice. coax him, convince him it is his duty. otherwise their sorrow and, perhaps, their death may be on his hands, and neither wilt thou be altogether free. that was my errand and the lord gave me strength to come, though women do not generally plead for their lovers." "i will try," primrose said, much moved. but she sat by herself after rachel had left her, thinking the matter over with a curious protest that she did not understand. why should she shrink from his marrying rachel? she had seen many lovers through the winter, and anabella had poured into her ears a great deal of foolish-sounding flattery, and delight on her part, that had caused primrose much wonder. and now her gay captain had followed the fortunes of sir henry clinton, and she was in despair, though he had promised to return. but she asked madam wetherill what she ought to do. the lady gave an odd little smile. "you must tell him, since you have consented. but it will not change his intentions. his enlisting was no sudden notion, if he was forced into it by circumstances. i wonder at mistress rachel making this appeal." "do you think he ought to marry her?" primrose asked timidly. "that is a question for him to answer, my child." but madam wetherill knew if he had been in love with rachel he would have made some overtures himself. primrose studied the subject within her heart and was quite grave over it. for two days they did not see him and on the third a messenger came with a note. the permission to join washington had arrived suddenly and they were to march at once. it was the present plan of the commander in chief to invest new york and pen up the british there. "i would rather fight than see the gayety of the last winter repeated," andrew wrote. "and i am much afraid our officers have not learned wisdom by the experience of their enemies. for surely so much pleasure will demoralize them. and though i am sorry not to see thee, partings are sad at the best, and i have a strong belief that i shall return well and sound. dear primrose, if so be thou could get word to my mother without too great an effort, tell her i keep her in my heart day and night. she will know it was not possible for me to accede to my father's request, pleasant as it might have been for others. i send him a son's respect, whether he considers me in the light of a son or no, and am sorry that at the last i should have brought trouble and suspicion upon them. it is my present hope that penn will be a good son to them. i wish little faith could have some of thy joy, for i am afraid it is a dreary life for the child. heaven be watchful of thee, little primrose." it was true that several companies were not needed for the city's protection, and were dispatched in the hasty mood that not infrequently ruled general arnold. and now new defenses were erected for the city, and there was a general clearing up. the barricade around the old treaty elm was taken down, the squares were freed from rubbish and the grass restored, the houses repaired and new ones planned. true, landlords groaned about unpaid rents, and money-lenders almost wept over the sums the british had despoiled them of. the country estates were in a sad plight, many of them, but others had escaped. madam wetherill thanked heaven that it was no worse with her. mount pleasant was a scene of great gayety during the summer, and the arnolds and the shippens held grand court, almost like royalty. she had much to do minding her estate and looking out for some of her southern interests, and took less heed to gay parties. twice a year the trustees met to consider the estate of mistress primrose henry. just before this madam wetherill took her charge over to the old quaker farm, that was so peaceful and thrifty one would hardly dream there had been war in the land. primrose had sent a message to rachel morgan to explain why she had not undertaken her trust. aunt lois was rather feeble, but rachel seemed to carry the house on her shoulders, and was noticeably sharp with the men and chloe, who was growing old as well as her mistress. certainly she looked after all things in a thrifty fashion that had already brought a crease between her eyes, young as she was. faith was thin and fearful-looking, as if she expected some chiding in nearly everything, and it rarely missed coming. for rachel had been sorely disappointed in her marriage plans, and liked to make others suffer for her unhappiness. primrose was like a butterfly in the plain old house, and seemed to make a swift dazzle. aunt lois warmed curiously toward her, feeling as if the sun was shining after a spell of lowering weather. she rose from her chair and laid aside her knitting. "thee used to love the chickens so much," she said gently. "we have some pretty ones. while thy aunt talks business let us get out and see them. i sit in doors so much thinking, and though i try not to question the will of providence, life does not seem quite as it used. it may be that i am getting old. poor mother used to sit under the tree yonder, but when it comes my time, faith will be too womanly and too busy to look after me, and perhaps married." they walked down the well-trodden path. there were chicken mothers in little coops, and yellow, downy balls, others with tiny wings and patches of feathers here and there. "thou didst see andrew before he went away?" the mother's eyes had a soft, wistful, far-off look. "yes. and a lovely letter that i have read again and again. oh, why did i not bring it--but indeed i did not know"--pausing in a tone that indicated what might be meant. "a mother is a mother always. a father may feel hard when his plans are traversed. tell me about my son; for i cannot shut my heart upon him." "he makes a handsome soldier and a good one. he will have a large heart and a wise head." "but a soldier! and to kill his fellow-creatures. we are to live in peace." "but i was to say when i could, that he kept thee in his heart day and night, and that he would never forget thee. dear aunt lois, he is brave and good and tender of soul, and i know god loves him for his work to the poor and needy last winter." "i have wondered many times how he escaped. we only knew that he was safe." "someone betrayed him. he had taken great care. wilt thou hear how he left the town?" "dost thou know?" raising her soft eyes. primrose told gleefully how they had disguised him and seen him safe on the road where he was not likely to meet the soldiery. "and thou didst do this for him, dear child!" she took the soft hands in hers, that were soft again now that she did little coarse labor. "it was not much to do, surely. and it was rare fun when the guards passed us." "i owe much to thee and madam wetherill. and did he speak of any return?" "nay, his is a soldier's life." "i sometimes think it is not wisdom to plan children's lives. perhaps if we had let him be," and she gave a gentle sigh. "but we had hopes he would fancy rachel, and she somehow had set her heart upon it. he seemed not inclined to marry, and so we should have waited until the spirit guided him. child, i thank thee for thy care and interest in him. we should have been glad if thou couldst have kept thy father's faith and been content to stay here, but i can see thou didst need a larger life. perhaps we narrow ours too much. it may not always be the lord's will as we think. i have strange ideas as i sit and knit or sew. and i remember that good mr. penn and his wife took much pleasure of a kind we hardly approve of now. it is hard to tell which is right." "dear aunt lois, whatever leads people to be sweet and joyful and thankful and kind to all who suffer cannot be far wrong. and were there no good men before the time of mr. fox and mr. penn?" "thou wert always finding prettiness of speech and ways that have a charm in them. and if thou shouldst send word to andrew at any time, tell him his mother's heart is tender towards him and that no one can fill his place. thou hast given me much joy. but i can see thou art not fitted for the grave life here, and if our ancestors crossed the sea that they might have liberty of belief, why should we not grant it to others?" james henry no longer insisted upon what he called his rights in his brother's child. she was too gay and worldly for his taste, which, where women were concerned, could have been comprised in the old advice "to avoid papishers and learn to knit." and when he looked on the industry and thrift of rachel his heart hardened toward his son for his blindness. for primrose went steadily now to christ church, but england would not send over a bishop while people were so contumacious, and so some rites were held in abeyance. but she was very happy and growing tall rapidly, and friend henry turned her over altogether to madam wetherill, who after all was not forgotten by the fashionables, even if they did run after the arnolds. and in the autumn there were some changes, although the continentals had not swept their enemies across the sea. society hill put on a brisk aspect, and gardens opened again where they sold beer and cakes, and young people chatted merrily, while older people gossiped. there were shops trying to turn out much-needed goods that gave the town an aspect of industry. indeed employment was provided for the poor classes in putting streets in order. all manner of homespun cloth was made. even mrs. washington had ordered that her spinning wheels at mount vernon should fly as briskly as if she were there, and sixteen were kept going all the time. franklin and john adams were in france cementing the alliance that was so slow in doing its promised work. at home, political leaders were quarreling fiercely among themselves. joseph reed and arnold were at swords' points. a charge of dishonesty and malpractice in office was preferred against arnold before the continental congress, but, though convicted, he was sentenced to a reprimand only. he had been a brave soldier, and washington, with a heart full of anxiety for other undertakings, unfortunately dealt leniently with him, but it made no appeal to better feelings or conduct, for he began almost at once his treasonable practices with the british, that were to bring about a lasting shame. there were other troubles as well. the quakers could not and would not serve in the army nor pay taxes for its support. franklin had known how to gain by diplomacy what they would not openly concede, but they were unpopular with those in power, and the mob openly rejoiced when goods were levied upon. indeed many of the poorer and plainer brethren had little sympathy when such articles as "a looking glass in wide gilt and mahogany frame, with ornamental corners" and "handsome walnut chairs deeply carven and with silken cushions" and "mahogany tea table with carved legs and crow feet" were sold for a quarter of their value. it shows that many of the friends were not stinted in their household appointments, and must indeed have had sturdy consciences to part with their cherished belongings rather than pay away a little money in what was considered an unjust cause. new york was full of gayety and dissipation under the british, as philadelphia had been. and primrose was sent for by her brother, who was now colonel nevitt and in a pleasant position. "there is much to see and enjoy," he wrote. "and there are fine manners and customs that will fit you for london when we go. for it is most certain, by the looks of things, that the rebellion will soon be brought to an end. the winter in philadelphia was a great mistake, though pleasant enough to me. and you must be now a pretty young woman that i should be proud to have. if madam wetherill feels that she is not young enough for gayety, i have some friends here who will be glad to take charge of a fair young girl, and i shall be most happy with my charming sister. there are parties coming almost every week, and i can find safe escort. do not disappoint me." "what wilt thou do?" asked madam wetherill. "thou art no longer a little girl, primrose, though it grieves me to say it. patty scolds about lengthening thy gowns all the time, and anabella is sure i will keep thee an old maid. though between two stools she is like to come to the floor for aught i see. her british lover never so much as wrote her a line, and young matthews, that she made quite certain of, hath married kitty strong. she need not worry about thee, since thou hast nearly two years' grace behind her. but her mother was so foolishly hasty to have her married." "but i want to stay a little girl," cried primrose eagerly. "i hate a big hoop and a monstrous topknot that pulls my hair, and a bunch of feathers that makes one look like an indian sachem." she made such a pretty pouting mouth, like a rose half-blown, that madam laughed. "and then one can run around with patty and tease the boys who sell pink calamus buds, and buy 'peppery pot, smoking hot.'" she was such a good mimic it sounded exactly like the venders. "i am afraid i have spoiled thee. but it is thy brother whom we must consider. he may have some rights." "what rights, indeed, to a rebel maiden who would hate the sight of so many red coats together?" "still thou dost love him a little. surely he is thy nearest kin." "i can never think whether i love him dearly or only a little. when i pull a daisy out it says only a little. and when i blew a puffy dandelion out to tell me where my true love dwelt, it went south instead of north." "but the great city. i was there once, years ago. it hath many queer things and reminders of the old dutch people who settled it. and it has a beautiful river and an island south of it, and a short way out to the ocean." "as if we did not have our fine and noble delaware that runs on and up past the jerseys to the state of new york. and there is our schuylkill with its peaceful shores and green and flowery banks, now that the british are away, and our beautiful wissahickon. nay, i want nothing beyond my own home town, and no one but you and the friends that come here. i will write to phil and tell him that neither his tongue nor his pen can charm me. and he never says 'thou' latterly." "but the young people here leave it off, i notice. and thou must not write saucily." primrose laughed and tossed her golden head. she wrote to her brother and put in some rhymes, a fashion quite affected then, for many of the young ladies wrote sentimental and would-be satiric verses. hannah griffiths, who was cousin to deborah logan, had satirized the famous mischianza, and there were songs for various occasions such as birthdays and weddings. primrose wrote also to andrew henry. it was difficult to get letters from the federal soldiers unless some messenger came direct, but she guessed how much pleasure the bit of news would be to him. she rode out to the farm occasionally and took a message from aunt lois to andrew. uncle james was growing quite deaf and irritable in temper, but aunt lois softened perceptibly and was always glad to see primrose. rachel had a new vexation that did not improve her temper. chloe grumbled at the sharpness, but she was too old to think of another home. faith was now a tall, thin girl, looking careworn and sallow. "i must walk a little with thee even if i should get beaten for it afterward," she said in one of the visits, as she intercepted primrose and patty at the group of great sycamores that shut off the view of the road. "for i feel sometimes as if the strings of my heart would burst when there is no one to talk to but old chloe, and rachel watches us as a cat does a mouse." "she would not beat thee, surely." primrose's face was one indignant flame. "she did when i was smaller, until one day aunt lois interfered. now she slaps, and her hand is hard as a board; or she boxes my ears until bells ring in them. i know not what made her so cross at first, except that she tried to be sweet and pleasant to andrew, and when he was gone all was different. now penn walks home from meeting with clarissa lane and finds excuses for going over there. but rachel says he is needed here on the farm since uncle cannot work as he used, and that he shall neither go away to marry, nor bring a wife home here. they had a bitter quarrel one day. i was gathering sassafras and birch buds for her and they did not know i was there. and rachel said if he married clarissa, she would persuade uncle not to leave him any part of the farm. ought not the farm belong to andrew?" primrose shook her head doubtfully. "if i were a man i would run away and fight too. i would find andrew and march and fight beside him. oh, primrose, thou canst never know how good and sweet he was to me and what wise counsel he gave. and now i am so wretched!" "poor girl, poor faith!" primrose cried, deeply moved. "if you could come into town----" "i can go nowhere, she says, until i am of age; if i did, that the constable could bring me back, or i could be put in jail. and that if i do not please her i shall have none of uncle james' money." "it is not honest to count on the money, and james henry may live many years!" exclaimed patty sharply. "if i had it i should give it back to andrew. i feel as if we had crowded him out of his home. no one speaks of him but aunt lois and old chloe, and rachel frowns at her. oh, if i dared come to thee, i would be a servant, or anything! oh, primrose, god hast set thee in a blessed garden! bend over and kiss me. and come again. it is like a bit of heaven to see thee." then faith vanished, and the tears ran down the pink cheeks of the child. "oh, what can we do?" she sobbed. "nothing, dear," returned patty, much moved, and feeling that some comfort was needed, even if it was only the sound of a human voice. "friend rachel hath grown hard through disappointment. grace does not always wrap itself in a plain garb, and a red rose is sweet and pretty in its redness. there is much selfishness in the world under all colors, methinks, and when it is gray; it grows grayer by the wearing." chapter xvii. mid war's alarms. madam wetherill sighed over the affair and was sorry to hear of the failing health of james henry. but nothing could be done to ease up faith's hard lines. she understood much more than she could explain to the innocent primrose; more indeed than she cared to have her know at present about the emotions the human soul. for she had the sweet unconsciousness of a flower that had yet to open, and she did not want it rudely forced. rachel's desire and disappointment must have soured her greatly, she thought. in spite of her training in resignation, human nature seemed as strong in her as in any woman of the world who maneuvered for a lover. yet madam wetherill was truly glad andrew had escaped the snare. and now the country was in great disquiet again. arnold's treason and its sad outcome in the death of the handsome and accomplished major andrã© fell like a thunderbolt on the town where he had been the leader of the gay life under howe. many women wept over his sad end. washington had been doubtful of arnold's integrity for some time, but thought giving him the command at west point would surely attach him to his country's fortunes. washington being called to a conference with the french officers at hartford, arnold chose this opportunity to surrender west point and its dependencies, after some show of resistance, into the hands of the british for a certain sum of money. but arnold had roused suspicions in the heart of more than one brave soldier; among them andrew henry, who had been promoted to a lieutenancy for brave conduct and foresight. clinton was to sail up the river. andrã© went up the hudson in the sloop of war _vulture_, which anchored off teller's point. fearing they knew not what, the continentals dragged an old six-pound cannon to the end of teller's point. that galled the _vulture_ and drove her from her anchorage, so that she drifted down the river. andrã©, therefore, was compelled to make his way by land. being arrested at haverstraw, the commander unwisely allowed him to send a letter to arnold, who at once fled down the river in a barge and met the _vulture_, leaving behind his wife, the beautiful philadelphian, margaret shippen, and their infant son, and thus the chief traitor escaped. england had spent a vast amount of treasure and thousands of lives in battles, hardships, and disease, and had not conquered the revolutionists. she had now involved herself in war with both france and spain. holland, too, was secretly negotiating a treaty with the united colonies. while the town was in consternation over these events, late in november mrs. washington, then on her way to join her husband, stopped a brief while with president reed of the congress. again the soldiers were in great distress, needing everything and winter coming on. the ladies had formed a society for work, and were making clothing and gathering what funds they could. "mrs. washington is to come," said polly wharton, dropping in at arch street, full of eagerness. "the marquis de lafayette has given five hundred dollars in his wife's name, and the countess de luzerne gives one hundred. when we count it up in our depreciated money it sounds much greater," and polly laughed with a gay nod. "mrs. washington has begged to contribute also. it is said the commander in chief was almost heart-broken about that handsome young andrã©, and would have saved him if he could. and margaret shippen comes home next to a deserted wife, at all events deserted in her most trying hour. of course, primrose, you will join us. you can do something more useful than embroider roses on a petticoat, or needlework a stomacher." "indeed i can. patty has seen to it that i shall know something besides strumming on the spinet and reading french verse. but the french are our very good friends." "and i am crazy to see mrs. washington. there is devotion for you!" "if thou wert a commander's wife thou wouldst be doing the same thing, polly. 'for,' she said in the beginning, 'george is right; he is always right. and though i foresee dark days and many discouragements, my heart will always be with him and the country.' if we had more such patriots instead of pleasure-loving women!" and madam wetherill sighed, though her face was in a glow of enthusiasm. "but there are many brave women who give up husbands and sons. and though my mother consented about allin, it wrung her heart sorely. we have not heard in so long. that is the hardest. but we seem to get word easily of the gay doings in new york. and so thou wilt not go, primrose?" "indeed, i will not. what pleasure would it be to me to dance and be gay with my country's enemies? i shall make shirts and knit socks." "yes, primrose is old enough, but she somehow clings to childhood," said madam. "we have spoiled her with much indulgence." "indeed, i am not spoiled. and if the british should take away all we had, dear aunt, i would work for thee. i do know many things." "dear heart!" and madam wetherill kissed her. there was much interest to see mrs. washington, though some of the ladies had met her on a previous visit. madam wetherill had been among those brave enough to ally herself with the cause by calling then, and mrs. washington gracefully remembered it. "and this is the little girl, grown to womanhood almost," she said, as primrose courtesied to her. "you are not a friend, i see by your attire; but the name suggested someone----" "but my father was, madam, and well known in the town. and i have a brave quaker cousin who joined the army at valley forge, andrew henry." "yes, i think that is the name. did he not bring some supplies while we were in so much want, and come near to getting in trouble? you must be proud of him indeed, for he was among those who suspected arnold's treachery, and were so on the alert that they set some of his plans at naught, for which we can never be thankful enough. henry, that is the name! a tall fine young fellow with a martial bearing, one of the fighting quakers, and philadelphia hath done nobly in raising such men. the general never forgets good service, and he is marked for promotion." primrose courtesied again, her eyes shining with lustrousness that was near to tears. "i should almost have danced up and down and clapped my hands, or else fallen at her feet and kissed her pretty hands if she had said that about allin," declared polly afterward. "oh, it was soul-stirring, and the belles stood envying you, but some of them have blown hot and blown cold, and were ready to dance with whig and tory alike. and i wanted to say that you were too patriotic to go up to new york and be merry with your brother. then i bethought me he was on the wrong side. such a splendid fellow, too, primrose; skating like the wind, and such a dancer, and with so many endearing ways. child, how can you resist him?" "i cannot be a turncoat for the dearest love." "andrew henry should have been your brother. he looks more like that grand old portrait of your father than his own son does," declared polly, and some inexplicable feeling sent the scarlet waves to the fair face of primrose. busy enough the women were, and on many of the shirts was the name of the maker. primrose begged that patty's name might be put on their dozen, and janice kent consented hers should be used. "for primrose is such an odd, fanciful name, and it seems as if it belonged just to my own self and my dear mother," the child said, and madam wetherill respected the delicacy. mrs. bache, franklin's daughter, wrote to washington that there were twenty-five hundred shirts, the result of nimble and patriotic fingers; and, she added, "we wish them to be worn with as much pleasure as they were made." philemon nevitt was indeed angry at his sister's refusal, but as he was in no sense her guardian, he could not compel her. some weeks elapsed before he wrote again. it was a hard, cold winter, and if full of discouragements for the continentals was not especially inspiriting for the british. there had been something of a revolt among the philadelphia troops at morristown, who thought, having served their three years' enlistment, they should be allowed to return to their homes. sir henry clinton, mistaking the spirit of the trouble, at once offered to take them under the protection of the british government, clothe and feed them and require no service of them, unless it was voluntarily proffered. "see, comrades," exclaimed one of the leaders; "we have been taken for traitors! let us show general clinton that the american army can furnish but one arnold, and that america has no truer patriots than we. but if we fight, we should not be compelled to starve on the field, nor have our wives and children starving at home." this protest aroused congress. taxes were imposed and submitted to cheerfully, and robert morris, an ardent patriot, with thomas mifflin, labored to bring about a better state of finances, and the bank of pennsylvania was due to the ability and munificence of the former. and though, as thomas reed admitted, "the bulk of the people were weary of war," and the different parties in the city were almost at swords' points, they had all joined in fierce denunciation of arnold's treason. his handsome estate was confiscated, not so much for its value, as it was deeply in debt, but as an example of the detestation in which the citizens held his crime. his wife pleaded to stay in her father's house with her young son, but the executive council decided that she must leave the state at once. the mob made a two-faced effigy, which was dragged in a cart through the streets, a band of rough music playing the rogue's march. afterward it was hanged and burned, and no tory voice was raised in his behalf, though universal sympathy was expressed for the unfortunate young andrã©. philemon henry was intensely bitter about it. "but you have not all the traitors," he wrote. "my heart has been rent by the defection of some of our bravest men, and most trusted; and one who has seemed almost a brother to me, as we played together in boyhood, and have kept step in many things. i had cherished a curious hope that he might disarm thy girlish bitterness, primrose, and that sometime his true worth would be apparent to you. and from the first, though he never confessed any further than that he envied me my pretty little sister, i knew he was more than common interested. these things are best left to work themselves out, and you were both young, so i held my peace. six months ago sir gilbert vane, the uncle, died, and, as title and estates were entailed, vane priory came to him. at first he was minded to return, and i wish now that i had bundled him off. then he had queer, dispirited fits about the cause we were serving. i regret we have not been more in earnest and not so much given to pleasure. the city has been very gay, but i think many of the women whose feet twinkled merrily in the dance talked treason with rosy lips in the pauses. "i was angry when i read your letter and tossed it over to him, wishing that i had been your guardian and had some right to order your life. he held it a long while, then he rose and began to pace the floor. "'i tell you, phil,' he said with strange earnestness, 'we are on the wrong side. nothing can ever conquer these people while the love of their own country outweighs everything else. if the women feel this way, and cannot be tempted, no wonder the men are steadfast and go in rags and half starve and take any hardship. we forget that they are our own kin, of our own brave english blood, and would we tolerate an invader? would we not fight to the last man? it would be nobler to go home and let them rule themselves, for we can never conquer them.' "'you talk treason,' i said angrily. 'you had better be careful.' "'they are talking the same thing in the house of parliament. i have been paying more attention to these things of late, and i feel that in the end we shall be worsted. better make brothers of them now while we can. if this were my country, my birthplace----' "'hold!' i cried in a passion. 'i am an englishman. that is the country of my mother's birth, and my father had good english blood in his veins. my uncle henry thinks the rebels all in the wrong, and i know well my father would never have sided with them. my sister would have been brought up to love the king.' "he made no answer, but went out presently. then for some days he was moody and kept himself quite busy, and i thought was planning to return to england to look after his estates. our colonel thought so, too. and then five others beside him suddenly disappeared. shortly after we learned they had gone south to enter the army under general greene. i only hope they will fall into tarleton's hands, and he will make short work of them. but my heart is sore for the loss of my boyhood's friend, and the shame of his turning traitor. i hear that benedict arnold has joined the king's forces, and of a surety he and they would be well matched in any fight. "i have a presentiment i shall never see my pretty darling again. primrose, i love thee more than thou canst imagine. i would that i had thee and that we two were going to england out of this terrible strife. farewell. "thine own dear brother, "phil." primrose ran weeping to her aunt and gave her the long epistle. madam wetherill tried to comfort her, and presently she dried her tears a little. "we can hardly call him a traitor,--gilbert vane, i mean,--for he has not really betrayed his country, but changed his mind. and i think it very brave of him when he might go to england and live in luxury," said primrose in a broken voice. "thou art quick to see the heroic side. of course, if he should be taken prisoner, he would be put to death without mercy." "but he does not sell his country!" with emphasis. "oh, poor, dear phil! my heart aches for him. and yet, if the british soldiers begin to see the doubtfulness of a final conquest, i think there must be hope. but what can i say to philemon? i seem destined to be always divided in opposite directions." "that is very true," and madam wetherill smiled rather sadly. for it seemed hard indeed that brother and sister should have such opposing interests. many a girl would have been won at once by the proffer of pleasure. but primrose did not have very long to consider. another note came from new york. tired of inaction, philemon nevitt had asked that some more stirring duty should be allotted to him, and he was transferred to another body of troops, who were watching the americans and harassing them in the vicinity of morristown. it was said deserters from the british army had transferred their allegiance, and colonel nevitt determined to put a stop to this, and capture some of them to make an example the soldiers would dread in future. "when he writes like this i hate him!" and primrose stamped her dainty foot upon the floor, while her eyes flashed with curious steely gleams that seemed to have black points. "it does not seem as if the same blood could run in our veins, but then he hath none of my own dear mother's sweetness. if he were related to her my heart would break. and i think he must have some of the characteristics of uncle james, who keeps his hard heart against cousin andrew. was my father of that stamp, dear madam?" "he had a much broader life. he was brought into contact with various people, and possessed a certain suavity that one finds in many of the old families here in town. good mr. penn did not insist that men should be all of one mind." "'twould be a queer world indeed," and primrose half smiled, for her moods were like an april day. "then thy mother was a wise, winsome woman," said madam wetherill in fond remembrance. "that is what wins me to phil," returned the girl. "when he talked of her and all her pretty ways, and the dainty verses and tales she told him, and how she shielded him from his father's displeasure when he would have been whipped, then he seems like a vision of her come back. but, now that he is going to fight against my country----" and the rosy lips curled in scorn. "he might have remained a fine, pleasure-loving soldier, doing no real harm, fit to dance with pretty women or march in a fine parade." she discussed this with polly wharton, who was now her dearest friend, although she was two years older. "art thou not unduly bitter, primrose?" polly always chided in grave quaker phraseology, but, like many of the younger generation, fell into worldly pronouns in seasons of haste or merriment. "we should be ashamed of him if he saw his duty and weakly shirked it. i am sorry such a fine fellow, with good american blood in his veins, should be a tory. in truth i cannot see at present how the quarrel can be mended, and i am desperately sorry." polly's cheeks were pink as a rose. "it never will be mended now. times are hard with us, to be sure, and there is much discouragement, but the french army and a great navy have reached newport, and aunt wetherill was reading of a french loan. that wise mr. adams is in paris with our dear mr. franklin----" "who plays chess with french beauties and writes them skits and bagatelles, and, no doubt dances the grave minuet with them. and then we blame our young lads for having a little pleasure! but 'tis darkest just before dawn, and maybe we have come to the darkest times." "and i am certain the dawn will come. god will not let such a good cause and so great an effort in behalf of human liberty go by default." so they worked on and hoped. there was great interest in the southern campaign now. and then polly came one morning, full of tears and trouble. there had been sad news from the highlands of the hudson. a troop of british had made their way almost to one of the camps, expecting to surprise and capture the federal soldiers. there had been a sharp skirmish, spirited and fateful enough to be called a battle. the federals had won in the end and taken a number of prisoners, while many british soldiers were among the killed and wounded. "andrew henry sent the word to my father, who means to apply for passes and go at once," and there polly broke down. "but that is not the worst of it. something has happened to allin! oh, polly!" and the soft arms were about polly's neck, while she was kissing the tear-wet cheek, her own eyes overflowing. "yes, it is allin!" sobbed the girl. "they thought when they first brought him in that he was dead. but it seems now he is badly wounded and may live. they wanted to take his leg off, but lieutenant henry would not let them. oh, poor allin! and he begged that father would come or send, for the regiment may go on to virginia." "oh, if he could be brought home!" "it comes so near now." polly wiped her eyes. "but oh, primrose! i had nigh forgotten. forgive me that i put my own sorrow first. colonel--i believe he is that now--colonel nevitt led the men and was wounded also, and is captured." primrose stood up very straight, and contradictory emotions struggled in her fair face. her rosy lips faded and quivered, and she swallowed over a great lump in her throat. "it seems strange," said polly, "that the cousins should have been pitted against each other. and, though i am desperately sorry about colonel nevitt, i am proud of andrew henry. oh, dear primrose!" "i am always torn in two. i wonder if there was ever such a girl!" and the slow tears beaded the bronze lashes of primrose henry's eyes. "think of poor peggy shippen being banished from her family and forced to follow a traitor! for, after all, it was the fortune of war, and colonel nevitt was doing his duty as he saw it in all good faith." "thou art so generous, polly. he should have been some connection to thee; oh! what am i saying? surely thou wouldst not want a redcoat britisher tacked to thy family! i hope he is not sorely wounded, but just enough to keep him from fighting against my country until we have won our independence." "thou dost make cunning wishes, primrose," and in spite of her sorrow, polly wharton smiled. madam wetherill came home from her marketing, which was no light undertaking with all the trouble about paper money, and gold and silver so scarce. she still rode her horse well, and time dealt very leniently with her. "i heard some strange news in the market place," she began, and then she caught sight of polly. "oh, dear child! is it true that some of the flower of our town have perished? it was a great surprise, to capture some deserters, it was said, and went hard with our brave men." "nay, lieutenant henry won in the end, and our loss was nothing compared to the enemy. but poor allin----" "he is not dead," added primrose, when polly's voice failed. "and, madam, cousin andrew hath taken our heroic colonel nevitt a prisoner in his first battle. i know not whether to rejoice or cry." "primrose, thou art a naughty girl!" "if it had been the other way, i should have had no difficulty. yes, i am a hard-hearted little wretch and do not deserve any brother! but andrew will see that he is not treated as the poor fellows were in the walnut street jail; and if he should lose an arm or a leg i will devote my life to him. oh!" with a sudden burst of tenderness, "i hope it is nothing serious. the mortification will be hard enough." there were numbers of the wounded sent as soon as possible to the larger cities where they could be cared for. rough journeying it was, with none of the modern appliances of travel, and many a poor fellow died on the way. for various reasons madam wetherill had not gone out to the farm as usual. the news was troublesome from virginia and maryland, where arnold was destroying stores and laying waste plantations. the seat of war seemed to be changing in this direction, and some of the most famous battles were to be fought here. cornwallis was fortifying, and everybody dreaded the news. pleasure in town had slipped back to a more decorous aspect. there were simple tea-drinkings and parties of young people going out on the river in the early evening singing pretty songs. or there were afternoon rambles to the charming green nook called bethsheba's bath and bower, where wild flowers bloomed in profusion, and the copses were fragrant with sweet herbs, growing wild; or the newly cut hay in the fields still about. sometimes they took along a luncheon and some sewing. there were still windmills to grind the grain, and windmill island had been repaired and was busy again. primrose seemed just beginning life. hitherto she had been a child, and now she was finding friends of her own age, with whom it was a pleasure to chat and to compare needlework and various knowledges. she sympathized tenderly with polly wharton in her sorrow, and began to go frequently to the house. next in age to polly were two boys, and then a lovely little girl. another incident had made the summer quite notable to primrose. this was the marriage of anabella morris, which took place in christ church. anabella's husband was a widower with two quite large children, but of considerable means. madam wetherill was very generous with her outfit, though she began to feel the pinch of straitened means. so much property was paying very poorly and some not rented at all. primrose was one of the maids, and consented to have her hair done high on her head and wear a train, and to be powdered, though madam wetherill disapproved of it for young people who had pretty natural complexions. some young women wore a tiny bit of a black patch near their smiling lips, or a dimple, as if to call attention to it. "and, if it grew there, they would move heaven and earth to have it taken off," said that lady with a little scorn. the bride's train was held up by a page dressed in blue and silver, and then followed the pretty maids, and the relatives. it was quite a brave show, and a proud day for anabella, who had been dreaming of it since she was a dozen years old. madam wetherill gave her a wedding dinner, which now would be called a breakfast, so much have things changed, and then a coach took the newly married pair to their own home. though anabella would rather not have had another woman's children to manage, she was truly glad that all her anxieties in husband-hunting were over. then mr. wharton came home with his son, who was still in a quite uncertain state, and it had been a question whether his shattered leg could be saved. but dr. benjamin rush took it in hand and said it would be a shame indeed if such a fine young fellow would have to stump around all the rest of his life on a wooden leg. chapter xviii. whom shall she pity? september came in with all the glory of ripening fruit and the late rich-colored flowers, with here and there a yellow leaf on the sycamores, a brown one on the hickories, and a scarlet one on the maples. there were stirring events, too. a french vessel had arrived with stores and four hundred thousand crowns in specie, besides an accession of enthusiastic men to the army. general washington had determined to attempt the capture of new york, but hearing there were large re-enforcements on the way to sir henry clinton, allowed the british to believe this was his plan and turned his army southward. a gala time indeed it was for the quaker city. for the continentals were no longer ragged, but proudly marched in the glory of new shoes and unpatched breeches and newly burnished accouterments. the french regiment of desoissonnais, in rose-color and white, with rose-colored plumes, was especially handsome and quite distanced our own army trappings, that had never been fine. general washington, count rochambeau, and m. de luzerne, the french minister, with chief justice mckean reviewed the troops. the sober citizens were stirred to unwonted enthusiasm. houses were decorated, windows filled with pretty girls waved handkerchiefs, and the mob shouted itself hoarse with joy; going at night to the residence of the french minister and shouting lustily amid the cheering for the king, louis xvi. the hall boy ushered in a fine martial-looking man in officer's dress at madam wetherill's. a number of guests were in the parlor, and he hesitated a moment before he said: "summon miss primrose henry." "grand sojer man in buff and blue," he whispered. "'spect it general washington hisself." primrose flashed out. for a moment she stood amazed. it was not her brother. "primrose, hast thou forgotten me?" "oh!" with a glad cry of joy. "oh, andrew," and she was clasped in the strong arms and greeted with a kiss. "yes," joyfully. "all the march i have counted on this moment. i could not wait until to-morrow. primrose, how are they--my dear mother?" "she is quite well, but uncle henry fails and has grown very deaf. and i think rachel and penn do not agree well, and are not happy. but things go on the same." "and is there--any longing for me?" oh, how cruel it was to feel that only the poor mother cared. for primrose was not old enough nor suspicious enough to imagine the hundred little ways rachel found to blame andrew and widen the breach between him and his father. "thy mother is always asking for thee. i learn thy infrequent letters by heart, and repeat them to her as i get opportunity." "thank thee a thousand times." "and my brother?" "hast thou not heard?" "not since the return of allin wharton. he is still ill and no one sees him, but polly tells me now and then. only he is not allowed to excite himself by talking, and it is such little dribbles that i cannot glean much. and you met face to face?" "we were both doing our duty like brave men, i trust. i'm not sure but in the mãªlã©e that allin saved my life, and then----" "thou couldst have taken his! oh, andrew, thank god it was not so," and her voice was tremulous with the joy of thanksgiving. "a soldier fired and wounded his right shoulder." andrew did not say that it was only a hair's-breadth escape of his own life. "neither knew he should meet the other." "and what hath happened since?" "he was paroled and exchanged. since then i have heard nothing. and now i must go. first to see allin, and then our commander. the bulk of the troops are still to follow in the steps of these noble frenchmen. and to-morrow night i must start south on an important mission. in the morning i shall see thee again. my respects to madam wetherill." her arms were about his neck. how tall she had grown! he remembered when she had first come to cherry farm he had carried her about in his arms. "dear----" he unclasped the clinging hands softly. and then he turned the door knob and was gone. she ran to her room, a pretty chamber next to madam wetherill's, now, and burying her face in the pillow, cried for ever so many causes, it seemed to her. sorrow that her brother should not have cared enough to write, grief that they two should have met in strife, thanksgiving that neither should be guilty of the awful weight of the other's blood, joy that she should have seen andrew, and pain and grief that he could not go home as a brave and well-loved son. it was quite late when madam wetherill came up, when the last guest had gone. "i thought it was thy cousin, and i knew thou would not feel like further gayety, though all the town seems wild, as if we had gained a victory. these french soldiers in their fine attire have turned everyone's head. after all, methinks gay clothes have their uses and help to preserve the spirits. and andrew--major henry, do we call him?" primrose smiled then. "he is my own dear cousin and never forgets me. and he wished his respects to thee, and will come to-morrow morning. and colonel nevitt has been paroled and is in new york." "go to bed now. it is full midnight. the rest will keep," and she patted the soft cheek, warm with flushes of satisfaction. major henry came the next morning. madam wetherill was struck with the likeness he bore his uncle, and certainly be made a grand-looking soldier. then he had to tell all about the affray, but primrose came to know afterward that he made light of his part in it, and but for his suspicions and presence of mind there would have been great slaughter. "i can hardly venture to predict, but it does seem to me that we are nearing the end of the brunt of the fighting. it will be no secret in a few days, but i can trust thee, i know. the french fleet may be in the chesapeake even now, and though cornwallis hath fortified yorktown and gloucester, we shall have the british between two fires, and all aid cut off, even escape. i think we shall capture them, and if so, it will be a blow they cannot recover from. war is cruel enough. i do not wonder christian people oppose it. but slavery of the free spirit is worse still, and if one must strike, let it be in earnest. but we have gone against fearful odds." "heaven knows how thankful we shall be to see it ended. and yet there are nations that have fought longer still," subjoined madam wetherill thoughtfully. "and i hope, when we are through with the enemy, we shall not quarrel among ourselves as to the making of a great country and nation. it is not given to many men to have breadth and wisdom and foresight." "and there have been disputes enough here. i sometimes wonder if men have any good sense." "thou hast not a wonderfully high opinion of them," and andrew smiled. "a party of women could be but little worse, and sometimes i think would do better." they talked about young wharton, and andrew instanced many brave acts on his part. "if thou hadst seen them patient in hunger and cold, with poor frost-bitten feet, and hardly a place to shelter them from the storm, thou wouldst not rail at them." "it is the stay-at-home soldiers who fight battles over the council board and always win, and know just what every general and every private could do, that provoke me! i wish sometimes they could be put in the forefront of the battle." "they would learn wisdom, doubtless. an enemy on paper is easily managed." then andrew had to go. and though he longed to press a kiss on the sweet rosy lips that were fond enough last night, primrose seemed quite a tall young woman, and a child no longer; so, although the leave-taking was very sincere, it had a delicate formality in it. they had hardly time to consider anything, for the next day brought a tax on their sympathies. primrose remembered a long ago winter when miss betty randolph had come from virginia to get some city accomplishments, and flashed in and out of the great house and gone to parties, and had been the envy of anabella morris. she had married shortly after and had two babies. and now her father's farm had been despoiled and he rendered homeless, her husband had been killed in battle, and they had made their way northward, hoping to find a friend in madam wetherill. nor were they mistaken. there were the two elderly people, betty and her babies, and a younger sister. the only son was in general greene's army. "there is plenty of room at the farm," said madam wetherill. "i am not as young as i used to be and it gets a greater care year by year, and i think i grow fonder of the city. it would be well to have someone there all the time, and cousin randolph understands farming." "and this is the shy little yellow-haired primrose, grown up into a pretty girl," betty said in surprise. "i remember you were full of those quaint quaker 'thees and thous.' but certainly you are a quaker no longer, with that becoming attire? oh, child, be glad you have not supped sorrow's bitter cup." there was so much on hand getting them settled that primrose could not go to uncle henry's with her blessed news at once. it was always pain as well as pleasure. sometimes she could hardly find a free moment with aunt lois, so jealously did rachel watch them. and though primrose had planned talks with uncle james they invariably came to nought, for she could never surprise him alone, and he was so hard of hearing she knew there would be listeners. faith was upstairs spinning on the big wheel, and her window overlooked the stretch of woods that shut out the road altogether. aunt lois sat knitting, rachel was making some stout homespun shirts for winter wear, and uncle james was lying on the bed asleep. "thou hast something else in thy face," began aunt lois presently, when primrose had recounted the misfortunes of the randolphs and the shelter that had opened before them. "hast thou heard from----" "i have seen him!" primrose clasped both hands and the knitting fell to the floor. "seen him! oh, child! hath he been here?" her voice quavered and her eyes filled with tears. rachel picked up the knitting with a frown. the needle had slipped out half-way. "thou mightst have shown a little more care, primrose," beginning to pick up the stitches. "tell me, tell me! is he here now?" "he came with the french soldiers. oh, how fine and gallant they were! he could only stay one night, for the commander had some special business for him at the seat of war. all the troops are going on, and it is hoped that, when the continentals win, this will lead to peace." "when they win," said rachel with doubtful scorn. "it seems as if they cared for nothing but going on and on like quarrelsome children, and no good comes of it. no good can come of such an evil as war. and if you sell anything, here is all this wretched, worthless money! i had rather have good british gold." "so arnold thought." primrose's mirth-loving eyes danced with a sense of retaliation. "there has been some french gold quite as good, since it has clothed our troops and given them many comforts. and, aunt lois, he is well and splendid, the picture of my own father, aunt wetherill thinks. he sent so much love, and if the war should end he will come home for good. he is not fond of battle, but you may know how good a soldier he has proved, since he has gone from private to major." aunt lois looked up with tender, longing eyes. "then i shall see him," she said. "he will not stay away?" "oh, surely, surely! if there had been time he would have come now. and oh, aunt lois, up there on the hudson we almost lost him. there was a sudden surprise, and, but for young allin wharton, it might have gone hard indeed with him." she could not confess that it was a kindred hand raised against him, though her quick flush betrayed some deep feeling. "heaven be thanked! and the young man?" "he was wounded then and again later on, but has been brought home and is mending. and surely god was watching over andrew, for he had no hurt whatever. and i feel sure now he will come back safe to us." rachel morgan's face worked with some deep passion, and grew darker under the sunburn. the young girl's delight angered her. perhaps, too, the beauty and grace, the cloth habit fitting her slim, elegant figure, the beaver hat that looked so jaunty and had in it some long cock's plumes, quite a new fashion. then there was the trim foot with its fine shoe and steel buckle, all gauds of worldliness to be sure, but they would attract a man's eye. rachel had not been beautiful in her childhood, but the tender grace that softens so many faces had not been allowed its perfect work on hers. she looked older now than her years and there were hard lines that some day would be avarice, uncharity, and other evil traits. then this girl was an idle butterfly, frisking from one folly to another in a wicked and worldly fashion, even despising the plain faith her father had intended she should follow. "oh," exclaimed aunt lois, after a blissful communing with her soul in very thankfulness, "thou puttest new life into me. i can feel it run through like the breeze in the grass. sometimes i think with the wise man that few and evil have been my days, and i would not have them unduly prolonged, but to see my son again, my dear son!" the smile was so sweet that primrose, leaning over, kissed into it and then both smiled again, while there were tender tears in the eyes of both. "and now i must go," primrose said presently, "but i will try to come sooner again. it is such fine weather that the orchards are full of fruit and the wild grapes and the balsams fill the air with fragrance. oh, aunt lois, god must have made such a beautiful world for us to enjoy. he cannot mean to have us frown on this, and wait until we get to heaven, for then the smiles and joy will not come so readily." "it is flippant for thee to talk of heaven this way. we do not go dancing into it. we must fashion our lives on more godly things," said rachel rebukingly. primrose made no reply, but drew on her glove. "then i shall not see faith," she said rather disappointedly as she rose. "where is faith?" aunt lois looked up. "she idled so much yesterday that she did not finish her stent, and she has a larger share this afternoon." rachel followed the girl out. the horses stood in the shade and jerry had been lounging on the grass, but he sprang up and doffed his hat to his young mistress. "i have something to say to thee." rachel took her arm and turned her away from the house and jerry as well. "dost thou truly think andrew will return?" "he will return." there was an exultant ring of hope and youth in the sweet voice that smote the listener. "and then," very deliberately, as if her words meant to cut something, they were so sharp and cold, "then you will marry him." "marry him? i?" there was indignation in every line of the face and rachel noted it with secret joy, though her countenance remained unmoved. "yes," persistently. "thou hast always been fondling about him and kissing him, and such foolishness wins a man when plain common sense gets flouted." "i have never thought of such a thing," and her face was full of surprise, though the lovely color kept coming and going, and her eyes flashed a little. "i do not want any lovers, and as for husbands, nothing would tempt me to change with mistress anabella. and there is poor betty randolph, full of sorrow. no, i mean to be like madam wetherill, who can always do as she pleases." "silly child! i should be sorry indeed for the man who took thee. but madam wetherill was married once." "and her husband died. no, i cannot bear death and sorrow," and she gave a quick shiver. "thou hast made trouble enough for andrew. first it was getting away and mooning over books and strange things, instead of useful ones. then it was passing food and clothing out to valley forge, and running his neck in a noose. then it was going to war, for which his father disowned him." "nay, not that altogether." she looked steadily at rachel, whose eyes fell a little. "yes, if he had not gone he would not have been disowned. it was through thy preachment. thou hast cost him trouble everywhere. and now, if he should return, thou canst make or mar again." "i shall not mar," proudly. "it stands this way. thy mother was one of the smiling, tempting, deceitful women, who can twist a man about her finger. she spoiled thy father's life and would have won him from the faith----" primrose's slim form trembled with indignation and rachel cowered beneath the flashing eye. "that is a falsehood, mistress rachel, and god will surely mark thee for it! there is an old journal of my father's that, beside business dates and comments, has bits of sweetness about her, and how he thanks god for her, and that she is the sunshine of his life, and if he were to lose her, all would be darkness. madam wetherill is to give it to me when i am quite grown." "i but repeat what i have heard uncle james say. and if thou wert to marry andrew he would forbid him the house as much as he did when andrew became a soldier. he does not approve of thee nor thy tribe." the hot blood stained the girl's cheeks. yes, she had long mistrusted that her uncle did not like her, and that he fancied in some way madam wetherill had gotten the better of him. "i am not going to marry andrew--nor anyone. i love him very much, but i know it is not in that way. and my own life is growing exceeding sweet, day by day. it is like a garden full of wonderful flowers that no one can guess until they bloom." "then thou wilt not hinder him again? his father's heart hath grown tender toward him, and i can persuade if i have this surety to go upon." "and then--dost thou hope to marry him?" "i hope for nothing, miss impertinence. i only want that andrew shall be restored." a willful mood came over primrose. what if she did not promise? "there is little dependence on thee, i see. i was a fool to think it. girls like thee play with men's hearts." rachel turned away with a bitter curl of the lip, and held her head up determinedly. "oh, rachel, if that will help, i promise. if thou wilt do thy best to soften uncle james. i care not so much that he shall regard me with favor. i have many to love me." rachel turned back a step, caught the round arm and held it up. "promise," she cried, almost fiercely. "i promise," primrose said solemnly. "that is in the sight of god. thou wilt be a very wicked girl to break it." "i shall not break it. oh, rachel, do thy best to restore peace. for to andrew it would be great joy." then she went over to jerry, who helped her into the saddle. the girls curiously enough had not said good-by to each other. rachel had gone into the house. "i did it for the best," she was thinking to herself. "there should be peace between them, for uncle james acts strangely sometimes. and then if andrew hath any gratitude--perhaps soft measures may conquer. his mother wishes for the marriage as well." primrose seemed in no haste and the ride was long. she was annoyed that rachel should talk of her marrying. and her brother, she remembered, had confessed a half-formed plan of wedding her to gilbert vane. why could not everybody let her alone? madam wetherill never spoke of it, and she was glad. where was gilbert vane? and oh, where was her poor brother? the soft wind cooled her cheeks and the longing brought tears to her eyes. "how late thou hast stayed," said madam wetherill with tender chiding. "i hope nothing was amiss?" "oh, no, dear madam. the air was so fine that i loitered. and the dark seems to fall suddenly when it does come." "thou must change thy habit and come to supper. put on a jacket and petticoat, and afterward one of thy best gowns, for there is to be some young company. pamela trumbull sent word 'that she would come with a host of cousins, and thou must have in thy best singing teeth.' the maid is always full of merry conceits. and over our teacups thou shalt tell me about the henrys." primrose repeated all but her last interview with rachel. delicacy forbade that. and then patty helped her into a furbelowed gown of china silk that had been made from madam wetherill's long-ago treasures and had a curious fragrance about it. the young people came, a merry company, and first they had a game of forfeits and some guessing puzzles. then pamela, who had quite bewitched her cousin with tales of primrose's singing, insisted that she should go to the spinet. she found a song. "oh, not that foolish one," cried primrose, blushing scarlet. "it is so dainty and no one sings it as you do. and in the print store on second street there was a laughable picture of such a pretty, doleful cupid shut out of doors in the cold, that i said to harry, 'mistress primrose henry sings the most cunning plaint i know, and you shall hear it.'" mr. henry beall joined his persuasion and they found the music. primrose had a lovely voice and sang with a deliciously simple manner. "as little cupid play-ed, the sweet blooming flowers among, a bee that lay concealed under the leaf his finger stung. tears down his pretty cheeks did stream from smart of such a cruel wound, and crying, through the grove he ran, until he his mammy found. "'mammy, i'm sorely wounded, a bee has stung me on the plain, my anguish is unbounded, assist me or i die with pain.' she smil-ed then, replying, said, 'o my son, how can it be? that by a bee you're dying,- what must she feel who's stung by thee?'" there was a burst of eager applause. "it was a quaint old song when i was young," said madam wetherill. "then there are some pretty ones of will shakespere's." "this is what i like," began primrose. "tell me not, sweet, i am unkinde." she sang it with deep and true feeling, lovelace's immortal song. and she moved them all by her rendering of the last two lines in her proud young voice- "i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honor more." then mistress kent would have them come out for curds and cream and floating islands, and they planned a chestnutting after the first frost came. they were merry and happy, even if the world was full of sorrow. yet it seemed so mysterious to primrose that the songs should be so much about love, and that stories were written and wars made and kingdoms lost for its sake. what was it? no, she did not want to know, either. and just now she felt infinitely sorry for rachel. come what might, andrew would not marry her. how she could tell she did not know, but she felt the certainty. "do not sit there by the window, primrose, or thou wilt get moon-struck and silly. and young girls should get beauty sleep. come to bed at once," said madam wetherill. but after all she admitted to herself that primrose was not urgently in need of beauty sleep. chapter xix. the midnight tidings of great joy. old philadelphia had fallen into her midnight nap. since howe's time there had been a more decorous rule, and the taverns closed early. there were no roystering soldiers flinging their money about and singing songs in king george's honor, or ribald squibs about the rebels, and braggart rhymes as to what they would do with them by and by. everything, this october night, was soft and silent. even party people had gone home long ago, and heard the watchman sing out, "twelve o'clock and all is well!" only the stars were keeping watch, and the winds made now and then a rustle. someone rode into the town tired and exhausted, but joyful, and with joyful news. the german watchman, who caught it first, went on his rounds with, "past two o'clock and lord cornwallis is taken." he came down arch street. madam wetherill had been rather wakeful. what was it? she threw up the window and the sonorous voice sang out again, "past two o'clock and lord cornwallis is taken!" "oh, what is it, madam?" cried patty, coming in in her nightgown and cap. "it is enough to make one faint with joy! patty, wake joe at once and send him down the street. it can't be true!" "but what is it?" in alarm. "if i was not dreaming it is that lord cornwallis is taken. but i am afraid. patty, it is a great victory for our side. run quick!" joe, rolled up in his warm blanket, had to be thumped soundly before he would wake. "put on your clothes this instant," and patty stood over him, giving him a cuff on one ear, then on the other to balance him. "run down the street, and if you don't find lord cornwallis taken don't pretend to show your face here again in this good rebel household. for now we dare sail under true colors!" but others had heard. in early morning before the day was awake there was such a stir that the old town scarcely knew itself. one cried to another. there were a thousand doubts and fears until the messenger was found, quite gone with fatigue, on a bench at a tavern, with a great crowd around him. "yes," he said, "on the nineteenth, four days ago. they were between the devil and the deep sea. they tried to escape on the york river, but a storm set in and they were driven back. and there was the french squadron to swallow them up, and the french and american troops posted about in a big half circle! 'twas a splendid sight as one would wish to see! and there was nothing but surrender, or they would all have been cut to pieces. and such a sight when my lord sent general o'hara with his sword and the message, not having courage to come himself. then we were hustled off with the news. there's the posts of yorktown and gloucester and seven thousand or so soldiers, and stores and arms and colors and seamen and ships. by the lord harry! we're set up for life! and now let me eat and drink in peace. by night there'll be someone else to tell his story." surely never had there been such an early rising. neighbors and friends wrung each other's hands in great joy and talked in broken sentences, though there were some tories who said the thing was simply impossible, and rested in serene satisfaction. primrose had roused, and was so wild with joy that there could be no thought of a second nap. and after breakfast she was crazy to go over to walnut street to polly wharton's. the servant sent her into the small anteroom, for she wasn't quite sure mistress polly was in. and there, in a long easy-chair dr. rush had planned and a skilled carpenter made, that could be lowered into a bed at will, reclined a pale young fellow with a mop of chestnut hair, and temples that were full of blue veins, as well as the long, thin hands. "oh--it is mistress primrose henry--but i was hardly sure! you are so tall, and you were such a little girl. oh, do you remember when i ran over you on the schuylkill and quarreled with your brother and wanted to fight a duel? i can just see how you looked as you lay there in his arms, pale as death, with your pretty yellow hair floating about. well, i had a monstrous bad hour, i assure you. and you were such a gay, saucy little rebel, and so full of enthusiasm! by george! i believe you sent us all to war. and now this glorious news, and andrew henry in the midst of it all! it makes a fellow mad, and red-hot all over longing to be there! was there ever anything so splendid! but, i beg your pardon! will you not be seated? polly went out with father, but will soon be back." the servant brought the same message. mrs. wharton would be down as soon as the children were off to school. "tell her not to hurry," said the audacious young man. "it is such a treat to have company all to myself. and to-day is my first coming downstairs. father has been so afraid all along lest i should do something that would undo all the good doctor's work. between him and andrew they have saved my leg, and i shan't be lame. i'll come and dance at your birthday party. it is in the spring, isn't it, and that is why you were named primrose?" "i don't know for certain," and the girl smiled; "my mother was fond of flowers." "and it's the prettiest name under the sun." he wanted to say that it belonged to the prettiest girl under the sun, but he did not quite dare. for he thought this blessed october morning she was the loveliest vision he had ever beheld. "oh, won't you take off your hat and that big cape, for polly _will_ be in soon, and i have such a heap of things to tell you. polly said she would ask you to come around as soon as i was allowed downstairs, and dr. rush said i must wait until i could walk well. wasn't it grand to see andrew in his new uniform? we've all gone in rags and patches, and--well, when we're old fellows, we shall all be proud enough that we fought for the country. i want to live to be a full hundred, if the world stands so long. when have you heard from your brother?" the young girl's face was scarlet. "not since--since he went to new york." "wasn't it queer we should all have had a hand in the fight, and andrew never got scratched?" "and you saved them both! andrew told me! oh, i can't give you thanks enough! my brother is very dear to me if he is on the wrong side, and i have been angry with him." he always remembered with a mysterious sort of gladness that she did not say andrew was dear to her. of course he was, but he would rather not have it set in words. "yes--that we should meet just that way! he and i had quarreled, and he and andrew were cousins, whose duty it was to disable each other, at least, though the encounter was so sudden that at the first moment i think they did not know each other. i gave a push to andrew and that deflected his aim, for somehow i did not want him to kill nevitt. and before he could recover, though the next shot was aimed at me, someone had struck your brother in the shoulder, and he fell. it was all done in a moment, but there are so many near escapes. he was pretty badly hurt, but andrew managed that he should have the best of care. and they gained nothing by their daring and we made a lot of prisoners. before it was over i was wounded, and that has put an end to my fun. but i am glad andrew was in at this great victory." primrose's eyes were shining with a kind of radiant joy. and yet, down deep in her heart, there was a pang for her brother. sometimes she was vexed that he had not cared enough to write. "but it seems--incredible!" "it is a sort of miracle of foresight. the man at the head of it all is wise and far-sighted and not easily discouraged. and lady washington, as the men call her, is not afraid to follow the camp and speak a word of cheer to the soldiers. we have been through many a hard time, some of the others much more than i. but, if i could have chosen, i'd rather been on the march and in the fight than lying here." primrose could not doubt it. a faint color had warmed up the face and it looked less thin, and the eyes were full of enthusiasm. something in their glance made hers droop and an unexpected glow steal up in her face. "andrew said he was your soldier, that you were so full of loyalty and duty it inspired him. and don't you remember that you talked to me as well? i don't see why i shouldn't be your soldier." "why--yes. you are." then she blushed ever so much more deeply. "and how brave you were that day when you assisted him to escape! oh, you can't think how delightful it was to talk of you when we were cold and hungry and so far away from home! and all the shrewdness of madam wetherill! how she won british gold and sent it or its equivalent out to valley forge! next summer we ought to make a picnic out there, and climb up mount pleasant and go down mount misery with jest and laughter." there was a whirl and a gentle stamping of some light feet on the bearskin rug in the hall. "oh, primrose! it is the most glorious morning the world ever saw! and 'tis a delight to see you here. it is allin's first day downstairs, and he thinks he has been defrauded, selfish fellow! he insists i shall tell him everywhere i go and everybody i see, and, when i get it all related minutely, he sighs like a wheezy bellows and thinks i have all the fun. and just now i want to dance and shout, don't you, primrose? such news stirs one from finger tips to toes." "get up and dance, then. i'll whistle a gay irish jig, such as the men used in howe's time at the king of prussia inn, while their betters were footing it to good british music. think of the solemn drumbeat there will be at yorktown! no gay mischianza there! what a march it will be to the haughty prisoners!" they all laughed at the idea of dancing, and then they talked until primrose said she must go home, but polly would send a messenger to say that she meant to keep her to dinner, and then they would take a nice walk along chestnut street, and go to market street and see the new, homespun goods mr. whitesides had in his store. "for they say the weaver cunningly put in flocks of silk from old silken rags and has made a beautiful, glistening surface that catches the light in various colors. a man in germantown, 'tis said. we shall be so wise presently that we shall not hanker after england's goods." what a merry time they had! and then primrose must sing some songs. allin thought he had never heard anything so beautiful as the one of lovelace's. and he was so sorry to have them go that he looked at primrose with wistful eyes. "when i am quite strong i am coming around to madam wetherill's for half a day." she blushed and nodded. he was very tired and turned over in his chair, and in his half sleepiness could still see primrose henry. the news was true enough. and though the earl of cornwallis received back his sword, the twenty-eight battle flags were delivered to the americans, with all the other trophies. congress assembled and secretary thompson read the cheering news. bells were rung, and it was such a gala day as the city had never seen. impromptu processions thronged the streets, salutes were fired, and far into the night rockets were sent up. the little old house in arch street where betsy ross lived, who had made the first flag with the thirteen stars, that could wave proudly over the other twenty-eight captured ones, had her house illuminated by enthusiastic citizens. hundreds of tories accepted the offer of pardon. clinton reached the chesapeake too late for any assistance and returned disheartened and dismayed, for it was felt that this was indeed a signal victory, and the renown of english arms at an end. the troops were not disbanded for more than a year afterward, but many of the soldiers and officers were furloughed, and it was announced that washington would be in philadelphia shortly, so every preparation was made to receive the great commander. primrose had a tardy note from her brother that brought tears to her eyes and much contrition of spirit. his wound had been troublesome, but never very serious. then a fever had set in. for weeks he could not decide what to do. being a paroled prisoner, he had no right to take up arms. he was beginning to be very much discouraged as to the outcome of the war. whether to go back to england or not was the question he studied without arriving at any decision. there had been a second heir born to his great-uncle, so there was little likelihood of his succeeding to the estate. whether they were of the true nevitt blood, considering the low ebb of morals and the many temptations of court life for a gay young wife, he sometimes doubted, but he had to accept the fact. his uncle had given him a handsome income at first, but he could see now that it was paid at longer intervals and with much pleading of hard times. indeed, from these very complaints of exorbitant taxes, he gleaned that the war was becoming more unpopular at home. and now had come this crushing defeat. what should he do? a return to england did not look inviting. the dearest tie on earth was in philadelphia. and that was his home, his father's home. sometimes he half desired to go there and begin a new life. "i long for you greatly, little primrose," he wrote. "i seem like a boat with no rudder, that is adrift on an ocean. do you think good madam wetherill, who has been so much to you, would let you ask a guest for a few days? a henry who has dared to lift his hand against the country of his birth, and regrets it now in his better understanding of events? for, if england had listened to her wisest counselors, the war had never been. i am ill and discouraged, and have a weak longing for a little love from my dear rebel sister, a rebel no longer, but a victor. will she be generous? and then i will decide upon what i must do, for i cannot waste any more of life." "oh, dear aunt, read it, for i could not without crying. dear phil! what shall i do?" and she raised her tear-wet face. "why, ask him here, of course," smilingly. "i am not an ogre, and, being victors, we can afford to be generous. it will be a new amusement for thee, and keep thee from getting dull!" "dull?" then she threw her arms about the elder's neck and kissed her many times. "child, thou wilt make me almost as silly as thyself. in my day a maiden stood with downcast eyes and made her simple courtesy for favors, and thou comest like a whirlwind. sure, there is not a drop of quaker blood in thy veins, thou art so fond of kissing. thou art bessy wardour all over." "see, madam--dost thou like me better this way?" she stood before her in great timidity with clasped hands and eyes down to the ground. and she was so irresistible that madam wetherill caught her in her arms. "i am quite as bad as thou," she declared. "we are a couple of silly children together. if thou should ever marry----" "but i shall not marry. i shall be gay and frisky all my first years; then i shall take to some solid employment, perhaps write a volume of letters or chatty journal and say sharp things about my neighbors, wear a high cap and spectacles, and keep a cat who will scratch every guest. there, is it not a delightful picture?" "go and write thy letters, saucy girl. all the men will fear thy tongue, that is hung so it swings both ways." "like the bells on the old woman's fingers and toes, 'it makes music wherever i go.' is not that a pretty compliment? polly wharton's brother gave it to me. ah, if my brother had been like that!" "do not say hard or naughty things to him, moppet. what is past is past." primrose henry's brother was greatly moved by some traces of tears he found in the epistle, and he was so hungering for the comforts of a little affection that he started at once. she was much troubled now about her cousin's return. for friend henry had fallen into a strange way and the doctor said he would never be any better. the fall had numbed his spine and gradually affected his limbs. he gave up going out, and could hardly hobble about the two rooms. some days he lay in bed all the time, and scarcely spoke, sleeping and seeming dazed. lois watched over him and waited on him with the utmost devotion. "is that the voice of the child primrose?" he asked sharply one morning as she was cheerfully bidding chloe and rachel good-day. "yes. wouldst thou like to see her?" he nodded. but when primrose came in he stared and shook his head. "that is bessy wardour. i want the child primrose," he mumbled slowly. "i am primrose, uncle. mamma hath been dead this long time. but i have grown to a big girl, as children do." he seemed to consider. "and thou dost know andrew. where is my son, and why does he stay so? i want him at home." "he is coming soon; any day, perhaps." "tell him to hasten. there is something--i seem to forget, but mr. chew will know. it must be cast into the fire. it is a tare among the wheat. go quick and tell him. my son andrew! my only and well-beloved son!" then he shut his eyes and drowsed off. "he hath not talked so much in days. oh, will andrew ever come? what is it thou must do?" "he has started by this time. there are to be some officers in philadelphia, and general washington is to come to consult with congress. they have had a sad bereavement in madam washington's only son, who was ill but a short time and leaves a young family. and i will not let andrew lose a moment." "thank you, dear child," clasping her hands. faith was coming up from the barn with a basket of eggs. "oh, dear primrose!" she cried, "i know uncle james is dying. they will not let me see him alone, and there is a great thing on my conscience. oh, if andrew were only here!" "he will be here shortly. oh, faith, not really dying!" in alarm. "yes, yes! grandmother was something that way. to be sure it is little comfort living. but i want to tell thee--rachel has softened strangely, and sometimes has a frightened, far-away look in her eyes and she listens so when her uncle frets. oh, if i were but twenty-one, and could get away from it all! it is as if i might see a ghost." "he wants to see andrew. something is to be cast into the fire. i wish i knew." "it was so quiet and no one was afraid when grandmother died. but this is awesome. oh, primrose, i hate to have thee go." "faith! faith!" called the elder sister. primrose went her way in a strange state of mind. was there anything she could do? she would ask aunt wetherill. "something is on his mind, surely. but whether one ought to take the responsibility to see mr. chew, i cannot decide." how long the hours appeared! twice the next day she sent fleet-footed joe down to see if any soldiers had come in. and madam wetherill called at the attorney general's office to find that he was in deep consultation with the congress. just at the edge of the next evening there was a voice at the great hall door that sent a thrill to her very soul. she sped out. "oh, primrose--dear child----" but she did not fly to his arms. some deep inward consciousness restrained her and the words of rachel, that just now rang in her ears. how tall and sweet and strange withal she was. he stood for a moment electrified. she was a child no longer. then she found her tongue, though there was a distraught expression in her face as if she could cry. "oh, andrew, it is a great relief to greet thee, but there is not a moment to lose. thy poor father is dying and longs to see thee. and there is sorrel jack in the stable, fresh and fleet as the wind. madam wetherill has gone out to a tea-drinking, but she said thou wert to take him at once, and we were so afraid thou would not come in time. joe"--to the black hall boy--"see that jack is made ready. meanwhile, wilt thou have a glass of wine, or ale, or even a cup of tea?" "nothing, dear child. when did thou see them last?" his voice sounded hollow to himself. "three days ago." "and my mother?" "she is well. she grows sweeter and more angel-like every day." then they stood and looked at each other. how fine and brave he was, and he held his head with such spirit. "oh," she could not resist this, "was it not glorious there at yorktown?" "it was worth half a man's life! it gave us a country. and there hath a friend of thine come up with me, a brave young fellow--one gilbert vane." "oh!" was all she answered. then the horse came, giving a joyful whinny as he felt the fresh air, and andrew henry went out into the night as if a beautiful vision were guiding him. was it primrose in all that strange, sweet glory? he had ridden fast and far many a time. up by the river here, under this stretch of woods, then a great level of meadows, here and there a tiny light gleaming in a house, hills, a valley, then more woods, and he drew a long breath. someone came to meet him. he took his mother in his arms and kissed her, but neither spoke, for the rapture was beyond words. there was a candle burning on each end of the high mantelshelf. there was friend browne, bent and white-haired, who looked sourly at the soldier trappings and gave him a nerveless hand. there was friend preston. on the cot lay the tall, wasted frame of james henry, as if already prepared for sepulture, so straight and still and composed. his mother took her seat at the foot of the bed. andrew knelt down and prayed. it was in the gray of the dawning when james henry stirred and opened his eyes wide. they seemed at first fixed on vacancy, then they moved slowly around. "andrew, my son, my only son," and he stretched out his hands. "tell primrose--tell her to burn the ungodly thing. i am glad thou hast come. now i shall get strong and well. i was waiting for thee." andrew henry held his father's hand. it was very cool, and the pulse was gone. that was the end of life, of what might have been love. rachel met her cousin in the morning with a strange gleam of fear in her eyes. he was very gentle. after breakfast he had to go into town and report, and get leave of absence, and inform some of the friends, madam wetherill among the rest. he had seen much of men and the world in the last few years, and learned many things, among others that a life of repression was not religion. and he knew now it was the love of god, and not the estimate of one's fellowmen, that did the great work of the world and smoothed the way of the dying. from henceforth he should live a true man's life. but his mother would be his first care always. some days afterward mr. chew sent for him and gave him the will. "i did not make it," he explained. "i refused to write out one that i considered unjust, and later on he brought this to me for safe keeping. i sincerely hope it is not the same. take it home and read it, and then come to me." it was made shortly after andrew had joined the army, and the reasons were given straightforwardly why he left his son andrew henry the sum of only one hundred dollars. in consideration of the sonlike conduct and attention to the farm, and respect shown to himself, and lois, his wife, the two great barns and one hundred acres of land, meadow and orchard, west of the barns, to penn morgan, the son of his wife's sister. to rachel morgan, for similar care and respect, the dwelling house and one barn and one hundred acres, and this to be chargable with lois henry's home and support. another hundred and twenty acres to faith morgan, and the stock equally divided among the three. the moneys out at interest to be his wife's share. lois henry went to her son. "i am sorry," she said. "he repented of something, and i think he meant to have the will destroyed. he was very stern after thou didst leave, and sometimes hard to penn, who had much patience. i think his mind was not quite right, and occasionally it drowsed away strangely." "he was glad to see me. that was like a blessing. and we came to look at matters in such different lights. he was home here with the few people who could not see or know the events going on in the great world. i do not think mr. william penn ever expected that we should narrow our lives so much and take no interest in things outside of our own affairs. and when one has been with general washington and seen his broad, clear mind, and such men as general knox, and greene and lee and marion, and our own robert morris, the world grows a larger and grander place. i shall be content with that last manifestation, and i have thee and thy love. sometime later on we will have a home together," and the soldier son kissed his mother tenderly. penn stopped him as he was walking by the barns and looking at the crops. "andrew," he began huskily, "of a truth i knew nothing about the will. i had no plan of stepping into thy place. i had meant, when i came of age, to take my little money and buy a plot of ground. but thy father made me welcome, and when thou wert gone stood sorely in need of me." "yes, yes, thou hadst been faithful to him and it was only just to be rewarded. i have no hard feelings toward thee, penn, and i acquit thee of any unjust motive." penn morgan winced a little and let his eyes drop down on the path, for an expression in the clear, frank ones bent upon him stung him a little. how much had the suggestion he had given had to do with his cousin's almost capture and enlistment? he knew his uncle would grudge the service done to the rebels, and he considered it his duty to stop it. he fancied he took this way so as not to make hard feelings between andrew and his father. he did not exactly wish it undone, but there was a sense of discomfort about it. "there were many hard times for me thou knowest nothing about," said penn, with an accent of justification. "he grew very unreasonable and sharp--aunt lois thinks his mind was impaired longer than we knew. i worked like a slave and held my peace. it is owing to me that the farm is in so good a condition to-day, while many about us have been suffered to go to waste. i have set out new fruit. i have cared for everything as if it had been mine, not knowing whether i should get any reward in the end. and though rachel hath grown rather dispirited at times and crossed my wishes, she had much to bear also. i should have some amends besides mere farm wages." "i find no fault. it must please thee to know thou didst fill a son's place to him. and a life like this is satisfactory to thee." the tone was calm. "i could not endure soldiering and vain and worldly trappings," casting his eye over his cousin's attire. "and i care not for the world's foolish praise. a short time ago it was howe and the king, now it is washington, and heaven only knows what is to come. i have this two years been spoken to clarissa lane and shall take my own little money and build a house for her, and live plainly in god's sight." "i wish thee much happiness. and never think i shall grudge thee anything." "and i suppose thou wilt become a great military man! thou wert hardly meant for a quaker." "i shall serve my country while she needs me," was the grave reply. as for rachel, she had no mind to give up all for lost. even now she could depend upon primrose to keep her promise. she had the old house that was dear to andrew, and she had his mother in her care. when the war was really ended and the soldiers disbanded, he must settle somewhere, and so she took new courage. if she did not marry him there were others who would consider her a prize. but she knew she should never love any man as she could love andrew henry. there were times when she hated herself for it. and now that he had come, gracious, tender, and with that air of strength and authority that always wins a woman, fine-looking withal, and clinging to some quaker ways and speech, her heart went out to him again in a burst of fondness. chapter xx. when the world went well. about the country farms, with their narrow ways, opinion was divided. andrew had shocked the friends by wearing his uniform to his father's burial, but he felt he was the son of his country, as well, and had her dignity to uphold. penn morgan was very much respected and certainly had done his duty to his dead uncle. but at arch street indignation ran high, and the whartons were also very outspoken. primrose was lovelier than ever in her vehemence, and polly declared it was the greatest shame she had ever known. even mr. chew said it was an unjust will, and he thought something might be done in the end with primrose henry's testimony. "but for my sake thou wilt not give it. family quarrels are sore and disgraceful things, and it is true penn was a good son to him. my mother is well provided for, and i shall find something to do when peace is declared, for it is said when lord north heard of the surrender, he beat his breast and paced the floor, crying out: 'oh, god, it is all over, it is all over, and we have lost the colonies!' so that means the end of the war." "and will you not stay a soldier? you are so brave and handsome, andrew." she meant it from her full heart, and the admiration shone in her eyes. but she was thinking that rachel would never marry a soldier. "nay, little one," smiling with manly tenderness. "i have no love for soldiering without a cause. when all is gained you will see even our great commander come back to private life. i think to-day he would rather be at mount vernon with his wife and the little custis children than all the show and trappings of high military honors. and there should never be any love or lust of conquest except for the larger liberty." madam wetherill comforted him with great kindliness. "i think thou wilt lose nothing in the end," she said gravely. for though she was somewhat set against cousins marrying, and andrew seemed too grave a man for butterfly primrose, she remembered bessy wardour had been very happy. allin wharton could walk out with a cane, and found his way often down to arch street. he was sitting there one morning, making primrose sing no end of dainty songs for him, when a chaise drove up to the door. "now there is a caller and i will sing no more for you," she exclaimed with laughing grace. "some day these things will be worn threadbare with words falling out and leaving holes." "and you can sing la, la, as you do sometimes when you pretend to forget, and so patch it up." "then my voice will get hoarse like a crow. ah, someone asks for miss henry. how queer! i hardly know my own name." she ran out heedlessly. allin was no longer pale, and gaining flesh, but this man was ghostly, and for a moment she stared. "oh, phil! phil!" she cried, and went to his arms with a great throb of sisterly love. "oh, primrose! surely you have grown beautiful by the hour. and such a tall girl--why, a very woman!" "but how have you come? we have been waiting and waiting for word. oh, sit down, for you look as if you would faint." he took the big splint armchair in the hall, and she stood by him caressing his hand, while tears glittered on her lashes. "i reached the town yesterday. i had not the courage to come, and was very tired with my journey, so i went to mrs. grayson's, on second street. i knew her during howe's winter; some of our officers were there." "'our.' oh, phil! now that all is over i want to hear you say 'my country.' for it is your birthplace. there must be no mine or thine." "i am a poor wretch without a country, primrose," he said falteringly. "nay, nay! you must have a share in your father's country. i shall not let you go back to england." "i have thought the best place to go would be one's grave. everything has failed. friends are dead or strayed away. the cause is lost. for i know now no armies can make a stand against such men as these patriots. and if i had never gone across the sea, i suppose i should be one of them. but it is ill coming in at the eleventh hour, when you have lost all and must beg charity." "but we have abundant charity and love." "you are on the winning side." her beautiful, tender eyes smiled on him, and the tremulous lips tried not to follow, but she was proud of it, her country's side. "oh, forgive me!" she cried in a burst of pity. "nay, primrose, i am not so much of a coward but that i can stand being beaten and endure the stigma of a lost cause--an unjust cause, we shall have to admit sooner or later. but i seem to have been shilly-shallying, a sort of gold-lace soldier, and the only time i was ever roused--oh, primrose! believe that i did not know who i should attack until it was too late." "and, phil, you will take it all back now. come hither in the parlor. there is one soldier who will shake hands heartily without malice, and my cousin andrew is often dropping in--_your_ cousin," in a sweet, unsteady voice, that was half a laugh and half a cry. "and we shall all be friends. allin!" he thought the name had never sounded so sweet and he would have gone up to the cannon's mouth if she had summoned him that way. she had caught it from polly saying it so much. but he hesitated a little, too. besides the morning of the skirmish there had been the other encounter of hard words. she took a hand of each and clasped them together, though she felt the resistance to the very finger ends. she smiled at one and at the other, and the sweetness of the rosy lips and dimpled chin was enough to conquer the most bitter enemies. "now you are to be friends, honest and true. this is what women will have to do: gather up the ends and tie them together, and make cunning chains that you cannot escape. oh, there comes madam wetherill. see, dear aunt, i have reconciled tory and rebel!" and she laughed bewitchingly. allin said he must go, but he did wish philemon nevitt had not come quite so soon. how queer it was to meet thus, but then, could any man resist primrose henry? afterward they had a long talk. it seemed true now that philemon nevitt stood very much alone in the world, and certainly whatever dreams he had entertained of greatness were at an end. they had not been so very ambitious, to be sure, but he was young yet and could begin a new life. but first of all he was to get sound and in good spirits, and madam wetherill quite insisted that he should spend the winter in philadelphia and really study the country he knew so little about. dinner-time came, and she would have him stay. every moment he thought primrose more bewitching. for when one decided she was all froth and gayety, the serious side would come out and a tenderness that suggested her mother. it was not all frivolity, and he found she was wonderfully well-read for a girl of that day. philemon nevitt was more than surprised when his cousin made his appearance. there was something in the hearty clasp and full, rich voice that went to his lonely heart. once he recalled that he had met the quiet quaker in his farm attire in this very house, and the bareness of his uncle's home, at his call, had rather displeased his fashionable and luxurious tastes. they could not help thinking of the time when they had met in what might have been deadly affray if providence had not overruled. and now andrew henry was many steps up the ladder of success; and he was down to the very bottom. he felt almost envious. "but andrew does not mean to be a soldier for life," primrose declared afterward. "what, not with this splendid prospect? and that martial air seems born with him. why, it would be sinful to throw so much away when it is in his very grasp. i cannot believe it!" "there is good quaker blood in his veins as well," said madam wetherill with a smile. "and the fighting quakers have been the noblest of all soldiers because they went from the highest sense of patriotism, not for any glory. and you will find them going back to the peaceful walks of life with as much zest as ever." "yet you are not a quaker, though you use so much of the speech. and i miss the pretty quaintness in primrose. how dainty it was!" primrose ran away and in five minutes came back in a soft, gray silken gown, narrow and quite short in the skirt, a kerchief of sheer mull muslin crossed on her bosom, and all her hair gathered under a plain cap. madam wetherill was hardly through explaining that she had always been a church of england woman, and one thing she had admired in mr. penn more than all his other wisdom, was his insistence that everyone should be free to worship as he chose. "oh, primrose!" he cried in delight. "what queer gift do you possess of metamorphosis? for one would declare you had never known aught outside of a gray gown. and each change brings out new loveliness. madam wetherill, how do you keep such a sprite in order?" "she lets me do as i like, and i love to do as she likes," was the quick reply, as she laid her pretty hand on the elder woman's shoulder, and smiled into her eyes. "she is a spoiled child," returned madam fondly. "but since i have spoiled her myself, i must e'en put up with it." "but mrs. wharton spoils me too, and thinks the best of the house must be brought out for me. and even aunt lois has grown strangely indulgent." "i believe i should soon get well in this atmosphere. and of course, primrose," with a certain amused meaning, "you will never rest until i am of your way of thinking and have forsworn the king. must i become a quaker as well?" "nay, that is as thou pleasest," she said with a kind of gay sententiousness. all of life was not quite over for him, philemon nevitt decided when he went back to mrs. grayson's house. it had been quite a famous house when the declaration of independence was pending, and held washington, and hancock, and many another rebel worthy. then it had been a great place again in the howe winter. madam wetherill had generously invited him to make her house his home, but he had a delicacy about such a step. early in december hostilities at the south ceased and the british evacuated charleston. preparations were made for a discussion of the preliminaries of peace. john adams, john jay, benjamin franklin, jefferson, and laurens were, after some discussion, named commissioners and empowered to act. general and mrs. washington came up to philadelphia. there was not a little wrangling in the old state house, for it was not possible that everyone should agree. and if the men bickered the women had arguments as well. some were for having an american king and degrees of royalty that would keep out commoners, but these were mostly tory women. there was not a little longing for gayety and gladness after the long and weary strife, the deaths, the wounded soldiers, and all the privations. the elder people might solace themselves with card-playing, but the younger ones wanted a different kind of diversion. the old southwark theater was opened under the attractive title of "academy of polite science." here a grand ovation was given to general washington, "eugenie," a play of beaumarchais, being acted, with a fine patriotic prologue. the young women were furbishing up their neglected french, or studying it anew, and the french minister was paid all the honors of the town. the affection and gratitude shown the french allies were one of the features of the winter. philemon henry was proud enough of his pretty sister, and the still fine-looking grand dame mrs. wetherill. then there was piquant polly wharton with her smiles and ready tongue, and even andrew henry was recreant enough to grace the occasion, which seemed to restore an atmosphere of amity and friendly alliance. there was more than one who recalled the gay young andrã© and his personations during the liveliest winter philadelphia had ever known. dancing classes were started again, and the assemblies reopened. many of the belles of that older period were married; not a few of them, like miss becky franks, had married english officers, and were now departing for england since there was no more glory to be gained at war, and these heroes were somewhat at a discount. there were many young patriots and not a few southerners who had come up with the army, for philadelphia, though she had been buffeted and traduced, had proved the focus of the country, since congress had been held here most of the time; here the mighty declaration had been born and read, when the substance was treason, and here the flag had been made; here indeed the first glad announcement of the great victory had been shouted out in the silent night. so the old town roused herself to a new brightness. grave as general washington could be when seriousness was requisite, he had the pleasant virginian side to his nature, and was not averse to entertainments. gilbert vane had returned with the soldiers, and ere long he knew his friend was in the city; for major henry said the brother of primrose was almost a daily visitor at madam wetherill's. "and still a stout tory, i suppose, regarding me as a renegade?" vane ventured with a half smile. "he has changed a great deal. primrose, i think, lops off a bit of self-conceit and belief in the divine right of kings, at every interview. and he is her shadow." "then i should have no chance of seeing her," the young man said disappointedly. "nay. i think cousin phil nobler than to hold a grudge when so many grudges have been swept away. i find him companionable in many respects. he was in quite ill-health when he first came, but improves daily." "he was like an elder brother to me always, and it was a sore pang to offend him. but i came to see matters in a new light. and i wonder how it was his sweet little sister did not convert him? she was always so courageous and charming, a most fascinating little rebel in her childhood. i should have adored such a sister. indeed, if i had possessed one at home i should never have crossed the ocean." andrew repeated part of this conversation to primrose. he had been impressed with the young man's patriotism. "oh, you know, in a certain way, he was _my_ soldier," she said with her sunniest smile. "and now i must see him. how will we plan it? for phil is a little proud and a good deal obstinate. polly would know how to bring it about, she has such a keen wit. and allin would like him, i know. polly shall give you an invitation for him at her next dance. and you must come, even if you do not dance." andrew gave an odd, half-assenting look. it was as rachel had said long ago; in most things she wound him around her finger. but at the first opportunity she put the subject cunningly to philemon. "what became of that old friend of yours, who changed your colors for mine, and went to fight my battles?" she asked gayly, one day, when they had stopped reading a thin old book of poems by one george herbert. "my friend? oh, do you mean young vane? i have often wondered. he went to virginia--i think i told you. it was a great piece of folly, when there was a home for him in england." "but if his heart was with us!" she remarked prettily with her soft winsomeness. "art thou very angry with him?" and her beautiful eyes wore an appealing glance. "primrose, when you want to subdue the enemy utterly, use 'thee' and 'thou.' no man's heart could stand against such witchery. thou wilt be a sad coquette later on." she laughed then at his attempt. there was always a little dimple in her chin, and when she laughed one deepened in her cheek. "surely i am spoiled with flattery. i should be vainer than a peacock. but that is not answering my question. i wonder how much thou hast of the henry malice." "was i angry? why, the defection seemed traitorous then. i counted loyalty only on the king's side. but i have learned that a man can change when he is serving a bad side and still be honest. he was a fine fellow, but i think he was tired of idleness and frivolity, and he fell in with some women who were of your way of believing, and their glowing talk fascinated him. one of them i know had a brother in the southern army." "then it was not _i_ who converted him." she gave a pretty pout, in mock disappointment. "i think you started it. though new york had many rebels." "and perhaps he will come back and marry one of them." "he may be at that now. nay," seriously, "more likely he is in some unknown grave. and he was very dear to me," with a manly sigh. "then you could forgive him?" softly. "in his grave, yes. alive, the question would be whether, being the victor, he would not crow over me. oh, little primrose, war is a very bitter thing after all. to think i came near to killing cousin andrew, and yet he holds no malice. what a big heart he has! i do not believe in henry malice." "and _you_ will hold no malice?" "it is hardly likely i shall see him." she turned around and pretended to be busy with the curtain so that he might not see the glad light shining in her eyes. but he was thinking of the old days when they were lads together and talked of what they would do when they were lords of vane priory and nevitt grange. and when they met they simply looked into each other's eyes and clasped hands; the new disquiet being forgotten and the old affection leaping to its place. just a moment. they were forming a little dance, and lieutenant vane was to lead with miss polly wharton, while primrose had allin for a partner. "you little mischief," and phil gave primrose a soft pinch afterward, "how did you dare? what if we had both been foes to the teeth?" "ah, i knew better. andrew said he was longing to be friends, but would not dare make the first advances. and if you had refused to speak with him at this house you would not be gentlemanly." "i should like to kiss you before everybody." "it is not good manners." "you will have a rival." "i shall not like that. whatever you do, no one shall be loved better than i." "not even a wife, if i should get one? oh, you jealous little primrose!" "let me see--if i should choose her----" and she glanced up archly. "then you would have me here forever. she would be a maiden of this quaint old town." "then i shall choose her," triumphantly. "primrose, come and sing," said half a dozen voices. and though gilbert vane listened entranced to the singing, he also had an ear for his friend. it was so good to be at peace with him, and they promised to meet the next day. madam wetherill was glad to see the young lieutenant again. her house seemed to be headquarters, as before, and nothing interested her more than to hear the story of the southern campaign from such an enthusiastic talker as vane, for andrew was rather reticent about his own share in these grand doings. it was not a cold winter, and the spring opened early. philadelphia seemed to rise from her depression and there were signs of business once more, although the finances of the nation were in a most troubled state. shops were opening, stores put on their best and bravest attire, and suddenly there was a tremor in the very air, a flutter and song of birds, and a hazy, grayish-blue look about the trees that were swelling with buds, soon to turn into crimson maple blooms, and tender birch tassels and all beautiful greenery, such as moves the very soul, and informs it with new life. in march the cessation of hostilities was agreed upon, and plans looking toward peace. "now, little rebel!" exclaimed philemon henry, "you must lay down your arms. surely you should meet us half-way?" "what arms?" archly, smiling out of mischievous eyes. "a sharp and saucy tongue. sometimes you are hardly just to vane, and in your eyes he should be a patriot." "he is. but surely i do not talk half as bad as mrs. ferguson and miss jeffries. one would think, listening to them, that the americans had no sense, and could not govern the country they fought for. why do not people like these go back to england?" "shall i go?" in a voice of sad indecision. "if you talked like that i should bid you a joyous send off! what a pity miss jeffries had not married one of howe's officers; then she would have to go when they are all sent out of the country. and poor old mr. jeffries hath quite lost his head. aunt hates to play with him any more, for he loses incessantly." "but do not the soldiers need something out of the fund?" they both laughed at that. "no doubt we could still find some with well-worn shoes. but the need not being urgent, she hates to impoverish the old man who hath lost so much. for it seems he made some heavy bets upon lord cornwallis reducing the southern colonies and entering philadelphia in triumph. and even now he is sure the king will never consent to the separation." "which shows how much the king loved the colonies." "a queer love, that would deprive them of any kind of freedom. no, my kind of love is broad and generous, and not thinking how much profit one can squeeze out," and her lovely eyes were deep with intense feeling. "when wilt thou give me a little of this measure?" "oh, phil, am i very naughty and cross?" and her sweet voice would have disarmed anyone. "but i think sometimes you are only half converted. you talk of returning to england, and it grieves me." "but if i stay here i must find some business. i am not very lucky at cards. i have resigned my position, and now that poor old sir wyndham is dead and the income shrunk sadly, i can count on no more from that quarter. there is only the interest on what my dear father invested for me, and that may pay but poorly. they will hardly want to make a rebel officer of me, since if peace comes they will disband many of the regiments. to beg i am ashamed. i hardly know how to work. if i went home and re-enlisted--england always hath some wars on hand." "they are a naughty, quarrelsome nation, and then they wonder how we come to have so much spunk and bravery! no, thou shalt not go back. business here will stir up. then men talk to madam wetherill about it. and i think thou hast wit enough to learn. thou shalt get settled here, and--and marry some pretty rebel wife----" "and quarrel with her?" mirthfully. "nay, she shall be better tempered than i. everybody hath spoiled me, and i am a shrew. no man will ever want to marry me, and i am glad of that." chapter xxi. an april girl. "on thursday next i shall have a birthday," said primrose henry. "and i shall be seventeen. yet i never can catch up with polly, who is nineteen." "well--some day thou wilt be nineteen. and what shall we do for thee? wilt thou have a party?" "i am tired of parties, and it is growing warm to dance. i believe in a fortnight or so the army is to leave. andrew is going with the commander at first, but, if he is not needed, will come back. he makes such a handsome soldier." "thou art a vain little moppet, always thinking whether people look fine or not." "but andrew is handsome of himself. i wish phil came up to six feet and past. i think the nevitts could not have been overstocked with beauty." "how thou dost flout the poor lad! i wonder that he loves thee at all!" "but i love him," with charming serenity. "and show it queerly." primrose gave her light, rippling laugh. "i think"--after a pause, twirling her sewing around by the thread--"i think we will all take a walk about the dear old town. then we will come home and have tea, and rest ourselves." "but why not ride? i am too old and too stout to be trotting about, and patty is hardly----" "patty will flirt with my fine cousin. oh, i have caught her at it. you would be amazed to know the secrets they have with each other, and the low-toned talk that goes on. i have to be severe, and to be severe on one's birthday would be hard indeed." madam wetherill laughed. "betty mason was complaining of being so mewed up all winter. and now her baby is old enough to leave, and she might come down and see the changes planned for the town, and the other changes since the winter she had her gay fling. what a little girl i was! and she being a widow can watch us, but phil has such sharp eyes that he might be a veritable dragon. he will not let me buy a bit of candied calamus unless the boy is under ten, he is so afraid i shall be looked at. and there will be polly's brother to watch her. but betty will have two attendants, which is hardly fair, and she thinks gilbert vane quite a hero." "and andrew henry?" "oh, she is soft-hearted about him because he has lost his fortune. and gilbert vane is like to lose his in the general settling up. so she can administer the same kind of consolation to both." "thou hast a shrewd way of allotting matters. poor betty! it will be nice to ask her since you both have brothers to watch over you. and you will not stray very far? then what delicacies will you have for supper?" "oh, we shall be hungry as wolves. i must see what mistress kent can give us. she thinks soldiers have grown hollow by much tramping and cannot be filled up." madam wetherill smiled indulgently. they all promised to come. julius went out on wednesday and brought in betty, who was delighted with the outing. but when primrose opened her eyes at six in the morning there was a gentle patter everywhere, and dashes on the window pane. but, oh! how sweet all the air was, and the clouds were having a carnival in the sky, chasing each other about in the vain endeavor to cover up the bits of laughing blue. "patty," in a most doleful voice, "it rains!" "to be sure, child," cheerfully. "what would you have on an april day? and if it rains before seven 'twill clear before eleven. there will be no dust for your walk." "you are a great comforter, patty. are you sure it will stop by noon?" "oh, la, yes! april days can never keep a whole mind." "that must be the reason i am so changeable." "i dare say. but i was born in november, and i like to change my mind. 'twould be a queer world if people were like candles, all run in one mold." "but there are fat candles and thin candles." "and they are always round. folks have corners. they're queer-like and pleasant by spells, and you can't see everything about them at a glance. we must have candles, but i have a hankering for folks as well." primrose laughed and ran to betty, who was not as philosophical, and was afraid that the day was spoiled. "the wind is west," said madam wetherill. sure enough, by nine it was a radiant day. the two girls chattered, for betty was only three-and-twenty, and the news from virginia had put new heart in her. "you must talk to lieutenant vane as much as you can. you see, he was there so much longer than andrew, and knew more about everything. and he is such a splendid american! but he may have to give up vane priory, which phil says was beautiful. or, rather, it will be confiscated. general howe sent over word when he joined our army. it is hard to be called a traitor and a deserter when you are doing a noble deed. but he doesn't seem very disheartened over it." "it is very brave of him." primrose brought out her pretty frocks and her buckles and some of her mother's trinkets she was allowed to wear, and betty told over various virginian gayeties, and the sun went on shining. so, quite early polly and allin came. allin had decided to study law, for his ambition had been roused by the appointment of really learned men to discuss the points of coming peace. and there would always be legal troubles to settle, property boundaries to define, wills to make, and allin admitted he had seen quite enough of war, though, if the country needed him, he should go again. but gilbert vane was a truly enthusiastic soldier. when andrew came he announced that the company was to be ready to start next week. general washington would have his quarters for some time up the hudson, so as to be ready for a descent on new york if england should start the war afresh on any pretext. certainly the afternoon was beautiful. people were beginning with gardens, and climbing roses were showing green stems. and the tall box alleys were full of new sprouts, betraying a great contrast to the deep green that had withstood the frosts of many winters. there was a ferry over dock creek; indeed, there were but few bridges, but being ferried over was more to their taste. then they walked up society hill, where some fine, substantial houses were being put up. there were the city squares, and, far over, a great ragged waste, with tree stumps everywhere. "that is what you did in howe's winter--cut down all the beautiful woods--governor's woods," primrose said resentfully. "there are traces of you everywhere. it will take years and years for us to forget it or remedy it." "but do you not suppose the soldiers around valley forge cut down the woods as well? you would not have them freeze. and the poor men here wanted a little warmth," said phil. "there was plenty of waste land where you could have gone," in her severest tone. "i thought myself there were many acts of vandalism," commented vane. "but i believe it is the rule of warfare to damage your enemy all you can. think of the magnificent cities the old greeks and romans destroyed utterly." "they were half savages, idolaters, believing in all sorts of gods. and you pretended to be christians!" "you were so sweet a moment ago, primrose," said her brother. "unalloyed sweetness is cloying. you need salt and spice as well. and i always feel afraid i shall forgive you too easily when i look at those poor stumps and pass the jail." "you can remember all one's sins easily," phil retorted rather gloomily. "and one's virtues, too, behind one's back. never fear her loyalty, mr. nevitt." phil had insisted everyone should drop his military cognomen. "you should have heard her solicitude when no word came from you, and was there not some joy in her face when you appeared that could not have put itself into words?" cried allin wharton eagerly, for he always resented the least suspicion of a non-perfection in primrose. "now i will cross thee off my books," blushing and trying to look stern. "allin wharton! to betray a friend in that manner!" "to recount her virtues," and betty mason laughed over to the pretty child. "she has a right to be like an april day." "and i found this pretty conceit in some reading," interposed vane. "we should have tried our pens in your behalf, mistress primrose, but i knew nothing of this birthday except just as we met, so i can only offer second-hand, but then 'tis by a famous fellow: "'may never was the month of love, for may is full of flowers,- but rather april wet by kind, for love is full of showers.'" "am i such a crying girl?" primrose's face was a study in its struggle not to smile. "and here is another." andrew henry half turned: "'when april nods, with lightsome smiles and violets all a-flower; her willful mood may turn to tears full twice within an hour.'" "then i am very fickle--and bad tempered, and--and----" there was deep despair in the voice. "and primrose, an april girl who can have whatever mood she chooses," said wharton. "i wish i had known one was to bring posies of thought and i would have looked up one. how i envy those people who can write acrostics or sudden verses, and all i know seem to have gone from me." primrose made a mocking courtesy. "thank you. we can all go and gather violets. i know a stretch of woods the british left standing, where the grass is full of them. and a bit of stream that runs into the schuylkill. oh, and a clean, well-behaved mead-house where one can get delightful cheesecake. now that we have reached the summit, look about the town. a square, ugly little town, is it not?" "it is not ugly," polly protested resentfully. the rivers on either side, the angle with docks jutting out, and creeping up along the delaware, windmill island and the forts; the two long, straight streets crossing at right angles, and even then rows of red-brick cottages, but finer ones as well, with gardens, some seeming set in a veritable park; and master shippen's pretty herd of deer had been brought back. there were christ church and st. peter's with their steeples, there were more modest ones, and the friends' meeting house that had held many a worthy. "it is well worth seeing," said betty mason. "some of the places about make me think of my own state and the broad, hospitable dwellings." "oh, but you should see stenton and clieveden! and the chew house at germantown is already historical. there is to be a history writ of the town, i believe, and all it has gone through!" exclaimed polly. then they begin to come down in a kind of winding fashion. women are out making gardens and tying up vines, some of them in the quaint, short gown and petticoat, relegated mostly to servants. then friends, in cap and kerchief; children in the fashion of their parents, with an odd made-over appearance. "it will be a grand city if it stretches out according to mr. penn's ideas. and oh, betty! you must see the old house in letitia street, with its dormer windows and odd little front door with its overhanging roof. and the house on second street that is more pretentious, with its slated roof. if the talk is true about peace there are great plans for the advancement of the town. they are going to cut down some of the hills and drain the meadows that the british flooded," and primrose glanced sidewise at her brother's face with a half-teasing delight. "so, if the dreams of the big men who govern the city come true, there will presently be no old philadelphia. i hear them talking of it with aunt wetherill." they wander on, now and then changing places and partners, having a little merry badinage. polly keeps coming to the rescue where philemon nevitt is concerned. there are other gay parties out rambling; some with hands full of wild flowers, laughing and chatting, occasionally bestowing a nod on the whartons and primrose, and staring perhaps unduly at the tall fine soldier with his martial air and uniform, hardly suspecting the quaker heart underneath. "now that we have come so near i bethink me of an errand for mistress janice kent," exclaimed primrose. "and you will like to see the row of small, cheerful houses where some poor women come, some poor married folks when life has gone hard with them. see here is walnut street. let us turn in. it is an old, old place that somebody left some money to build." "old john martin," said andrew. "yes, i have been here. it is a snug, pretty place, not an alms-house." "my old lady is not in this long, plain house, but around in fourth street, in her own little cottage. see how quaint they are?" a narrow passage like a green lane ran through the center. small, one-storied cottages, with a doorway and a white-curtained window; a steep roof with a window in the end to light the garret. there was a garden with each. there were fruit trees ready to burst into bloom, so sheltered were they. there were grape arbors, where old men were smoking and old ladies knitting. one old lady had half a dozen little children in her room, teaching a school. one was preparing dried herbs in small cardboard boxes. there were sweet flavors as of someone distilling; there was a scent of molasses candy being made, or a cake baked, even new, warm biscuit. everybody seemed happy and well employed. "it is something like the church charities at home," said vane, "only much more tidy and beautiful." "it is where i shall come some day," announced primrose with a plaintive accent, as if she were at the end of life. "you!" polly glanced at her with surprised eyes, hardly knowing whether to laugh or not. "as if you would ever have need!" declared betty mason. "but they are not very poor, you see. they have to be worthy people and nice people, who have been unfortunate. and when i am old i shall beg one of the little houses to live in. i think i shall make sweet flavors and raise herbs." she looked so utterly grave and in earnest that both wharton and lieutenant vane stared as if transfixed. "what nonsense!" exclaimed her brother. "as if there would not always be someone----" "but i shall live to be very old, i know. aunt wetherill tells of one of the wardour women who lived to be a hundred and two years old, ever so long ago, in england. and it is hardly probable, phil, that you can live to be one hundred and ten or more, and, if you did, you would most likely be helpless," in an extremely assured tone. "well, you would not be poor," he subjoined quickly, indignantly. "how do you know? some of the people here have been in comfortable circumstances. and, two days ago, when mr. northfield was over he was talking about some of papa's property that had nearly gone to ruin--been destroyed, i think, and would take a good deal to repair it. and--eighty or ninety years is a long time to live. there may be another war--people are so quarrelsome--and everything will go then! betty's house was burned, and her father's fine plantation laid waste. and betty is not very much older than i, and all these misfortunes have happened to her." the whole four men are resolved in their secret hearts that no sorrow or want will ever come to her, even if she should outlive them all. they reached mrs. preston's cottage and primrose delivered her message. then they lingered about, and betty concluded it would be no great hardship to come here when one was done with other pleasures and things, and had little to live upon. "it is a delightful spot," said vane, "and i never dreamed of it before. that it should have been here all through that winter----" "but you were dancing and acting plays!" "don't call up any more of my bad, mistaken deeds! have i not convinced you that i repented of them, and am doing my best to make amends?" the fire in vane's eyes awed primrose, conquered her curiously, and a treacherous softening of the lines about her sweet mouth almost made a smile. "and now what next?" commented polly. "do you know how we are loitering? has the place charmed us? i never thought it so fascinating before." it was to charm many a one, later on, like a little oasis in the great walls of brick that were to grow about it, of traffic and noise and disputations that were never to enter here, and to have a romance, whether rightly or wrongly, that was to call many a one thither at the thought of evangeline. and so a poet puts an imperishable sign on a place, or a historian a golden seal. "we were to go somewhere else. and see where the sun is dropping to. it always slides so fast on that round part of the sky." "yes, the most beautiful little place, and to get our violets. betty, when they are all gone we will have long days hunting up queer corners and things. and somewhere--out at dunk's ferry--there is a strange sort of body who tells fortunes occasionally--when she is in _just_ the humor. and that makes it the more exciting, because you can never quite know. we will take patty; we can find all the strange corners." "why couldn't we all go? to have one's fortune told--not that i believe in it," and vane laughed. "then you have no business to have it told. and miss jeffries runs over the cards and tells ever so many things, and they _are_ really true. you will meet her again some evening." gilbert vane blushed. the fortune he wanted to hear was not one with which he would like a whole roomful entertained. "it is this way." primrose walked on ahead with andrew henry. "there is a suspicious-looking cloud, bigger than a man's hand." "oh, then let us hurry! nonsense, phil, why do you alarm a body? see how the sun shines. it is going past. now--down at the end of this lane----" just then some great drops fell. primrose ran like a sprite and turned a triumphant face to the others when she was under shelter. it was indeed a fairy nook with a strip of woods back of it. a little thread of a stream ran by on one side. in summer, when the trees were in full leaf, it would be a bower of greenery. a low, story-and-a-half house, with a porch running all across the front, roofed over with weather-worn shingles. the hall doors, back and front, stand wide open, and there is a long vista reaching down to the clump of woods made up of a much-patched-up trellis with several kinds of vines growing over it to furnish a delightful shade in summer. some benches in the shining glory of new green paint stand along the edge. there was a small table with three people about it, and the stout, easy-going hostess, who pronounced them "lucky," as there comes a three-minutes' fierce downpour of rain while the sun is still shining, then stops, and everything is beaded with iridescent gems. the very sky seems laughing, and the round sun fairly winks with an amused joviality. in the small front yard the grass is green and thickly sown with tulips that have two sheath-like leaves of bluish-green enfolding the bud. "it will be a sight presently," exclaimed polly, "but so will most of the gardens. why, we might be hollanders, such a hold has this tulip mania taken of us!" by craning their necks a little they can look out on the delaware and see the ambitious little creek rushing into it. the glint of the sun upon the changing water is magnificent. "what a beautiful spot! why, polly, have we ever been here before?" asked allin. "no, i think not. there are some places very like it on the schuylkill. but i do not remember this." then the hostess comes to inquire what she can serve them with. there is fresh birch beer, there is a sassafras metheglin made with honey, there is mead, and she looks doubtfully at the two soldiers as if her simple list might not come up to their desires. "and cheesecake?" ventured primrose. "oh, yes! and wafers and gingerbread, and real dutch doughnuts." primrose glanced around, elated. her birthday treat was to be a success. so they sat and refreshed themselves and jested, with primrose in her sunniest mood, while the sun dropped lower and lower and burnished the river. "i wonder if there are many violets in the woods." "oh, yes, indeed!" answered the woman. "it's rather early for many people to come and i am out of the way until they begin to sail up and down the river; that's when it is warmer, though to-day has been fine enough." "suppose we go and gather the violets," suggested philemon. "of course we expect you to go, don't we, polly? but then we are going also." "won't it be wet?" "not with that little sprinkle!" cried primrose disdainfully. there were dozens of pretty spring things in the woods, but violets were enough. large bluish-purple ones, down to almost every gradation. then betty thought of an old-time verse and lieutenant vane of another. "but it should be primroses," he said. "if we were at home in english haunts we should find them. i don't know why i say at home, for i doubt if it is ever my home again." "i am a more hopeful exile than you," commented betty mason. "my country will be restored to me, and i shall never forget that you helped." what large, soft, dark eyes she had, and a voice with a peculiar lingering cadence; but it did not go to one's heart like that of primrose. the sun was speeding downward. it was a long walk home. andrew henry headed the procession with his cousin, and vane followed with betty, so it was polly who had the two attendants, and allin was rather out of humor. janice kent had a birthday supper for them, but with the treat at larch alley, and, perhaps, some fatigue, they were not ravenous. primrose sang for them and was bewilderingly sweet--andrew thought, just as the day had been, full of caprices but ending in tender beauty. and then they drank her health and wished her many happy returns, bidding her a very fervent good-night. there had been a good deal of enthusiasm about general washington, and many very warm friends had sympathized deeply with mrs. washington in her sorrow. plans of a new campaign had also been discussed. the city was sorry to relinquish its noble guests. society had taken on an aspect of dignified courtesy; contending parties had ceased to rail at each other, and there was a greater air of punctilious refinement, that was to settle into a grace less formal than that of the old-time quaker breeding, but more elegant and harmonious. a new ambition woke in the heart of the citizens to beautify, adorn, and improve. there was a stir in educational circles, and the library that had languished so long was making its voice heard. peace was about to have her victory. andrew henry was closeted a long while one morning with madam wetherill. "i shall go to newburgh with the general," he said, "but if there is to be no more war i shall resign my commission. that sounds almost like a martial declaration in favor of war, but it is not so. i was not meant for a soldier except in necessity. there are those whom the life really inspires, and who would be only too glad to fill my place. i could not step out with such a clear conscience if i were a private. and since you have been good enough, madam, to ask me about plans, i must confess that i have not gone very far in any. there are, no doubt, farms around that i could hire and make profitable, but my mother no longer has the strength and energy to be at the head of such a place. i have thought something might open here in the city that would enable me to make a home for her and myself; that is my ambition now. i do not feel that i ought to leave her to the care of my cousin rachel while she has a son of her own. true, her home is left to her there, but she is not compelled to stay in it." "and rachel may marry." "i think she will. she is a smart and capable woman, but it is hard doing all things and managing alone; though now she and penn have made up over a little coldness. he will till faith's land for the present. the greatest profit, the cherries, and one good orchard belongs to rachel, so she is well to do. however, i want my dear mother with me, and by mid-summer i may return." "i have been thinking somewhat about thee. there will be great changes in the town. trade already is stirring up, and commerce will begin again when the restrictions are removed. but it is in the very heart of things where we may look for the greatest changes. there have been many years of doubt and hesitation, but now there is a great expanding of enterprise. james logan and mr. chew were discussing it not many mornings since. the city must almost be made over, as one may say. i own a great deal of waste property, and plantations in maryland. there is also considerable belonging to primrose." "but there is her brother, madam. the more i see of philemon henry the better i like him. he hath had a hard year, a year of great disappointment and mortification, and he comes out of it with more bravery than i supposed possible for one whose opinions have been so strongly the other way. why not give him a helping hand?" "you are very honorable, friend henry, and i respect you for it. then," laughingly, "do you think you two could ever come to an agreement and be friendly as brothers if your interests were identical?" "i could answer for myself," he said with respectful gravity. "for many years the old house of henry & co. had an excellent standing. mr. northfield was much the elder and it seemed as if he might go years the first, but he did not. now he wishes to be relieved of all the affairs of our dear primrose. and i have thought, with some assistance and a good deal of energy on the part of two young people if they should agree, there might be a new house of henry & co., with its reputation half made to begin with. i know philemon will agree. he hath already proposed to take a position under mr. morris, and seems only anxious now to earn a living in some respectable way. but i wanted to consult thee first." "i thank thee a thousand times, dear madam. am i losing quaker simplicity?" and he smiled gravely. "i am afraid i have acquired a good many worldly ways." "a little worldliness will not hurt thee. in sooth my plan would call for a large share of it, but i want the old-fashioned trustiness and integrity. when times change men and women, too, must change with them. i should like to see thee a solid and respected citizen of the town--of the new town that is to be." "thou dost honor me greatly. and i must confess to thee, since seeing larger men and larger issues, a higher ambition has stirred within me. if it had so fallen out that i had gone back to the farm, i could not have been content with the old plodding round. and when it was taken from me it seemed in some degree the work of providence that i should have been pushed out of the old nest and made to think on new lines." "then wilt thou carry my idea with thee and consider it well? there need be no haste. thy return will do." much moved, he pressed her hand warmly. then he carried it to his lips with the grace of a courtier. chapter xxii. polly and phil. the city seemed quite dull when the commander-in-chief and his staff had departed for newburgh. the feeling of peace grew stronger every day. the country mansions along the schuylkill began to take on new life, and the town to bestir itself. true, finances were in the worst possible shape from the over issue of paper money, and in many instances people went back to simple barter. the randolphs were very much at home on the farm. betty's two babies were cunning little midgets, the elder a boy, the younger a girl. primrose fell very much in love with them. here was something she need not be afraid of loving with all her might. "only i wish i had not been seventeen," she cried pettishly. "i can't see how polly gets along with so many admirers. i do not want any. there is something in their eyes when they look at you that sends a shiver over me." "has polly so many?" asked madam, rather amused. "why, yes. just a few evenings ago young mr. norris came in and then mr. ridgway. i thought they quite glowered at each other. and what one said the other sniffed about as if it was hardly worth saying. and mr. ridgway thought cards stupid, and phil grew quite cross and said we would come home. it is very pleasant when there is no one there, we four can agree so well." "at card-playing?" in a rather diverted manner. "not always, not often indeed. we sing and talk and say over verses. there are so many in that old ballad book. but lovers seem always to break one's heart and to love the wrong one. i shall never have a lover. i shall never marry," and her sweet voice has a delightful severity. madam wetherill really laughs then. "oh, i am in earnest. you shall see. for when i called on anabella yesterday she flung her arms around my neck and cried out--'oh, primrose, never, never marry! i wish i could undo my marriage. men are so selfish and care so little for one after they get them. and they all say the same thing as lovers. captain decker was going to die if he could not have me, and he marched off, never writing a word afterward. and so said mr. parker, and now he thinks of nothing but his dinner and his pipe afterward, and his nap, and having his clothes all laid out in the morning and brushed, and does not want to go out anywhere, nor have company at home. and the two hateful children brawl all the time, and their father scolds because i cannot keep them in order. 'tis a wretched life and i hate it!' what think you of that, dear madam?" "it was not a wise marriage, but i am sorry anabella is so unhappy. there is plenty of time yet for thee to have lovers, so do not trouble thy golden head." "phil has grown so good to take me out everywhere. and we are all going up to the farm some day to get betty, and then on up the schuylkill. there are so many beautiful places, and now that may has brought everything out in bloom, all the roads and by-ways are like pictures. and betty wants to see valley forge; so, for that matter, do i. but phil is worrying about some work mr. morris promised him." "yes. there are some other things to see to. mr. northfield wants to instruct him about the estate, for he is very poorly." "it seems a shame for me to have so much and phil nothing," she said tentatively. "perhaps there will not be so very much when things come to be settled. do not be disturbed about phil. a true man would scorn to take from a woman." there were many delightful rides in the country about, many historical places on both sides of the river, queer interests at germantown, where people had gone back to their old employments, and were spinning and weaving and making furniture and carving. there were no lack of reminders of the great battle in some ruins that had never been rebuilt, and men still working cheerfully who had lost an arm or a leg. there was the brave old chew house that had proved indestructible. and there was another old house, quite dilapidated now and in charge of an old couple, who, for any trifle people chose to give, would exhibit a curious arrangement of cogs and wheels and mysterious wires that a great many years before a man, named redhefer, claimed possessed the secret of perpetual motion. it always went day and night, as the neighbors could testify. men of curious or scientific leanings paid to see the wonderful machine. and one day the secret was found out. there was a curious crank in the loft connected by wires in the wall, and a kind of clock arrangement, that kept it going. this part of the loft being roughly boarded up, and the loft itself kept for mere rubbish, no one suspected it. there were school lane, and the schuylkill falls, really beautiful then, and the lovely wissahickon, famous for its abundant supply of fish, and places one could ramble about forever. betty mason was a charming companion. philemon often had them all, for allin was busy with his studies and some plans he nursed in secret, now that andrew henry and vane were both away. penn morgan and clarissa lane stood up in meeting one evening and plighted their marriage vows. rather unwillingly rachel offered them accommodation in her house, but penn had fixed up a room in the barn that would do very well until two rooms in the new house were finished, and clarissa was very happy, and was also very respectful to aunt lois. but the great interest had gone out of the old house, and she did not feel at home any more. however, she rested serenely in andrew's promise that before very long he would have a home to take her to. rachel had hoped and despaired alternately. she had a strong, stubborn will under her plain exterior and quiet manner. and she hated not to succeed in anything she undertook. it seemed to her one of the most natural and most reasonable things in the world that andrew should marry her when his parents strongly desired it. in her estimation it was an absolute sin for him to go against the opinion of the brethren and become a soldier. yet she was willing to forgive it all and help lead him back in the right way. it was but justice that penn should be rewarded for his care and patience. she had not expected so much, but aunt lois, left to her charge, would surely have some influence over him, and now that peace was likely to be declared he would return, and his old home might be dear to him. so she would not give up hope, but she did give up her foolish jealousy of primrose. she had the girl's solemn promise, but what comforted her more than all was the rumor of young wharton being quite devoted to the girl. what a summer it was to primrose! they were out at the farm, but matters were much more quiet. the young women who had been so gay and entertaining were mostly married, and madam wetherill was very much engrossed with business matters. she found philemon henry very clear-headed. and as he came to know more about the colonies, and the causes that led to the rebellion, he found there was more injustice on the side of england, but that even there they had not all been of one mind. so he was being gradually americanized, though he and primrose still had disputes. but polly had such a fascinating fashion of sometimes turning an argument against primrose, or picking a weak place in hers until one could not help seeing it. and then primrose would fly into a pretty ruffle of temper with both of them, and presently suffer herself to be coaxed around. "i suppose i am like april," she said ruefully one morning, when she and polly had had a disagreement. they were staying at the farm, and the day before they had all been up to valley forge, and climbed up the hill and down again. in the early morning both of the young men had gone down to the city. "do you think it really can influence anyone?" she inquires with charming gravity. "then i should suppose a person born in july, under scorching suns, would be fiery-tempered." "do you know of anyone born in july?" "why, yes," laughing in a dainty fashion. "betty for one, and she is sweet and good-humored; and there is cousin andrew." "then the sign does not hold good." "i don't know where i could have gotten all my temper from. mamma was lovely, phil says, and aunt wetherill gives her credit for all the virtues." "i do not think it is real temper. it is love of tormenting--poor phil." "and, polly, you always take his part." "yes." polly's face turned scarlet to the very tips of her ears. even her fingers showed pink against the white ruffle she was hemming. "oh, you don't mean--polly, i never thought of _that_!" in great surprise. "you may think of it now," in a soft, quivering tone. "though it is almost--nothing." primrose threw herself down beside polly and clasped her knees. "and he never so much as suggested it to me. he might have----" in a plaintively aggrieved tone. "don't be angry. it was just a word, this morning. but i think we both knew. and i loved him long ago, when he was a king's man, and you flouted him so and delighted in being untender, when he loved you so." "and you would have--do you mean to marry him? and would you have married a--a----" "no, i shouldn't have married anyone who was fighting against my country. but you really did not do him any justice." now that polly was started she rushed along like a torrent in a storm. "he was brought up to think england right, and he knew nothing about the colonies or the temper and the courage of the people. if you were taken to russia when you were very little, and everybody was charming to you, you might think what they did was right and nice, and we know they are awfully barbarous! and i thought it real fine and manly in him to prefer the hardships of war to the pleasures in new york. and he never raised his hand but once, and wasn't it queer that he and allin and andrew should have been in the mãªlã©e, and now be such good friends? but when he saw that it was andrew, he was quite horrified. and i think it is very manly of him just to renounce the king for good and all, while there are ever so many tories right around us sighing again for his rule, and making all sorts of evil predictions. the broadest and finest man i know is andrew henry." "and why did you not fall in love with him?" asked primrose in great amaze. "because, silly child, my heart went out to the other when you tormented him so and gave him such little credit, and could not see the earnest side to him. i should hate a man that could be lightly won over. i like him to look on both sides." "was i very cruel?" primrose was appalled by the charges. "but truly, polly, when he first came and the british were so lordly, thinking they owned the whole earth, i could not bear to have him claim me and talk of taking me to england and have me go to court and all that;" and primrose shook her shining curly head defiantly, while her oval cheeks bloomed. "surely, primrose, thou didst not have a quaker temper either," rejoined polly laughingly. "i doubt if thou wouldst turn the other cheek even for a kiss, much less a blow." "the man would get the blow back in short order." the beautiful blue eyes turned almost black with indignation at the thought, and sent out rays that might have blinded an unfortunate culprit. the girls looked at each other as fiercely as two hearts brimming over with love, and eyes in an april shower could look, and then they fell on each other's neck and cried in honest girl-fashion for just nothing at all, as girls did a hundred or so years ago. "and you are quite sure you will never quarrel with me?" besought primrose. "it must be lovely to have a sister, though rachel and faith were not happy. poor faith! she hath grown strangely loving, and i know not what she would do if it were not for aunt lois." "thou art the dearest and sweetest little thing in all the world, and though i may sometimes scold thee for thy naughtiness, i shall always love thee. and now i must sew, for my mother declares i never do anything out here at the farm. and betty is so industrious, making clothes for the babies." then they were still a moment or two while the sunshine rippled all about, for they were sitting out under a tree, and the wind made a pretty dance in the tall grass, and seemed to whisper among the boughs, and push the heads of the shrubs toward each other as if they might be kissing. overhead the birds sang with wild bursts of melody or went dazzling through the air, cleaving the sunshine with swift wings. "perhaps i ought not have told you so soon," said polly with a sigh. "it was just a word, the sweetest word a man can say, but then i had half guessed it before, and i knew he was waiting to have something to offer me. mr. norris does not seem very ready in finding him a place, and old mr. northfield takes so much of his time and has to tell him what a fine business man your father was, and how he did this and that, and people entrusted him with their estates and money to buy and sell, and no one ever lost a penny by him. so i suppose we will not be really promised until something is settled, and thou must keep my secret, little primrose. for i know now that my father would look askance at it. strange that people years ago could marry without thinking of money, but they are not willing their children shall. and there are men like the great mr. franklin, who sometimes hardly knew where to turn for bread, and come up to very luxurious living. but i am young, and phil is not very old." "it all seems very strange and sweet," and primrose threw herself down on the grass and leaned her arms on polly's knee, while the wind tossed her pretty shining hair about. there was always so much short around the edge of her forehead, and such dainty, mischievous little curls on her white neck when she did it up high on her head. and whatever she did made a picture, she was so full of grace. when gilbert stuart painted her as a lovely matron with her baby beside her knee, he said: "what a pity there is no picture of you in your girlhood." he would have been justly proud if he could have painted her in all that grace and loveliness. "and how can one tell?" she went on dreamily when polly made no answer. "there are so many things in different ones to like, and you cannot put them all in one man. i love andrew dearly. he was so good and tender when i first went out to his father's farm, and i was so frightened of uncle james, and aunt lois was so grave and particular. but then andrew will never dance--fancy the tall soldier! though the great generals do. and he is not over fond of pleasure." she threw up her pretty head, while a stray sunbeam through the trees danced over it in golden ripples, and her eyes laughed as well as her rosy, dimpled mouth. there was a sudden start through polly's nerves, but the gay, light, merry voice went on: "and he will always be a quaker, though he went to christ church with madam and me. but--don't you know, you can tell with some people, polly, that things do not quite suit. and he is too grave to frolic, and oh, i do love dancing and frolicking and saucy speeches. a grave life would never suit me. and there is mr. hunter with his pink-and-white skin and his ruffles and his velvet clothes, and his clocked silk stockings and shoe buckles that he has polished with a peculiar kind of powder that comes over from france--he told me so," laughing with dainty mirth and mischief. "when he comes to spend the evening i feel as if i should like to tear his finery to pieces as the old strutting cock sometimes gets torn when the others can no longer endure his overbearing ways. and there is mr. rittenhouse, who does nothing but talk of the junta and the learned men of the philadelphia society, and the grand new hall they mean to build, and chemistry, as if one was so anxious to know what was in one's body and one's food and the air one breathed. why, it would make life a burthen. to be sure, betty says mr. franklin's stove is a most excellent thing, ever so much better than a fireplace, and that she will take one to virginia with her. she had better take mr. rittenhouse as well!" and primrose sent a host of delighted ripples on the sunny air. "oh, there is tot!" tot was betty mason's three-year-old baby boy, and the next instant primrose had forgotten her admirers and was tumbling in the grass with him. there were two she had not mentioned: allin wharton and gilbert vane. but polly said to her brother shortly after--growing very wise, as young women in love are apt to: "be careful not to go too fast, allin, or you will stumble over a decided no. primrose has no more idea of love than a two-year-old baby who answers everybody that smiles at him." "but they haunt madam wetherill's in droves," flung out the over anxious young man. "with the droves one has nothing to fear," counsels the wise young woman. "it is when there are only one or two, and much sitting around in corners and behind curtains and whispering that plots are hatched. and primrose is fond of having ever so many enjoy her good time and mirthfulness. and, allin, there is a great deal for you to do before lovemaking begins." "i'm not so much worse off than phil henry." "but phil henry is not dreaming of marrying," returned allin's sister with dignified composure. meanwhile affairs dragged slowly on, but it was evident there were many things to discuss before a treaty of peace would be signed. there were various apprehensions of coming internal trouble. the public treasury was empty, officers and soldiers were clamoring for pay. there were endless discussions as to whether a republican form of government would be best and strongest. of these philadelphia had her full share, but there was a strong undercurrent. had not the famous declaration of independence been born here and the state house bell pealed out the first tocsin of freedom? and here congress had met year after year. many of the soldiers had been discharged for wounds and ill health, and on their own earnest appeal. some officers resigned; among them andrew henry, much to the regret of several of the generals. "if the country needs me again i am hers to command," he said with much earnestness. "but i feel that i am needed at home and there are others who will be glad to fill my place. there are many brave privates who would be made happy by the reward of promotion." "he is a brave man," said mrs. washington, "which is sometimes better than being a brave soldier. if the country had hundreds of such citizens her prosperity would be assured. i am sorry to part with many of them, but we shall all be glad of peaceful times and our own homes." and so in the early autumn andrew henry came home and went back to his quaker costume. "really," declared mr. logan, "one might think the elder philemon henry had come back to life. the nephew is more like him than the son, though the son is a fine intelligent man and will make an excellent citizen. then he is a great favorite with madam wetherill, who has much in her hands." chapter xxiii. primrose. with all the disquiet it had been an unusually gay summer for philadelphia, even after the general and mrs. washington had bidden it adieu. for in june there had been a great fãªte given by the french minister in honor of the birth of the dauphin, the heir to the throne of france. m. de luzerne's residence was brilliantly illuminated, and a great open-air pavilion, with arches and colonnades, bowers, and halls with nymphs and statues, even mars leaning on his shield, and hebe holding jove's cup. it was seldom indeed that the old carpenter mansion had seen such a sight. there were elegant women and brave men, though the mischianza crowd had been widely scattered. the girls had danced, and chatted in french as far as they knew how, and enjoyed themselves to the full, and the elders had sat down to an almost royal banquet. polly and primrose had been among the belles. then there had been a grand fourth of july celebration. a civic banquet, with morris, dickinson, mifflin, and many another. bells were rung and cannons fired, the schuylkill was gay with pleasure parties and fluttering flags and picnic dinners along its winding and pleasant banks. and then in august they had most loyally kept the french king's birthday with banquets and balls. and though financial ruin was largely talked of, a writer of the times declares "no other city was so rich, so extravagant, and so fashionable." and yet withal there was a serious and sensible element. there had before the war been many years of unexampled prosperity; and though there might be a whirl, people soon came back to reasonable living. truth to tell, philemon henry was becoming quite captivated with the city of his birth and his later adoption. and as he began to understand madam wetherill's views for his own future as well as that of his cousin, he was amazed at her generosity. "nay, it is not simple generosity," she declared with great vigor. "there is no reason why you two should not make a place for yourselves in the new city, such as your father held in the old. perhaps wider, for your father would have nothing to do with government, and a man ought to take some interest in the civic prosperity of his city as well as money-getting. mr. wetherill, whether wisely or not, put much money in property, and it has been a dead weight mostly. but now the time has come to improve it, and with peace there will be many changes and much work to do. i have grown too old, and a woman cannot well attend to it. younger blood and strength must take it up. then--if we make some mistakes, there is no one to suffer, though i did not expect to give even two well-trained colts their heads altogether." he smiled, but there was a soft mistiness in his eyes. "i can never thank you," he said unsteadily. "i must trust someone, you see. mr. northfield is too old, mr. morris has his hands full; indeed, i can think of no one better. i have some of the wardour willfulness, and take my own way about things. i do not often make mistakes. this is no sudden notion of mine." "there is one thing, madam, i must explain before we go farther. i am--i have"--he paused and flushed in embarrassment--"there is an understanding between myself and miss polly wharton, not an engagement, for as yet i have had no certainty to offer. but we care very much for each other." madam wetherill gave a quick nod or two and there was a smile in her bright eyes. "polly will make a good wife. thou couldst hardly have chosen better. i would speak to mr. wharton and have the matter settled now. if he had not been of a consenting mind, thou wouldst hardly have found a welcome entrance for so long in his home." "madam--i never dreamed of being so happy." "oh, no doubt thou wilt be much happier on thy wedding day," and she laughed with a bright sparkle of amusement. "i am fond of young people, though they do many foolish things." "but my sister?" he said suddenly. "we have forgotten about her. all these years of thy kind care----" "well--what of her? i loved her mother. i never had a child of my own, though a hen rarely runs after another hen's chicks. the little moppet stole into my heart, and by just raising her eyes inveigled me into fighting for her. miss primrose henry has all the fortune it is good for a girl to have, and she is a gay butterfly to go dancing about for the next few years. indeed, i believe she has quite made up her mind to stay single, to have many admirers, but no husband. it may not be a good plan, but there have been some famous old maids,--queen elizabeth, for instance,--while poor marie stuart began with husbands early and lost her head. we can dismiss miss primrose to her pleasures." then they talked long and earnestly. andrew henry was coming home, and the matter would be settled. and settled it was speedily. andrew, having been consulted before, was not so much taken by surprise, but his gratitude was none the less fervent. and one sunday morning polly walked very proudly up the aisle in christ church, with her brother on one side, and her lover on the other, right behind her parents, and when they were seated in mr. wharton's pew, polly was in the middle with her lover beside her, and he found the places in her prayer book and made responses with her and sang joyfully in the hymns. coming out she took his arm, and blushed a good deal as people smiled at her. it was a fashion then, and everybody knew it was a sign of engagement. "the young englishman is very good-looking," said miss morris, "but i shall set my cap for the quaker cousin. what a pity he gives up war and discards soldier clothes, for there is scarcely such a fine-appearing general!" the young quaker, mature and manly for his years, took hold of business as if it had been his birthright. perhaps it had come to him with the resemblance to his uncle. and when philemon nevitt decided to take back his father's name, polly and primrose rejoiced wildly. primrose threw her arms around his neck and gave him many of the kisses she had used to be so chary about. "now you are my own dear brother!" she exclaimed, and the satisfaction rang through her voice like a bell. "no king can ever claim you again." "unless _we_ have a king." "but we are not going to have a king. we are all born free and equal." "julius and joe and the old pepper pot woman, and the calamus boys?" with a mischievous smile. "the slaves are all going to be free. we cannot do everything in a moment. and the equality----" primrose was rather nonplused. "yes, the equality," with a triumphant lifting of the brows. "i think the equality means this: that everyone shall have a right to try for the best places, and no one shall push him down. to try for education and happiness, and if he is full up to the brim and content, even if he has not as much as the other, isn't there a certain equalization?" "primrose, i fear thou wilt be a sophist before thy hundred years are ended," said her brother with a soft pinch of her rosy cheek. the randolphs had considered the feasibility of returning south, but madam wetherill begged them not to try homelessness with winter coming on. and at cherry farm there was one supremely happy woman, lois henry. "madam wetherill is more than good to thee," she said to her son with a thankfulness that trembled in her voice. "how one can be mistaken in souls under gay garbs. indeed it is as the child used to say, 'god made all beautiful things, and nothing is to be called common or unclean, or high and lofty and wasteful.' i am more glad than i can say that thou hast returned to the fashion of the friends again, but thou art a man to look well in nice attire, and truly one serveth god with the heart and not with the clothes, except that neatness should be observed. the lord hath given madam wetherill a large heart, and she holds no rancor." "she is one in a thousand," was the fervent reply. and then andrew described one of several cottages on chestnut street that belonged to the estate of miss primrose henry, and was to rent. there was a small court in front, a grassy space at the side with a cherry tree and a pear tree, and a garden at the back for vegetables. "for i must have thee in the city near by," he said, "so i can come in to dinner at noon, and spend most of my evenings with thee. mr. franklin's old paper, the _gazette_, is to be brought out again, and we shall know what is going on. and we will find a meeting house near by, and take great comfort with each other after our seasons of sorrow and separation." "my son, my dear son! i bless the lord for thee every day. he hath given me the oil of joy for mourning." andrew had greeted rachel with great cordiality. he was grateful that she had cared so kindly for his mother, though faith had been the more tender. penn was settled in part of his new house and very content. indeed his love for clarissa was something of a thorn in rachel's side, but she paid small attention to it outwardly. when andrew laid his plan before her, however, her very heart sank within her. "she is to have her living here. i am sure, andrew, as god is my witness, that i have been like a daughter to her. she hath said so herself. my own mother is dead, let her remain in the place. and thou--thou wilt marry sometime----" "a long while yet. i am her son and want her, and she is ready and pleased to come. it is but right and natural. as for the living, make no account of that. when we want a holiday it may be pleasant to come out to the farm." that was a straw and she caught quickly at it. but in any event she saw that she could not help nor hinder. primrose took polly with her to see what should be put in the cottage. "there are many new things to make work handy, and comforts. andrew must have a settle here in the living room and it shall be my pleasure to make cushions for it. and oh, polly, he has learned to smoke while he was soldiering! of course aunt lois will want some of the old things, and she has chests of bed and table linen. but we can buy some plates and cups. aunt lois had some pretty delft ware that i used to dry on nice soft towels when i was a little girl. we will hunt the city over to find delft." they were delightfully engrossed with shopping. the stores were displaying tempting aspects again and merchants were considering foreign trade. but it was quite ridiculous, though no one saw it in just that light then, that one should take with them a thousand or so dollars to do a morning's buying. but when a frying pan cost sixty dollars and three cups and saucers one hundred and fifty, and a table two hundred, money soon went. there was plenty of it, to be sure. congress ordered new issues when it fell short. people still watched out for quaker sales: that is, quakers who refused to pay certain taxes had their belongings seized and sold, and women were as ready for bargains then as now. faith took counsel of the trustees who had been appointed for her, and found that she could get away from her sister's home. so she begged aunt lois to take her, as they would need some help. andrew opposed this at first, fearing it would lead to trouble, and rachel was very angry. but on second thought she decided it would be wiser. for by this means she would still have some hold over them all. on condition that faith would come home every fortnight for a little visit she consented, and though faith, trained long in repression, said but little, her heart beat with great joy. rachel had kept a swedish woman nearly all summer for out-of-door work, and now engaged her for the winter. by spring, certainly, she would know what lay before her. william frost, who had once been in the habit of walking home with her, was married. a well-to-do farmer living up the wissahickon had called a number of times, but he had four children, and rachel had no mind to give up her home for hard work and little thanks. she was still young, and with her good marriage portion would not go begging. but the choice of her heart, the best love of her heart all her life, would be andrew henry, and she felt the child and the girl, primrose, had always stood in her way. if she would only marry! but primrose was having a lovely winter. true, there were times when allin wharton grew a little too tender, and she would tease him in her willful fashion, or be very cool to him, or sometimes treat him in an indifferent and sisterly fashion, so difficult to surmount. there were so many others, though primrose adroitly evaded steady admirers. when they grew too urgent she fled out to the farm and betty. there was great fun, too, in planning for wedding gear. polly's sister, margaret, was grown up now, and polly was to be married in the late spring, and go out to the farm all summer, as the randolphs had fully decided to return to virginia in april. mr. randolph would go a month or two earlier to see about a home to shelter them. for although the treaty of peace had not been signed it was an accepted fact, and everybody settled to it. old philadelphia woke up to the fact that she must make herself nearly all over. low places were drained, bridges built, new docks constructed, and rows of houses went up. the wildernesses about, that had grown to brushwood, were cleared away. hills were to be lowered, and there was a famous one in arch street. "nay, i should not know the place without it," declared madam wetherill. "it will answer for my time, and after that do as you like." but she was to go out of arch street years before her death, though she did not live to be one hundred and two. the taverns made themselves more decorous and respectable, the coffee houses were really attractive, the theater ventured to offer quite a variety of plays, and the assemblies began in a very select fashion. there was also a more general desire for intelligence, and the days of "avoiding papishers and learning to knit" as the whole duty of women were at an end. there were grace and ease and refinement and wit, and a peaceable sort of air since congress had gone to princeton. midwinter brought out-of-door amusements, though the season seemed short, for spring came early, and in march parties were out hunting for trailing arbutus and hardy spring flowers, exchanging tulip bulbs and dividing rose bushes, as well as putting out trees and fine shrubbery that was to make the city a garden for many a long year. primrose danced and was merry, and skated with allin wharton when polly and phil could go, but she was very wary of confining herself to one. she dropped in and cheered aunt lois and fascinated faith with her bright talk and her bright gowns and the great bow under her chin, for even if it was gray it seemed the softest and most bewildering color that ever was worn. then she rode out and spent two or three days frolicking with betty's babies, and came home more utterly fascinating than before. "oh, primrose!" said madam wetherill, "i cannot think what to do with thee. thou wilt presently be the talk of the town." "oh, i think i will go to virginia with betty and bury myself in a great southern forest where no one can find me. and i will take along pounds of silk and knit some long quaker stockings for andrew, with beautiful clocks in them. hast thou not remarked, dear aunt, that he betrays a tendency toward worldliness?" "thou art too naughty, primrose." it was fortunate for women's purses that one did not need so many gowns as at the present day, even if they did take out with them marvelous sums. but thinking men were beginning to see the evil of the old continental money and trying to devise something better, with that able financier, robert morris, at their head. the wedding finery was bought, and the looms at germantown supplied webs of cloth to be made up in table napery and bedding. there were old laces handed down, and some brocade petticoats, and two trained gowns that had come from england long before. primrose and margaret wharton were bridesmaids, and, oddly enough, captain vane, for he had arrived at that dignity, came from newburgh on a furlough and stood with margaret, so the foes and the friends were all together. it was a very fine wedding, and at three in the afternoon mr. and mrs. philemon nevitt henry were put in a coach, a great luxury then, and went off in splendid state, with a supply of old slippers thrown after them for good luck. captain vane had lost his estate, that was a foregone conclusion. the next of kin had acted and proved the estates forfeited. "and now i am a true buff-and-blue american," he said proudly to madam wetherill. "i shall remain a military man, for the spirit and stir of the life inspire me, and there seems nothing else for me to do. phil, i think, was only a half-hearted soldier, and business suits him much better. after all, one can see that he is at home among his kinsfolk. perhaps there was a little of the old quaker leaven in him that england could not quite work out. he has a charming wife, and a friend such as few men find;" bowing low and kissing the lady's hand. a party of guests went out to the farm to have a gay time with the young couple. it was primrose's birthday, but it never rained a drop. and it would have been hard to tell which was the heroine of the occasion, primrose or polly. and, oh, the verses that were made! some halting and some having altogether too many feet. there were dancing and jollity and every room was crowded. they had coaxed betty to stay and she was very charming; quite too young, everybody said, to be a widow with two babies. philemon henry held his pretty sister to his heart and gave her eighteen kisses for her birthday. "dear, thou hast so many gifts on all occasions," he said, "that a brother's best love is all i can bestow upon thee now. when i am a rich man it may be otherwise. polly and thee will always be the dearest of sisters, and i hope to be a faithful son to madam wetherill." primrose wiped some tears from her lovely eyes. "that is the best any man can be," she made answer. it was a very gay fortnight, and allin wharton was so angry and so wretched that he scarce knew how to live. captain vane was handsome and fascinating, and a hero from having lost his estates, and there were a full hundred reasons why he should be attractive to a woman. he believed andrew henry was no sort of rival beside him. of course primrose would--what a fool he had been to take polly's advice and wait! but primrose had been very wise and very careful for such a pretty, pleasure-loving girl. there had been something in gilbert vane's eyes that told the story, and she understood now what it was: the sweetest and noblest story a man can tell a woman, but a woman may not always be ready to hear it, and now some curious knowledge had come to primrose--she would never be ready to hear this. she had threaded her way skillfully through every turning, she had jested and parried until she was amazed at her own resources. the last morning madam wetherill was suddenly called down to the office about the transfer of some property, and she had not been gone ten minutes when captain vane was announced. he was very disappointed not to see madam--of course. primrose was shy and looked like a bird about to fly somewhere, but so utterly bewitching that his whole heart went out to her. "oh, you sweetest, dearest primrose!" he cried, and caught her hand in such a clasp that she could not pull it away. "i love you, love you! and yet i have no business to say it, a soldier of fortune, who has nothing now but his sword, and his patriotism for the country of his adoption--all his fortune yet to make. but it will not hurt you, dear, to know that a man loves you with his whole soul and hopes for--nothing." but his wistful eyes told another story. "oh, why did you say it?" she cried, full of regret. "because i could not help it. oh, i know it is useless, and yet i would give half a lifetime--nay, all of it--for a year or two of such bliss as phil is having, to hold you in my arms, to call you my wife, my dear wife," and his tone thrilled her with exquisite pain, but something akin to pleasure as well. "primrose, you are the sweetest flower of the world, but it could never be--never; tell me so, darling. much as it pains you, say 'no.' for if you do not i shall always dream. and i am a soldier and can meet my fate." he dropped her hand and stood before her straight, strong, and proud; entreaty written in every line of his face. she covered hers with her hands to shut out the sight and tried vainly to find her voice. "nay, dear," he took the hands down tenderly and saw tears and blushes, but not the look he wanted. "that was cruel, unmanly. if it were 'yes' there would be no tears, and so i am answered. it is not your fault. you have a grander, nobler lover than i. but it has been sweet to love you. from almost the first i have loved you, when you were a little girl and i longed to have you for my sister. it will not hurt you, as the years go on, to know you won a soldier for your country and a lifelong patriot. and i know andrew henry will not grudge me one kiss. god give thee all happiness. good-by." he pressed his lips to her forehead and turned. "god bless thee," she said, and he bowed reverently as he went out of the room. she stood quite still, never heeding the tears that dropped on the front of her gown. andrew henry! her dear, dear cousin, who was like a brother. did he love her that way? did she love him? and if she did there was her solemn promise to rachel. she ran upstairs and had a good cry. "whatever is the matter?" asked patty. "you are fuller of whims than an egg is of meat, for the egg has a breathing space if the chick wants it. not an hour ago you were laughing like a mocking bird. you had better have a pitcher of sweet balm for your nerves. you have dissipated too much, but thank heaven there are no more weddings near by." primrose dried her eyes and laughed again presently. it was noon when madam wetherill returned. attorney chew had been in with some new plans that were quite wonderful. "and captain vane to say good-by. what friends he and phil are! but he is a soldier born, if ever there was one. and he looked so fine and spirited. he said he had been here." "for a few minutes, yes. and now, dear madam, when you are rested, can we have a better afternoon to ride out to the pembertons'? i have promised some books to julia, and that new sleeve pattern, and to-morrow polly comes in." "well, child--yes, after my nap. 'tis a lovely day, and every day is so busy. yes, we will go." she hath escaped that danger, madam wetherill thought. and in her heart she honored the brave soldier; how brave, she was never quite to know. was there ever a summer without diversions? there was a new interest in plants and flowers. parties went out to john bartram's, the quaint old house with its wide doorway and the great vines that had climbed over it for years, until they had grown thick as a man's wrist, almost hiding the names cut in the stone long ago, of john and elizabeth bartram. the old garden of flowers and the ferns were worth some study. and there were rambles in the lanes, going after wild strawberries, and even the venturesome ones went on the sly to dunk's ferry and had their fortune told by old alice. there were many little shrieks and giggles, and joyous or protesting confidences afterward. and now primrose thought, as she had years before, that she was quite torn in two. did she love andrew henry with an absorbing love, such as polly had for her brother? another face and another voice haunted her. she dreamed of allin wharton. this night they were sailing up the lovely schuylkill and pausing under the overhanging trees to hear the birds who were saying, "sweet, sweet, i love you," and then allin would look up at her. then they were at the farm. betty and the babies were gone now, and she missed them sorely. but allin came out with phil, and phil walked off with polly. would they never get talked out? then allin would draw her out in some fragrant nook and look at her with upbraiding eyes. or, it was vivacious peggy who would drag her in to tea, and then some girl would come and she and allin be left alone again. then, by day and in real life, she was cross and tormenting to him. desperately sorry afterward, for now she had no ambition to be bad-tempered. everything had come out to her satisfaction. phil was the dearest of brothers, and prospering, and madam wetherill was elated with her successful firm. the prestige of the elder henry dropped its mantle over them. and as for polly, there could not be a wiser, sweeter wife. then aunt lois was so tranquilly happy, and faith growing brighter, yes, prettier, and buying grays with a peachy or lavender tint instead of that snuffy yellow, or dismally cold stone color, and coaxing andrew, sometimes, to go to christ church to hear the singing or the tender prayers where the people could all say "amen." oh, what was the matter that she was not happy and satisfied! allin was studying hard and well, and growing more manly every day. and at last he made up his mind there should be no more shilly-shallying. for when primrose was tender and sweet he knew she loved him. she was--yes, a little bit jealous when he wandered too far in a half angry, half desperate moment. so one evening he came upon her all alone. miss jeffries had begged madam so to come in to a little card party, for now her father was quite lame and could not get out much, and rather deaf, and altogether disheartened about england conquering america. therefore it was a charity to visit him. "and lose _my_ money now," she said with a good-natured laugh. now primrose could not shelter herself behind polly nor phil. she was sweet and startled, and a dozen things that made her lovelier than ever, with a betraying color coming and going in her charming face. and the lover took sudden heart. how many times he had planned the scene. there was a lover in an old novel that won an obdurate lady, and he had rehearsed the arguments numberless times, they were so fine and convincing. oh, how did they begin? he reached over suddenly and took her in his arms and kissed the fragrant lips again and again. "primrose," just above his breath, "you know i love you. you must have seen it ages ago, that morning you came,--do you remember,--when i had been wounded, and how we talked and talked, and you sung. i couldn't bear to have you go. you were the sweetest and dearest and most lovely thing in the whole wide world. polly had talked so much about you. and ever since that you have been a part of my very life. i've been jealous, and angry when you smiled on others, and you do it so much, primrose; and when that handsome young vane was here i remembered how you loved soldiers and was--well i could have waylaid him and done anything to him, but that wouldn't have won you. i've waited so long. and now, primrose, you must give me a little hope. just say you will love me sometime. oh, no! i can't wait, either. primrose, my darling, the sweetness and glory of my life, love me now, now." the words came out like a torrent and carried her along. the kisses had gone down to her very soul. the clasp of his hands thrilled her. "primrose, my sweetest darling----" it seemed as if she was under a spell. she tried to free herself, but she had no strength. other men had said silly things, but this was like a swift rush of music, and she was sure no one had ever uttered primrose in such an exquisitely delicious tone before. "oh, allin!" in a half sigh. all the answer was kisses. "allin, allin! oh, let me--yes, let me free. i must tell you----" "you must tell me nothing, save that you love me. i will listen to nothing else. primrose, sweetest, dearest----" "oh, hush, allin, let me think----" if she did not mean to love him he would know it by some sure sign. the hesitation, the half yielding tells its own story. and the very foolishness of love went to her heart. the vehemence, the ownership in its fearlessness, the persuasive certainty. of course she had known it all along, she had feared now on the side of distance, now that he might speak too soon, then wondered if he would ever speak at all, while she was all the while putting him off, strange contradiction. "say that you love me. just say it once and i will live on it for weeks." "oh, allin, you would grow thin!" she gave a little half-hysterical laugh. and then something stole over her, an impression vague, inexplicable, that she did not quite belong to herself. was there someone who had a better right than allin? before she gave herself irrevocably to this delightful young lover, she must be sure, quite sure. "what is it, primrose?" for he had noted the change, the almost paleness that drowned out the beautiful, radiant flush that was happiness, satisfaction. "oh, primrose, surely you did not, do not love captain vane?" there was a struggle in her soul, in her pulses, an unseen power that grasped her and for a moment almost rendered her breathless. "no, i did not--love him--but he----" "oh, i know. it is hard winning what everyone wants," he answered moodily. "but tell me one good reason why you cannot love me." as if there was no good reason she was silent. "i really couldn't stand the uncertainty. i couldn't study. oh, what would it all be worth--life, fame, fortune, or anything if i did not have you!" "do you love me as much as that. would it make a great difference?" "it would ruin all my life. it is in your hands. oh, my darling!" for it was so delightful to be necessary. it was not foolish to the ears of eighteen when the heart of eighteen had sometimes longed for the words. good, sound sense is much amiss in lovemaking. "and you do love me--a little?" if he could make her admit that he would coax a great deal more. "i--i can't tell in a moment." "but you know you do? will you deny utterly that you do?" she could evade with pretty turnings and windings, but this, so simple, so to the point. "oh, wait," she cried. "i must think. allin it is a lifelong thing. i want to be sure----" "and then you will smile on someone else, and walk with someone else and dance and all that, and i shall be utterly miserable and never sure until you do promise." she put her hand over his, her soft dimpled hand that thrilled and comforted him, and said in a beseeching tone, as if it was his to grant or not: "give me a month, allin. i will not smile on anyone, since you think it so dangerous," with a touch of her old witchery. "a month! as if you could not tell in a moment whether you loved or hated!" "but i don't hate. i like you ever so much. i want to think it over. one must consider----" "a week then. and after that we can be engaged for ever so long. it shall all be as you like then." it proved very difficult to settle the point. he was so urgent, she so hesitating. the big old english clock in the hall struck ten, and gentlemen expected to keep good hours. "do not come in a whole week. no, do not kiss me again," and she held her dainty head up haughtily. "it was all very wrong. i should not have allowed such a thing until i was quite sure. allin, perhaps i am a coquette." "you may be anything if you are only mine." "and then of course i should be steady and devoted, and--like polly." that was a maddening picture to hold out. but she would be a hundred times sweeter than polly, than anyone's sister could possibly be, he thought as he went his way. * * * * * was there a ghost in the room? primrose shivered as she looked at her bed with the white curtains and her dressing table that all the girls were trimming up now with ruffling and bows. she was so glad to hear the chaise stop and to have the warm, ample presence in the room, to hear the cheerful voice. "poor old mr. jeffries fails fast," said madam. "it would be a sin to win his money now. and i grew so dull and sleepy that i wished myself home twenty times. suppose one had an old husband like that? and years ago, about fifteen, i think, mr. ralph jeffries asked for my hand." she laughed softly and began to take out her pins and stick them carefully in the cushion. pins were very precious then. there were two rainy days, an autumnal storm. then sunday. allin wharton looked at primrose across the church and spoke coming out. there were laces to mend and gowns to consider and poor to visit. and all the time primrose henry was thinking if--if a man who was nobleness and goodness and tenderness itself, loved her, and would never love anyone else, what ought she to do? thursday noon phil came in to dinner. polly was not very well and he was going out at three. wouldn't primrose come with him? primrose colored and looked oddly embarrassed, and said, in a confused sort of way, there was something she must do this afternoon, but to-morrow she would come out and spend two or three days with polly. she sent her best and dearest love. yes, she must know once for all. if duty was demanded of her--if she loved andrew less, or more, when it came to that. what was this romance and mystery, and incomprehensible thrill! she _did_ experience it for allin, and alone by herself her face flushed and every pulse trembled. his foolish words were so sweet. his kisses--ah, _had_ she any right to offer the cup of joy and delight to another when someone had drained the first sweetness? but if andrew loved her with the best and holiest love. could she follow in her mother's steps? but her mother had singled philemon henry out of a world of lovers. chapter xxiv. the old and the new. primrose henry put on her camlet cloak and took several skeins of yarn to one of the old ladies in the almshouses, to knit some stockings for some other poor. afterward she sauntered round with a guilty feeling. she often ran in to see phil and andrew, and the one clerk always stared at the radiant vision. she hesitated on the broad sill, then she opened the door. there was a sort of counting room first, and that was vacant now. andrew was in the apartment beyond. there was her promise to rachel. oh, what must she do! "philemon has gone," and andrew glanced up with tender gravity as he espied primrose. "yes. i saw him. how is aunt lois, and faith?" "very well." there was a different smile, now, a sense of amusement, and a peculiar light in the eyes like relief. "what is it?" her heart-beat almost strangled her. "rachel was in this morning. and you cannot guess--she is to be married presently." "married! and she cared so much for you," cried primrose in consternation. andrew colored and moved his head with a slow negative. "no, it could not have been. andrew--i wonder what kind of a wife you would like?" turning her eyes away. he could have reached out his hand and answered her with a clasp. but there was another who loved her very much, who was young and gay and full of ardent hopes. that would be better for the child. "i shall not marry for years to come." his voice was very tranquil. "there is my mother, and now we are so much to each other." "and _she_ ought to be a friend. you would like a friend best, andrew? and no flighty young thing." was _she_ thinking of anything? oh, she was too young and sweet. it would be putting a butterfly in a cage. "that would be better, certainly. when two people elect to spend their lives together, it is best that they should have similar tastes and desires." "but a sweet and pretty one, andrew. one like miss whiting, who is intelligent and noble and reads a great many things and has a lovely garden of flowers. i want you to be very, very happy, andrew." "thank you, little one. let me wish the same for you. a gallant young lover with ambition, who can take his place in society and who will enjoy with you the youthful pleasures that are so much to you, and then grow older with you and come to ripe middle life and serene old age. i think i could put my finger on someone----" primrose's sweet face was scarlet, and her eyes suddenly fluttered down with tremulous lids. "thou hast been a dear little sister," going back to the quaker speech. "thy happiness will be much to me; thy pain, if any happened to thee, would be my pain. thy prosperity will always be my prayer, for i think thou wert born for sunniness and clear sailing and joy, with someone bright and young like thyself." "a little sister," she repeated softly. if it was that and only that, her conscience would be clear. "yes. didst thou ever doubt it?" he raised his serene brown eyes and smiled. he was not one to carry all his soul in his eyes. "nay, and i never shall." she pressed her lips to his forehead, which was as fair as any girl's. how long it had been since he kissed her! he might trust himself again on her wedding day. "and now tell me about rachel. we have queer talk of loves and such." "he is a young man, a neighbor, the eldest of several sons. and rachel hath a nice dower. i hope all will go well." she was infinitely sorry for rachel at that moment. "you will come soon and see us. i send love to aunt lois," and primrose turned. "fare thee well. blessings attend thee, little one." he sat there a long while, thinking how her mother had given up many worldly things for the man she loved. primrose would do it, too, he said stoutly to himself, if she had loved. it was best this way. the sunshine did not rise up from the brown earth, but shone down out of the radiant blue sky. primrose henry went home with a light heart. and that evening allin wharton had his answer. madam wetherill shook her head, but said smilingly, "if you take the young woman you must take the old one, too. i will never give up primrose." the girl's soft arms were around her neck and the sweet young voice, with a rapture of emotion, cried, "oh, madam, am i indeed so dear to you?" * * * * * the world goes on and the stories of life are repeated, but to each one comes that supreme taste of personal joy and rapture that is alone for itself; that is new, no matter how many times it may have been lived over. there was a long, delightful engagement of the young people, who waited for allin to take his degree, and his father felt justly proud of his standing. there was all the reckless happiness of two young people in that wonderful joyousness of youth when one apes sorrows for the sake of being comforted, indulges in dainty disagreements so that they can repent with fascinating sweetness, and are inconsequent, unreasonable, entrancing, and delightful, and gayety of any kind seems good, so that it goes hand and hand with love. primrose danced and laughed through her april years, and then came may with bloom and more steadiness, and then peerless, magnificent june. "i am but a sad trifler, after all," she would say to madam wetherill. "shall i ever be like my dear mother or have any of the sober henry blood in me?" "nay," was the answer. "we never find fault with the rose because it does not bear an ear of corn or a stalk of grain. and yet so great a thing as an oak tree is content to bear a small acorn." and while they were being married and rejoicing in phil's sturdy little boy and dainty, golden-haired baby girl called primrose, old philadelphia was making rapid strides. indeed, in washington's language, the united colonies had now "the opportunity to become a respectable nation," and it came back to the city where it had first uttered its lusty young cry and protest. in may of 1787, in the old state house, assembled the delegates who were to frame a constitution that would stand the wear and tear of time. their four months' work has come down to us written in letters of imperishable glory, that were not to be too large for the thirteen colonies, and large enough for any multiple the nation might come to use in the course of its existence. for the tardy treaty of peace had been signed, and though there were much discussion and various opinions, such as children of one family often have, it was all settled. and the next fourth of july had a grand procession, for the times, and a ship of state was dragged proudly through the streets on a float, with some pretty boys for midshipmen; the great judges in their official robes, soldiers, and civilians, and, side by side, walked andrew henry and philemon henry, brothers indeed in all the wide and varied interests that go to make up brotherhood and not a little human love. the bells of christ church, that had once been taken down and hidden from vandal hands, were rehung, and rung at intervals all day long, while flags floated and bonfires blazed at night, and a grand supper was eaten by the dignitaries at bush hill. while other and larger matters were being discussed, a president nominated, elected, and inaugurated, philadelphia, like a prudent householder, was attending to her own affairs. when washington passed through the city on his way to new york to receive the grandest compliment of the nation, she again paid him all honor in his reception. the beautiful city with its greenery and quiet, of which william penn had dreamed, and in many of whose footsteps the renowned franklin had followed, had gone through curious changes, and was putting on new aspects with every year. but "fairemount," with its homes that were to be handed down in story a hundred years later; stenton, with its grand aspects; lansdowne, with its woods and waters; the logan house, the shippens', and old mount pleasant, and so on stretching up the banks of the schuylkill were to be left beautiful and tranquil and free from the thought of business invasion. for old philadelphia is like a dream, and there will always linger about it the youthful tenderness of william penn's plan and his life story. and then, to the chagrin of new york, came the transference of the capital to philadelphia. she had perked up and brightened up, stretched out her wharves, filled up her low places, cleared her streets of rubbish, and built rows of houses, had her library and her university, and it seemed as if she had been getting ready for this accession within her borders, the "republican court," as it was to be called. a plain enough house, on high street, it was, with a few fine old trees about, where many famous decisions were shaped by wisdom that seems wonderful to us now. when congress was in session there were many gayeties, dinners, private balls, suppers, and dances for the young people, and then, to its ruler, the retirement of mount vernon. with it all a sort of serene steadiness and refinement that never allowed pleasures to degenerate into a maddening whirl. a thrift and prudence, too, that had become a solid, underlying strand in the character of the city. the bell still rang out on market mornings and mistresses were not above visiting the long, clean spaces, though there was much fault-finding about the dearness of things, and mrs. adams complained of the loneliness of bush hill, though she was afterward to be comforted by being the first lady of the land at washington, the final capital. primrose wharton was a pretty young wife and the mother of a golden-haired little girl when she next saw "lady washington," as she was often called. she had settled into a gracious, but still piquant, matron, and she and allin enjoyed the theater and still dearly loved a dance. madam wetherill was yet a handsome and stately dame, and "foolish over the little one," she said. there were many memories of the dismal winter of valley forge renewed when mrs. washington met some of the brave soldiers. and among them all there was no finer nor more attractive figure than that of andrew henry, now arrived at its full manliness. the quaker costume became him as no other would, though the continental attire was distinctive and well calculated to show off a man. fair and fresh and strong, yet with well-bred gentleness and a cultivated mind, he was often singled out at the receptions, and more than one admiring girl would have gladly enacted bessy wardour's romance. was there any story in the eyes that gave a glimpse of the great heart back of them? tender, sweet, brave eyes? sometimes primrose wharton thought so, and all her pulses stood still in awesome silence. she was very happy. she and allin had had an april fling and had settled into may bloom, but--could anything have been different--better? not for her, but for him. a little sister! is she that? he was very happy, now, in a larger house, with a study and book shelves, his mother a tender and tranquil woman, faith a contented housekeeper with a servant, and hardly knowing which to adore the most, polly henry's merry madcap household, or primrose wharton's sunny-haired daughter. the only thing philemon henry would undo are those years that he was hardly answerable for. "of course it was not your fault," polly declares in her impetuous, fond, and justifying way. "i think it really braver, for it requires more courage to own that a man has been wrong, than to go along in a straight path already made for him. and i fell in love with you as a redcoat, i really did, and fought with myself in the nights when i was alone. for, of course, i couldn't have told prim; she would have crossed me quite out of her books. and i wouldn't have dared hint such a thing to anybody. now, truly, was i not a silly girl?" a fond kiss is her answer. if the war made enemies it also made brothers, informed with larger wisdom. a hundred and more years ago! yet there are storied places that will never die out and the old bell of freedom has clanged many a peal, and the state house had many a pilgrim. truly there are numberless worthies in the great beyond, who have left behind imperishable memories even in a city that has grown anew more than once, and added beauty to beauty. the end. * * * * * the girl chum's series all american authors. all copyright stories. a carefully selected series of books for girls, written by popular authors. these are charming stories for young girls, well told and full of interest. their simplicity, tenderness, healthy, interesting motives, vigorous action, and character painting will please all girl readers. handsome cloth binding. price, 60 cents. benhurst, club, the. by howe benning. bertha's summer boarders. by linnie s. harris. billow prairie. a story of life in the great west. by joy allison. duxberry doings. a new england story. by caroline b. le row. fussbudget's folks. a story for young girls. by anna f. burnham. happy discipline, a. by elizabeth cummings. jolly ten, the; and their year of stories. by agnes carr sage. katie robertson. a girl's story of factory life. by m. e. winslow. lonely hill. a story for girls. by m. l. thornton-wilder. majoribanks. a girl's story. by elvirton wright. miss charity's house. by howe benning. miss elliot's girls. a story for young girls. by mary spring corning. miss malcolm's ten. a story for girls. by margaret e. winslow. one girl's way out. by howe benning. pen's venture. by elvirton wright. ruth prentice. a story for girls. by marion thorne. three years at glenwood. a story of school life. by m. e. winslow. * * * * * for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers. a. l. burt company, 114-120 east 23d street, new york. the girl comrade's series all american authors. all copyright stories. a carefully selected series of books for girls, written by popular authors. these are charming stories for young girls, well told and full of interest. their simplicity, tenderness, healthy, interesting motives, vigorous action, and character painting will please all girl readers. handsome cloth binding. price, 60 cents. a bachelor maid and her brother. by i. t. thurston. all aboard. a story for girls. by fanny e. newberry. almost a genius. a story for girls. by adelaide l. rouse. annice wynkoop, artist. story of a country girl. by adelaide l. rouse. bubbles. a girl's story. by fannie e. newberry. comrades. by fannie e. newberry. deane girls, the. a home story. by adelaide l. rouse. helen beaton, college woman. by adelaide l. rouse. joyce's investments. a story for girls. by fannie e. newberry. mellicent raymond. a story for girls. by fannie e. newberry. miss ashton's new pupil. a school girl's story. by mrs. s. s. robbins. not for profit. a story for girls. by fannie e. newberry. odd one, the. a story for girls. by fannie e. newberry. sara, a princess. a story for girls. by fannie e. newberry. * * * * * for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers. a. l. burt company, 114-120 east 23d street, new york. the blue grass seminary girls series by carolyn judson burnett handsome cloth binding price, 40c. per volume _splendid stories of the adventures of a group of charming girls_ the blue grass seminary girls' vacation adventures; or, shirley willing to the rescue. the blue grass seminary girls' christmas holidays; or, a four weeks' tour with the glee club. the blue grass seminary girls in the mountains; or, shirley willing on a mission of peace. the blue grass seminary girls on the water; or, exciting adventures on a summer's cruise through the panama canal. the mildred series by martha finley handsome cloth binding price, 40c. per volume _a companion series to the famous "elsie" books by the same author_ mildred keith mildred's married life mildred at roselands mildred at home mildred and elsie mildred's boys and girls mildred's new daughter * * * * * for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers a. l. burt company, 114-120 east 23d street. new york. the camp fire girls series by hildegard g. frey. the only series of stories for camp fire girls endorsed by the officials of the camp fire girls organization. price, 40 cents per volume the camp fire girls in the maine woods; or, the winnebagos go camping. this lively camp fire group and their guardian go back to nature in a camp in the wilds of maine and pile up more adventures in one summer than they have had in all their previous vacations put together. before the summer is over they have transformed gladys, the frivolous boarding school girl, into a genuine winnebago. the camp fire girls at school; or, the wohelo weavers. it is the custom of the winnebagos to weave the events of their lives into symbolic bead bands, instead of keeping a diary. all commendatory doings are worked out in bright colors, but every time the law of of the camp fire is broken it must be recorded is black. how these seven live wire girls strive to infuse into their school life the spirit of work, health and love and yet manage to get into more than their share of mischief, is told in this story. the camp fire girls at onoway house; or, the magic garden. migwan is determined to go to college, and not being strong enough to work indoors earns the money by raising fruits and vegetables. the winnebagos all turn a hand to help the cause along and the "goings-on" at onoway house that summer make the foundations shake with laughter. the camp fire girls go motoring; or, along the road that leads the way. the winnebagos take a thousand mile auto trip. the "pinching" of nyoda, the fire in the country inn, the runaway girl and the dead-earnest hare and hound chase combine to make these three weeks the most exciting the winnebagos have ever experienced. * * * * * for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers a. l. burt company, 114-120 east 23d street. new york. the "little girl" series by amanda m. douglas in handsome cloth binding price, per volume 60 cents * * * * * a little girl in old new york a little girl of long ago a sequel to "a little girl in old new york" a little girl in old boston a little girl in old philadelphia a little girl in old washington a little girl in old new orleans a little girl in old detroit a little girl in old st. louis a little girl in old chicago a little girl in old san francisco a little girl in old quebec a little girl in old baltimore a little girl in old salem a little girl in old pittsburg * * * * * for sale by all booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price a. l. burt company, publishers new york note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 32942-h.htm or 32942-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32942/32942-h/32942-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32942/32942-h.zip) transcriber's note: 1. text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). 2. text in gothic font is enclosed by plus signs (+gothic+). 3. minor punctuation and spelling errors have been corrected. a detailed list appears at the end of this e-text together with a list of word variations used in the original text. 4. a table of contents has been created for this novel for reference. 5. the [oe] ligature has been replaced by "oe." a list of words using the [oe] ligature in the original text appears at the end of this e-text. the red city |-------------------------------------------| | +books by+ | | +dr. s. weir mitchell.+ | | | | | | +fiction.+ | | | | hugh wynne. | | constance trescot. | | the youth of washington. | | circumstance. | | the adventures of françois. | | the autobiography of a quack. | | dr. north and his friends. | | in war time. | | roland blake. | | far in the forest. | | characteristics. | | when all the woods are green. | | a madeira party. | | the red city. | | | | | | +essays.+ | | | | doctor and patient. | | wear and tear--hints for the overworked. | | | | | | +poems.+ | | | | collected poems. | | the wager, and other poems. | |-------------------------------------------| [illustration: "she stood still, amazed"] the red city a novel of the second administration of president washington by s. weir mitchell, m.d., ll.d. with illustrations by arthur i. keller [decoration] new york the century co. 1908 copyright, 1907, 1908, by the century co. published october, 1908 to wm. d. howells in payment of a debt long owed to a master of fiction and to a friend of many years table of contents chapter i 3 chapter ii 18 chapter iii 38 chapter iv 52 chapter v 64 chapter vi 77 chapter vii 90 chapter viii 107 chapter ix 132 chapter x 144 chapter xi 159 chapter xii 176 chapter xiii 196 chapter xiv 207 chapter xv 224 chapter xvi 241 chapter xvii 254 chapter xviii 263 chapter xix 273 chapter xx 285 chapter xxi 305 chapter xxii 318 chapter xxiii 326 chapter xxiv 341 chapter xxv 347 chapter xxvi 377 chapter xxvii 401 l'envoi 421 list of illustrations she stood still, amazed _frontispiece_ page as they struck, he called out, "yvonne!" 13 with a quick movement she threw the big stallion in front of ça ira 69 "well played!" cried schmidt--"the jest and the rapier" 113 "thou canst not shoe my conscience" 153 rené struggled in schmidt's arms, wild with rage 247 she threw the fairy tissue about pearl's head, smiling as she considered the effect 289 "i know, i know, but--" 337 "then i beg to resign my position" 367 "not to-day, children, not to-day" 409 the red city the red city a novel of the second administration of washington i. about five in the afternoon on the 23d of may, 1792, the brig _morning star_ of bristol, john maynard, master, with a topgallant breeze after her, ran into delaware bay in mid-channel between cape may and cape henlopen. here was the only sunshine they had seen in three weeks. the captain, liking the warmth on his broad back, glanced up approvingly at mast and rigging. "she's a good one," he said, and noting the ship powdered white with her salt record of the sea's attentions, he lighted a pipe and said aloud, "she's salted like christmas pork." as he spoke, he cast an approving eye on a young fellow who sat at ease in the lower rigging, laughing as the brig rolled over and a deluge of water flushed the deck and made the skipper on the after-hatch lift his feet out of the way of the wash. "hi, there, wicount," called the captain, "she's enjoying of herself like a young duck in a pond." de courval called out a gay reply, lost, as the ship rolled, in the rattle of storm-loosened stays and the clatter of flapping sails. toward sunset the wind lessened, the sea-born billows fell away, and de courval dropped lightly on the deck, and, passing the master, went down to the cabin. near to dusk of this pleasant evening of may the captain anchored off lewes, ordered a boat sent ashore, and a nip of rum all round for the crew. then, with a glass for himself, he lighted his pipe and sat down on the cover of the companionway and drew the long breath of the victor in a six-weeks' fight with the atlantic in its most vicious mood. for an hour he sat still, a well-contented man; then, aware of a curly head and bronzed young face rising out of the companionway beside him, he said, "you might find that coil of rope comfortable." the young man, smiling as he sat down, accepted the offer of the captain's tobacco and said in easy english, with scarce a trace of accent to betray his french origin: "my mother thanks you, sir, for your constant care of her. i have no need to repeat my own thanks. we unhappy _émigrés_ who have worn out the hospitality of england, and no wonder, find kindness such as yours as pleasant as it is rare. my mother fully realizes what you have given us amid all your cares for the ship--and--" "oh, that's all right, wicount," broke in the captain. "my time for needing help and a cheery word may come any day on land or sea. some one will pay what seems to you a debt." "ah, well, here or hereafter," said the young man, gravely, and putting out a hand, he wrung the broad, hairy paw of the sailor. "my mother will come on deck to-morrow and speak for herself. now she must rest. is that our boat?" "yes; i sent it ashore a while ago. there will be milk and eggs and fresh vegetables for madam." "thank you," said de courval. a slight, full feeling in the throat, a little difficulty in controlling his features, betrayed the long strain of much recent peril and a sense of practical kindness the more grateful for memories of bitter days in england and of far-away tragic days in france. with some effort to suppress emotion, he touched the captain's knee, saying, "ah, my mother will enjoy the fresh food." and then, "what land is that?" "lewes, sir, and the sand-dunes. with the flood and a fair wind, we shall be off chester by evening to-morrow. no night sailing for me on this bay, with never a light beyond henlopen, and that's been there since '65. i know it all in daytime like i know my hand. most usually we bide for the flood. i shall be right sorry to part with you. i've had time and again--frenchies; i never took to them greatly,--but you're about half english. why, you talk 'most as well as me. where did you learn to be so handy with it?" de courval smiled at this doubtful compliment. "when my father was attached to our embassy in london,--that was when i was a lad,--i went to an english school, and then, too, we were some months in england, my mother and i, so i speak it fairly well. my mother never would learn it." "fairly well! guess you do." then the talk fell away, and at last the younger man rose and said, "i shall go to bed early, for i want to be up at dawn to see this great river." at morning, with a fair wind and the flood, the _morning star_ moved up the stream, past the spire and houses of newcastle. de courval watched with a glass the green country, good for fruit, and the hedges in place of fences. he saw the low hills of delaware, the flat sands of jersey far to right, and toward sunset of a cloudless may day heard the clatter of the anchor chain as they came to off chester creek. the mother was better, and would be glad to take her supper on deck, as the captain desired. during the day young de courval asked numberless questions of mates and men, happy in his mother's revival, and busy with the hopes and anxieties of a stranger about to accept life in a land altogether new to him, but troubled with unanswerable doubts as to how his mother would bear an existence under conditions of which as yet neither he nor she had any useful knowledge. when at sunset he brought his mother on deck, she looked about her with pleasure. the ship rode motionless on a faintly rippled plain of orange light. they were alone on this great highway to the sea. to the left near by were the clustered houses on creek and shore where dutch, swede, and english had ruled in turn. there were lads in boats fishing, with cries of mock fear and laughter over the catch of crabs. it seemed to her a deliciously abrupt change from the dark cabin and the ship odors to a pretty, smiling coast, with the smoke pennons of hospitable welcome inviting to enter and share what god had so freely given. a white-cloth-covered table was set out on deck with tea-things, strawberries, and red roses the mate had gathered. as she turned, to thank the captain who had come aft to meet her, he saw his passenger for the first time. at bristol she had come aboard at evening and through a voyage of storms she had remained in her cabin, too ill to do more than think of a hapless past and of a future dark with she knew not what new disasters. what he saw was a tall, slight woman whose snow-white hair made more noticeable the nearly complete black of her widow's dress, relieved only by a white collar, full white wrist ruffles, and a simple silver chatelaine from which hung a bunch of keys and a small enameled watch. at present she was sallow and pale, but, except for somewhat too notable regularity of rather pronounced features, the most observant student of expression could have seen no more in her face at the moment than an indefinable stamp of good breeding and perhaps, on larger opportunity, an unusual incapacity to exhibit emotional states, whether of grief, joy, or the lighter humors of every-day social relation. the captain listened with a pleasure he could not have explained as her voice expressed in beautiful french the happiness of which her face reported no signal. the son gaily translated or laughed as now and then she tried at a phrase or two of the little english picked up during her stay in england. when they had finished their supper, young de courval asked if she were tired and would wish to go below. to his surprise she said: "no, rené. we are to-morrow to be in a new country, and it is well that as far as may be we settle our accounts with the past." "well, mother, what is it? what do you wish?" "let us sit down together. yes, here. i have something to ask. since you came back to normandy in the autumn of 1791 with the news of your father's murder, i have asked for no particulars." "no, and i was glad that you did not." "later, my son, i was no more willing to hear, and even after our ruin and flight to england last january, my grief left me no desire to be doubly pained. but now--now, i have felt that even at much cost i should hear it all, and then forever, with god's help, put it away with the past, as you must try to do. his death was the more sad to me because all his sympathies were with the party bent on ruining our country. ah, rené, could he have guessed that he who had such hopeful belief in what those changes would effect should die by the hand of a jacobin mob! i wish now to hear the whole story." "all of it, mother?" he was deeply troubled. "yes, all--all without reserve." she sat back in her chair, gazing up the darkening river, her hands lying supine on her knees. "go on, my son, and do not make me question you." "yes, mother." there were things he had been glad to forget and some he had set himself never to forget. he knew, however, that now, on the whole, it was better to be frank. he sat still, thinking how best he could answer her. understanding the reluctance his silence expressed, she said, "you will, rené?" "yes, dear mother"; and so on the deck at fall of night, in an alien land, the young man told his story of one of the first of the minor tragedies which, as a jacobin said, were useless except to give a good appetite for blood. it was hard to begin. he had in perfection the memory of things seen, the visualizing capacity. he waited, thinking how to spare her that which at her summons was before him in all the distinctness of an hour of unequaled anguish. she felt for him and knew the pain she was giving, comprehending him with a fullness rare to the mother mind. "this is not a time to spare me," she said, "nor yourself. go on." she spoke sternly, not turning her head, but staring up the long stretch of solitary water. "it shall be as you wish," he returned slowly. "in september of last year you were in paris with our cousin, la rochefoucauld, about our desperate money straits, when the assembly decreed the seizure of avignon from the pope's vice-legate. this news seemed to make possible the recovery of rents due us in that city. my father thought it well for me to go with him--" "yes, yes, i know; but go on." "we found the town in confusion. the swiss guard of the vice-legate had gone. a leader of the jacobin party, lescuyer, had been murdered that morning before the altar of the church of the cordeliers. that was on the day we rode in. of a sudden we were caught in a mob of peasants near the gate. a jacobin, jourdan, led them, and had collected under guard dozens of scared bourgeois and some women. before we could draw or even understand, we were tumbled off our horses and hustled along. on the way the mob yelled, 'a bas les aristocrates!' "as they went, others were seized--in fact, every decent-looking man. my father held me by the wrist, saying: 'keep cool, rené. we are not catholics. it is the old trouble.' the crush at the pope's palace was awful. we were torn apart. i was knocked down. men went over me, and i was rolled off the great outer stair and fell, happily, neglected. an old woman cried to me to run. i got up and went in after the jourdan mob with the people who were crowding in to see what would happen. you remember the great stairway. i was in among the first and was pushed forward close to the broad dais. candles were brought. jourdan--'_coupe tête_' they called him--sat in the pope's chair. the rest sat or stood on the steps. a young man brought in a table and sat by it. the rest of the great hall was in darkness, full of a ferocious crowd, men and women. "then jourdan cried out: 'silence! this is a court of the people. fetch in the aristocrats!' some threescore of scared men and a dozen women were huddled together at one side, the women crying. jourdan waited. one by one they were seized and set before him. there were wild cries of 'kill! kill!' jourdan nodded, and two men seized them one after another, and at the door struck. the people in the hall were silent one moment as if appalled, and the next were frenzied and screaming horrible things. near the end my father was set before jourdan. he said, 'who are you?' "my father said, 'i am citizen courval, a stranger. i am of the religion, and here on business.' as he spoke, he looked around him and saw me. he made no sign." "ah," said madame de courval, "he did not say vicomte." "no. he was fighting for his life, for you, for me." "go on." "his was the only case over which they hesitated even for a moment. one whom they called tournal said: 'he is not of avignon. let him go.' the mob in the hall was for a moment quiet. then the young man at the table, who seemed to be a mock secretary and wrote the names down, got up and cried out: 'he is lying. who knows him?' he was, alas! too well known. a man far back of me called out, 'he is the vicomte de courval.' my father said: 'it is true. i am the vicomte de courval. what then?' "the secretary shrieked: 'i said he lied. death! death to the _ci-devant!_' "jourdan said: 'citizen carteaux is right. take him. we lose time.' "on this my father turned again and saw me as i cried out, 'oh, my god! my father!' in the uproar no one heard me. at the door on the left, it was, as they struck, he called out--oh, very loud: 'yvonne! yvonne! god keep thee!' oh, mother, i saw it--i saw it." for a moment he was unable to go on. "i got out of the place somehow. when safe amid the thousands in the square i stood still and got grip of myself. a woman beside me said, 'they threw them down into the tour de la glacière.'" "ah!" exclaimed the vicomtesse. "it was dusk outside when all was over. i waited long, but about nine they came out. the people scattered. i went after the man carteaux. he was all night in cafés, never alone--never once alone. i saw him again, at morning, near by on horseback; then i lost him. ah, my god! mother, why would you make me tell it?" "because, rené, it is often with you, and because it is not well for a young man to keep before him unendingly a sorrow of the past. i wanted you to feel that now i share with you what i can see so often has possession of you. do not pity me because i know all. now you shall see how bravely i will carry it." she took his hand. "it will be hard, but wise to put it aside. pray god, my son, this night to help you not to forget, but not hurtfully to remember." he said nothing, but looked up at the darkened heavens under which the night-hawks were screaming in their circling flight. "is there more, my son?" [illustration: "as they struck, he called out 'yvonne!'"] "yes, but it is so hopeless. let us leave it, mother." "no. i said we must clear our souls. leave nothing untold. what is it?" "the man carteaux! if it had not been for you, i should never have left france until i found that man." "i thought as much. had you told me, i should have stayed, or begged my bread in england while you were gone." "i could not leave you then, and now--now the sea lies between me and him, and the craving that has been with me when i went to sleep and at waking i must put away. i will try." as he spoke, he took her hand. a rigid huguenot, she had it on her lips to speak of the forgiving of enemies. generations of belief in the creed of the sword, her love, her sense of the insult of this death, of a sudden mocked her purpose. she was stirred as he was by a passion for vengeance. she flung his hand aside, rose, and walked swiftly about, getting back her self-command by physical action. he had risen, but did not follow her. in a few minutes she came back through the darkness, and setting a hand on each of his shoulders said quietly: "i am sorry--the man is dead to you--i am sorry you ever knew his name." "but i do know it. it is with me, and must ever be until i die. i am to try to forget--forget! that i cannot. the sea makes him as one dead to me; but if ever i return to france--" "hush! it must be as i have said. if he were within reach do you think i would talk as i do?" the young man leaned over and kissed her. this was his last secret. "i am not fool enough to cry for what fate has swept beyond my reach. let us drop it. i did not want to talk of it. we will let the dead past bury its hatred and think only of that one dear memory, mother. and now will you not go to bed, so as to be strong for to-morrow?" "not yet," she said. "go and smoke your pipe with that good captain. i want to be alone." he kissed her forehead and went away. the river was still; the stars came out one by one, and a great planet shone distinct on the mirroring plain. upon the shore near by the young frogs croaked shrilly. fireflies flashed over her, but heedless of this new world she sat thinking of the past, of their wrecked fortunes, of the ruin which made the great duke, her cousin, counsel emigration, a step he himself did not take until the terror came. she recalled her refusal to let him help them in their flight, and how at last, with a few thousand livres, they had been counseled to follow the many who had gone to america. then at last she rose, one bitter feeling expressing itself over and over in her mind in words which were like an echo of ancestral belief, in the obligation old noblesse imposed, no matter what the cost. an overmastering thought broke from her into open speech as she cried aloud: "ah, my god! why did he not say he was the vicomte de courval! oh, why--" "did you call, mother?" said the son. "no. i am going to the cabin, rené. good night, my son!" he laid down the pipe he had learned to use in england and which he never smoked in her presence; caught up her cashmere shawl, a relic of better days, and carefully helped her down the companionway. then he returned to his pipe and the captain, and to talk of the new home and of the ship's owner, mr. hugh wynne, and of those strange, good people who called themselves friends, and who _tutoyéd_ every one alike. he was eager to hear about the bitter strife of parties, of the statesmen in power, of the chances of work, gathering with intelligence such information as might be of service, until at last it struck eight bells and the captain declared that he must go to bed. the young man thanked him and added, "i shall like it, oh, far better than england." "i hope so, wicount; but of this i am sure, men will like you and, by george, women, too!" de courval laughed merrily. "you flatter me, captain." "no. being at sea six weeks with a man is as good as being married, for the knowing of him--the good and the bad of him." "and my mother, will she like it?" "ah, now, that i cannot tell. good night." ii when in a morning of brilliant sunshine again, with the flood and a favoring wind, the brig moved up-stream alone on the broad water, madame de courval came on deck for the midday meal. her son hung over her as she ate, and saw with gladness the faint pink in her cheeks, and, well-pleased, translated her questions to the captain as he proudly pointed out the objects of interest when they neared the city of penn. there was the fort at red bank where the hessians failed, and that was the swedes' church, and there the single spire of christ church rising high over the red brick city, as madam said, of the color of amsterdam. off the mouth of dock creek they came to anchor, the captain advising them to wait on shipboard until he returned, and to be ready then to go ashore. when their simple preparations were completed, de courval came on deck, and, climbing the rigging, settled himself in the crosstrees to take counsel with his pipe, and to be for a time alone and away from the boat-loads of people eager for letters and for news from france and england. the mile-wide river was almost without a sail. a few lazy fishers and the slowly moving vans of the mill on wind mill island had little to interest. as he saw it from his perch, the city front was busy and represented the sudden prosperity which came with the sense of permanence the administration of washington seemed to guarantee for the great bond under which a nation was to grow. there was the town stretching north and south along the delaware, and beyond it woodland. what did it hold for him? the mood of reflection was no rare one for a man of twenty-five who had lived through months of peril in france, amid peasants hostile in creed, and who had seen the fortunes of his house melt away, and at last had aged suddenly into gravity beyond his years when he beat his way heartsick out of the grim tragedy of avignon. his father's people were of the noblesse of the robe, country gentles; his mother a cousin of the two dukes rochefoucauld. he drew qualities from a long line of that remarkable judicature which through all changes kept sacred and spotless the ermine of the magistrate. from the mother's race he had spirit, courage, and a reserve of violent passions, the inheritance of a line of warlike nobles unused to recognize any law but their own will. the quiet life of a lesser country gentleman, the absence from court which pride and lessening means alike enforced, and the puritan training of a house which held tenaciously to the creed of calvin, combined to fit him better to earn his living in a new land than was the case with the greater nobles who had come to seek what contented their ambitions--some means of living until they should regain their lost estates. they drew their hopes from a ruined past. de courval looked forward with hope fed by youth, energy, and the simpler life. it was four o'clock when the captain set them ashore with their boxes on the slip in front of the warehouse of mr. wynne, the ship's owner. he was absent at merion, but his porters would care for their baggage, and a junior clerk would find for them an inn until they could look for a permanent home. when the captain landed them on the slip, the old clerk, mr. potts, made them welcome, and would have had madam wait in the warehouse until their affairs had been duly ordered. when her son translated the invitation, she said: "i like it here. i shall wait for you. the sun is pleasant." while he was gone, she stood alone, looking about her at the busy wharf, the many vessels, the floating windmills anchored on the river, and the long line of red brick warehouses along the river front. on his return, de courval, much troubled, explained that there was not a hackney-coach to be had, and that she had better wait in the counting-house until a chaise could be found. seeing her son's distress, and learning that an inn could be reached near by, she declared it would be pleasant to walk and that every minute made her better. there being no help for it, they set out with the clerk, who had but a mild interest in this addition to the french who were beginning to fly from france and the islands, and were taxing heavily the hospitality and the charity of the city. a barrow-man came on behind, with the baggage for their immediate needs, now and then crying, "barrow! barrow!" when his way was impeded. de courval, at first annoyed that his mother must walk, was silent, but soon, with unfailing curiosity, began to be interested and amused. when, reaching second street, they crossed the bridge over dock creek, they found as they moved northward a brisk business life, shops, and more varied costumes than are seen to-day. here were quakers, to madam's amazement; nun-like quaker women in the monastic seclusion of what later was irreverently called the "coal-scuttle" bonnet; germans of the palatinate; men of another world in the familiar short-clothes, long, broidered waistcoat, and low beaver; a few negroes; and the gray-clad mechanic, with now and then a man from the islands, when suddenly a murmur of french startled the vicomtesse. "what a busy life, _maman_," her son said; "not like that dark london, and no fog, and the sun--like the sun of home." "we have no home," she replied, and for a moment he was silent. then, still intent upon interesting her, he said: "how strange! there is a sign of a likely black wench and two children for sale. 'inquire within and see them. sold for want of use.' and lotteries, _maman_. there is one for a canal between the delaware and the schuylkill rivers; and one to improve the federal city. i wonder where that is." she paid little attention, and walked on, a tall, dark, somber woman, looking straight before her, with her thoughts far away. the many taverns carried names which were echoes from the motherland, which men, long after the war, were still apt, as washington wrote, to call "home." the sign of the cock, the dusty miller, the pewter plate, and--"ah, _maman_," he cried, laughing, "the inn of the struggler. that should suit us." the sullen clerk, stirred at last by the young fellow's gay interest, his eager questions, and his evident wish to distract and amuse a tired woman who stumbled over the loose bricks of the sidewalk, declared that was no place for them. her tall figure in mourning won an occasional glance, but no more. it was a day of strange faces and varied costumes. "and, _maman_," said her son, "the streets are called for trees and the lanes for berries." disappointed at two inns of the better class, there being no vacant rooms, they crossed high street; the son amused at the market stands for fruit, fish, and "garden truck, too," the clerk said, with blacks crying, "calamus! sweet calamus!" and "pepper pot, smoking hot!" or "hominy! samp! grits! hominy!" then, of a sudden, as they paused on the farther corner, madam cried out, "_mon dieu!_" and her son a half-suppressed "_sacré!_" a heavy landau coming down second street bumped heavily into a deep rut and there was a liberal splash of muddy water across madam's dark gown and the young man's clothes. in an instant the owner of the landau had alighted, hat in hand, a middle-aged man in velvet coat and knee-breeches. "madam, i beg a thousand pardons." "my mother does not speak english, sir. these things happen. it is they who made the street who should apologize. it is of small moment." "i thank you for so complete an excuse, sir. you surely cannot be french. permit me,"--and he turned to the woman, "_mille pardons_," and went on in fairly fluent french to say how much he regretted, and would not madam accept his landau and drive home? she thanked him, but declined the offer in a voice which had a charm for all who heard it. he bowed low, not urging his offer, and said, "i am mr. william bingham. i trust to have the pleasure of meeting madam again and, too, this young gentleman, whose neat excuse for me would betray him if his perfect french did not. can i further serve you?" "no, sir," said de courval, "except to tell me what inn near by might suit us. we are but just now landed. my guide seems in doubt. i should like one close at hand. my mother is, i fear, very tired." "i think,"--and he turned to the clerk,--"yes, st. tammany would serve. it is clean and well kept and near by." he was about to add, "use my name," but, concluding not to do so, added: "it is at the corner of chancery lane. this young man will know." then, with a further word of courtesy, he drove away, while madam stood for a moment sadly contemplating the additions to her toilet. mr. bingham, senator for pennsylvania, reflected with mild curiosity on the two people he had annoyed, and then murmured: "i was stupid. that is where the federal club meets and the english go. they will never take those poor french with their baggage in a barrow." he had at least the outward manners of a day when there was leisure to be courteous, and, feeling pleased with himself, soon forgot the people he had unluckily inconvenienced. de courval went on, ruefully glancing at his clothes, and far from dreaming that he was some day to be indebted to the gentleman they had left. the little party, thus directed, turned into mulberry street, or, as men called it, arch, and, with his mother, de courval entered a cleanly front room under the sign of st. tammany. there was a barred tap in one corner, maids in cap and apron moving about, many men seated at tables, with long pipes called churchwardens, drinking ale or port wine. some looked up, and de courval heard a man say, "more french beggars." he flushed, bit his lip, and turned to a portly man in a white jacket, who was, as it seemed, the landlord. the mother shrank from the rude looks and said a few words in french. the host turned sharply as she spoke, and de courval asked if he could have two rooms. the landlord had none. "then may my mother sit down while i inquire without?" a man rose and offered his chair as he said civilly: "oeller's tavern might suit you. it is the french house--a hotel, they call it. you will get no welcome here." "thank you," said de courval, hearing comments on their muddy garments and the damned french. he would have had a dozen quarrels on his hands had he been alone. his mother had declined the seat, and as he followed her out, he lingered on the step to speak to his guide. they were at once forgotten, but he heard behind him scraps of talk, the freely used oaths of the day, curses of the demagogue jefferson and the man washington, who was neither for one party nor for the other. he listened with amazement and restrained anger. he had fallen in with a group of middle-class men, federalists in name, clamorous for war with jacobin france, and angry at their nominal leader, who stood like a rock against the double storm of opinion which was eager for him to side with our old ally france or to conciliate england. it was long before de courval understood the strife of parties, felt most in the cities, or knew that back of the mischievous diversity of opinion in and out of the cabinet was our one safeguard--the belief of the people in a single man and in his absolute good sense and integrity. young de courval could not have known that the thoughtless violence of party classed all french together, and as yet did not realize that the _émigré_ was generally the most deadly foe of the present rule in france. looking anxiously at his mother, they set out again up mulberry street, past the meeting-house of friends and the simple grave of the great franklin, the man too troubled, and the mother too anxious, to heed or question when they moved by the burial-ground where royalist and whig lay in the peace of death and where, at the other corner, wetherill with the free quakers built the home of a short-lived creed. oeller's tavern--because of its french guests called a hotel--was on chestnut street, west of fifth, facing the state house. a civil french servant asked them into a large room on the right of what was known as a double house. it was neat and clean, and the floor was sanded. presently appeared maxim oeller. yes, he had rooms. he hoped the citizen would like them, and the citizeness. de courval was not altogether amused. he had spoken english, saying, however, that he was of france, and the landlord had used the patois of alsace. the mother was worn out, and said wearily: "i can go no farther. it will do. it must do, until we can find a permanent lodging and one less costly." mr. oeller was civil and madam well pleased. for supper in her room, on extra payment, were fair rolls and an omelet. de courval got the mud off his clothes and at six went down-stairs for his supper. at table, when he came in, were some twenty people, all men. only two or three were of french birth and the young man, who could not conceive of jacobin clubs out of france, sat down and began to eat with keen relish a well-cooked supper. by and by his neighbors spoke to him. had he just come over the seas, as the landlord had reported? what was doing in france? he replied, of course, in his very pure english. news in london had come of mirabeau's death. much interested, they plied him at once with questions. and the king had tried to leave paris, and there had been mobs in the provinces, bloodshed, and an attack on vincennes--which was not quite true. here were americans who talked like the jacobins he had left at home. their violence surprised him. would he like to come to-morrow to the jacobin club? the king was to be dealt with. between amusement and indignation the grave young vicomte felt as though he were among madmen. one man asked if the decree of death to all _émigrés_ had been carried out. "no," he laughed; "not while they were wise enough to stay away." another informed him that washington and hamilton were on the way to create a monarchy. "yes, citizen, you are in a land of titles--your excellency, their honors of the supreme court in gowns--scarlet gowns." his discreet silence excited them. "who are you for? speak out!" "i am a stranger here, with as yet no opinions." "a neutral, by jove!" shouted one. at last the young man lost patience and said: "i am not, gentlemen, a jacobin. i am of that noblesse which of their own will gave up their titles. i am--or was--the vicomte de courval." there was an uproar. "we are citizens, we would have you to know. damn your titles! we are citizens, not gentlemen." "that is my opinion," said de courval, rising. men hooted at him and shook fists in his face. "take care!" he cried, backing away from the table. in the midst of it came the landlord. "he is a royalist," they cried; "he must go or we go." the landlord hurried him out of the room. "monsieur," he said--"citizen, these are fools, but i have my living to think of. you must go. i am sorry, very sorry." "i cannot go now," said de courval. "i shall do so to-morrow at my leisure." it was so agreed. he talked quietly a while with his mother, saying nothing of this new trouble, and then, still hot with anger, he went to his room, astonished at his reception, and anxious that his mother should find a more peaceful home. he slept the sleep of the healthy young, rose at early dawn, and was able to get milk and bread and thus to escape breakfast with the citizen-boarders, not yet arisen. before he went out, he glanced at the book of guests. he had written vicomte de courval, with his mother's name beneath it, la vicomtesse de courval, without a thought on so casual a matter, and now, flushing, he read "citizen" above his title with an erasure of de and vicomte. over his mother's title was written the last affectation of the jacobins, "citizeness" courval. it was so absurd that, the moment's anger passing into mirth, he went out into the air, laughing and exclaiming: "_mais qu'ils sont bêtes! quelle enfantillage!_ what childishness!" the servant, a man of middle age, who was sweeping the steps, said in french, "what a fine day, monsieur." "_bon jour, citizen_," returned de courval, laughing. the man laughed also, and said, "_canailles, monsieur_," with a significant gesture of contempt. "_bon jour, monsieur le vicomte_," and then, hearing steps within, resumed his task with: "but one must live. my stomach has the opinions of my appetite." for a moment he watched the serious face and well-knit figure of the vicomte as he turned westward, and then went into the house, remarking, "_qu'il est beau_"--"what a handsome fellow!" de courval passed on. independence hall interested him for a moment. many people went by him, going to their work, although it was early. he saw the wretched paving, the few houses high on banks of earth beyond sixth street, and then, as he walked westward on chestnut street, pastures, cows, country, and the fine forest to the north known as the governor's wood. at last, a mile farther, he came upon the bank of a river flowing slowly by. what it was he did not know. on the farther shore were farms and all about him a thinner forest. it was as yet early, and, glad of the lonely freshness, he stood still a little while among the trees, saw bees go by on early business bent, and heard in the edge of the wood the love song of a master singer, the cat-bird. nature had taken him in hand. he was already happier when, with shock of joy he realized what she offered. no one was in sight. he undressed in the edge of the wood and stood a while in the open on the graveled strand, the tide at full of flood. the morning breeze stirred lightly the pale-green leaves of spring with shy caress, so that little flashes of warm light from the level sun-shafts coming through the thin leafage of may flecked his white skin. he looked up, threw out his arms with the naked man's instinctive happiness in the moment's sense of freedom from all form of bondage, ran down the beach, and with a shout of pure barbarian delight plunged into the river. for an hour he was only a young animal alone with nature--diving, swimming, splashing the water, singing bits of love-songs or laughing in pure childlike enjoyment of the use of easy strength. at last he turned on his back and floated luxuriously. he pushed back his curly hair, swept the water from his eyes, and saw with a cry of pleasure that which is seen only from the level of the watery plain. on the far shore, a red gravel bank, taking the sun, was reflected a plain of gold on the river's breadth. the quickened wind rolled the water into little concave mirrors which, dancing on the gold surface, gathered the clear azure above him in cups of intense indigo blue. it was new and freshly wonderful. what a sweet world! how good to be alive! when ashore he stood in a flood of sunshine, wringing the water from body and limbs and hair, and at last running up and down the beach until he was dry and could dress. then, hat in hand, he walked away, feeling the wholesome languor of the practised swimmer and gaily singing a song of home: "quand tout renait à l'espérance, et que l'hiver fuit loin de nous, sous le beau ciel de notre france, quand le soleil revient plus doux; quand la nature est reverdie, quand l'hirondelle est de retour, j'aime à revoir ma normandie, c'est le pays qui m'a donné le jour!" the cares and doubts and worries of yesterday were gone--washed out of him, as it were, in nature's baptismal regeneration of mind and body. all that he himself recognized was a glad sense of the return of competence and of some self-assurance of capacity to face the new world of men and things. he wandered into the wood and said good morning to two men who, as they told him, were "falling a tree." he gathered flowers, white violets, the star flower, offered tobacco for their pipes, which they accepted, and asked them what flower was this. "we call them quaker ladies." he went away wondering what poet had so named them. in the town he bought two rolls and ate them as he walked, like the great benjamin. about nine o'clock, returning to the hotel, he threw the flowers in his mother's lap as he kissed her. he saw to her breakfast, chatted hopefully, and when, about noon, she insisted on going with him to seek for lodgings, he was pleased at her revived strength. the landlord regretted that they must leave, and gave addresses near by. unluckily, none suited their wants or their sense of need for rigid economy; and, moreover, the vicomtesse was more difficult to please than the young man thought quite reasonable. they were pausing, perplexed, near the southwest corner of chestnut and fifth streets when, having passed two gentlemen standing at the door of a brick building known as the philosophical society, de courval said, "i will go back and ask where to apply for information." he had been struck with the unusual height of one of the speakers, and with the animation of his face as he spoke, and had caught as he went by a phrase or two; for the stouter man spoke in a loud, strident voice, as if at a town meeting. "i hope, citizen, you liked the last 'gazette.' it is time to give men their true labels. adams is a monarchist and hamilton is an aristocrat." the taller man, a long, lean figure, returned in a more refined voice: "yes, yes; it is, i fear, only too true. i hope, citizen, to live to see the end of the titles they love, even mr.; for who is the master of a freeman?" "how droll is that, _maman!_" said de courval, half catching this singular interchange of sentiment. "why, rené? what is droll?" "oh, nothing." he turned back, and addressing the taller man said: "pardon me, sir, but we are strangers in search of some reasonable lodging-house. may i ask where we could go to find some one to direct us?" the gentleman appealed to took off his hat, bowing to the woman, and then, answering the son, said, "my friend, citizen freneau, may know." the citizen had small interest in the matter. the taller man, suddenly struck by the woman's grave and moveless face and the patient dignity of her bearing, began to take an interest in this stranded couple, considering them with his clear hazel eyes. as he stood uncovered, he said: "tell them, freneau! your paper must have notices--advertisements. where shall they inquire?" freneau did not know, but quick to note his companion's interest, said presently: "oh, yes, they might learn at the library. they keep there a list of lodging-houses." "that will do," said the lean man. madame, understanding that they were to be helped by this somber-looking gentleman, said, "_je vous remercie, messieurs_." "my mother thanks you, sir." then there was of a sudden cordiality. most of the few french known to freneau were republicans and shared his extreme opinions. the greater emigration from the islands and of the beggared nobles was not as yet what it was to become. "you are french?" said freneau. "yes, we are french." "i was myself about to go to the library," said the taller man, and, being a courteous gentleman gone mad with "gallic fever," added in imperfect french, "if madame will permit me; it is near by, and i shall have the honor to show the way." then citizen freneau of the new "national gazette," a clerk in the department of state, was too abruptly eager to help; but at last saying "good-by, citizen jefferson," went his way as the statesman, talking his best french to the handsome woman at his side, went down chestnut street, while de courval, relieved, followed them and reflected with interest--for he had learned many things on the voyage--that the tall man in front must be the former minister to france, the idol of the democratic party, and the head of that amazing cabinet of diverse opinions which the great soldier president had gathered about him. east of fourth street, mr. jefferson turned into a court, and presently stood for a moment on the front step of a two-story brick building known as carpenter's hall, over which a low spire still bore a forgotten crown. not less forgotten were jefferson's democratic manners. he was at once the highly educated and well-loved virginian of years ago. he had made good use of his time, and the woman at his side, well aware of the value of being agreeable, had in answer to a pleasant question given her name, and presently had been told by the ex-minister his own name, with which she was not unfamiliar. "here, madame," he said, "the first congress met. i had the misfortune not to be of it." "but later, monsieur--later, you can have had nothing to regret." "certainly not to-day," said the virginian. he paused as a tall, powerfully built man, coming out with a book in his hand, filled the doorway. "good morning, mr. wynne," said jefferson. "is the librarian within?" "yes; in the library, up-stairs." hearing the name of the gentleman who thus replied, the young vicomte said: "may i ask, sir, if you are mr. hugh wynne?" "yes, i am; and, if i am not mistaken, you are the vicomte de courval, and this, your mother. ah, madame," he said in french, far other than that of the secretary, "i missed you at oeller's, and i am now at your service. what can i do for you?" the vicomtesse replied that they had been guided hither by mr. jefferson to find a list of lodging-houses. "then let us go and see about it." "this way, vicomte," said jefferson. "it is up-stairs, madame." ah, where now were the plain manners of democracy and the scorn of titles? a low, sweet voice had bewitched him, the charm of perfect french at its best. the united states bank was on the first floor, and the clerks looked up with interest at the secretary and his companions as they passed the open door. de courval lingered to talk with wynne, both in their way silently amused at the capture by the vicomtesse of the gentleman with jacobin principles. the room up-stairs was surrounded with well-filled book-shelves. midway, at a table, sat zachariah poulson, librarian, who was at once introduced, and who received them with the quiet good manners of his sect. a gentleman standing near the desk looked up from the book in his hand. while mr. poulson went in search of the desired list, mr. wynne said: "good morning, james. i thought, mr. secretary, you knew mr. logan. permit me to add agreeably to your acquaintance." the two gentlemen bowed, and wynne added: "by the way, do you chance to know, mr. secretary, that mr. logan is hereditary librarian of the loganian library, and every logan in turn if he pleases--our only inherited title." "not a very alarming title," said the quaker gentleman, demurely. "we can stand that much," said jefferson, smiling as he turned to madame de courval, while her son, a little aside, waited for the list and surveyed with interest the quakers, the statesman, and the merchant who seemed so friendly. at this moment came forward a woman of some forty years; rose-red her cheeks within the quaker bonnet, and below all was sober gray, with a slight, pearl-colored silk shawl over her shoulders. "good morning, friend wynne. excuse me, friend jefferson," she said. "may i be allowed a moment of thy time, james logan?" the gentlemen drew back. she turned to the vicomtesse. "thou wilt permit me. i must for home shortly. james logan, there is a book william bingham has praised to my daughter. i would first know if it be fitting for her to read. it is called, i believe, 'thomas jones.'" mr. jefferson's brow rose a little, the hazel eyes confessed some merriment, and a faint smile went over the face of hugh wynne as logan said: "i cannot recommend it to thee, mary swanwick." "thank thee," she said simply. "there is too much reading of vain books among friends. i fear i am sometimes a sinner myself; but thy aunt, mistress gainor, hugh, laughs at me, and spoils the girl with books--too many for her good, i fear." "ah, she taught me worse wickedness than books when i was young," said wynne; "but your girl is less easy to lead astray. oh, a word, mary," and he lowered his voice. "here are two french people i want you to take into your house." "if it is thy wish, hugh; but although there is room and to spare, we live, of need, very simply, as thou knowest." "that is not thy uncle langstroth's fault or mine." "yes, yes. thou must know how wilful i am. but friend schmidt is only too generous, and we have what contents me, and should content margaret, if it were not for the vain worldliness gainor wynne puts into the child's head. will they like friend schmidt?" "he will like them, mary swanwick. you are a fair french scholar yourself. perhaps they may teach you--they are pleasant people." he, too, had been captured by the sweet french tongue he loved. "they have some means," he added, "and i shall see about the young man. he seems more english than french, a staid young fellow. you may make a quaker of him, mary." "thou art foolish, hugh wynne; but i will take them." then the perverted secretary of state went away. mrs. swanwick, still in search of literature, received an innocent book called "the haunted priory, or the fortunes of the house of almy." there were pleasant introductions, and, to de courval's satisfaction, their baggage would be taken in charge, a chaise sent in the afternoon for his mother and himself, and for terms--well, that might bide awhile until they saw if all parties were suited. the widow, pleased to oblige her old friend, had still her reserve of doubt and some thought as to what might be said by her permanent inmate, mr. johann schmidt. iii on reaching mrs. swanwick's home in the afternoon, the vicomtesse went at once to her room, where the cleanliness and perfect order met her tacit approval, and still more the appetizing meal which the hostess herself brought to the bedside of her tired guest. mr. schmidt, the other boarder, was absent at supper, and the evening meal went by with little talk beyond what the simple needs of the meal required. de courval excused himself early and, after a brief talk with his mother, was glad of a comfortable bed, where he found himself thinking with interest of the day's small events and of the thin, ruddy features, bright, hazel eyes and red hair, of the tall virginia statesman, the leader of the party some of whose baser members had given the young vicomte unpleasant minutes at oeller's hotel. when very early the next day de courval awakened and looked eastward from his room in the second story of mrs. swanwick's home, he began to see in what pleasant places his lot was cast. the house, broad and roomy, had been a country home. now commerce and the city's growth were contending for front street south of cedar, but being as yet on the edge of the town, the spacious georgian house, standing back from the street, was still set round with ample gardens, on which just now fell the first sunshine of the may morning. as de courval saw, the ground at the back of the house fell away to the delaware river. between him and the shore were flowers, lilacs in bloom, and many fruit-trees. among them, quite near by, below the window, a tall, bareheaded man in shirt-sleeves was busy gathering a basket of the first roses. he seemed particular about their arrangement, and while he thus pleased himself, he talked aloud in a leisurely way, and with a strong voice, now to a black cat on the wall above him, and now as if to the flowers. de courval was much amused by this fresh contribution to the strange experiences of the last two days. the language of the speaker was also odd. as de courval caught bits of the soliloquy under his window, he thought of his mother's wonder at this new and surprising country. what would she write rochefoucauld d'entin? she was apt to be on paper, as never in speech, emotional and tender, finding confession to white paper easy and some expression of the humorous aspects of life possible, when, as in writing, there needed no gay comment of laughter. if she were only here, thought the son. will she tell the duke how she is "thou" to these good, plain folk, and of the prim welcomes, and of this german, who must be the friend schmidt they spoke of,--no doubt a quaker, and whom he must presently remind of his audience? but for a little who could resist so comic an opportunity? "gute himmel, but you are beautiful!" said the voice below him. "oh, not you," he cried to the cat, "wanton of midnight! i would know if, madame red rose, you are jealous of the white-bosomed rose maids. if all women were alike fair as you, there would be wild times, for who would know to choose? off with you, jezebel, daughter of darkness! 'sh! i love not cats. go!" and he cast a pebble at the sleepy grimalkin, which fled in fear. this singular talk went on, and de courval was about to make some warning noise when the gardener, adding a rose to his basket, straightened himself, saying: "ach, himmel! my back! how in the garden adam must have ached!" leaving his basket for a time, he was lost among the trees, to reappear in a few minutes far below, out on the water in a boat, where he undressed and went overboard. "a good example," thought de courval. taking a towel, he slipped out noiselessly through the house where no one was yet astir, and finding a little bathhouse open below the garden, was soon stripped, and, wading out, began to swim. by this time the gardener was returning, swimming well and with the ease of an expert when the two came near one another a couple of hundred yards from shore. as they drew together, de courval called out in alarm: "look out! take care!" two small lads in a large egg harbor skiff, seeing the swimmer in their way, made too late an effort to avoid him. a strong west wind was blowing. the boat was moving fast. de courval saw the heavy bow strike the head of the man, who was quite unaware of the nearness of the boat. he went under. de courval struck out for the stern of the boat, and in its wake caught sight of a white body near the surface. he seized it, and easily got the man's head above water. the boat came about, the boys scared and awkward. with his left hand, de courval caught the low gunwale and with his right held up the man's head. then he felt the long body stir. the great, laboring chest coughed out water, and the man, merely stunned and, as he said later, only quarter drowned, drew deep breaths and gasped, "let them pull to shore." the boys put out oars in haste, and in a few minutes de courval felt the soft mud as he dropped his feet and stood beside the german. in a minute the two were on the beach, the one a young, white figure with the chest muscles at relieving play; the other a tall, gaunt, bronzed man, shaking and still coughing as he cast himself on the bordering grass without a word. "are you all right?" asked de courval, anxiously. for a moment the rescued man made no reply as he lay looking up at the sky. then he said: "yes, or will be presently. this sun is a good doctor and sends in no bill. go in and dress. i shall be well presently. my boat! ah, the boys bring it. now my clothes. do not scold them. it was an accident." "that is of the past," he said in a few moments as de courval rejoined him, "a contribution to experience. thank you," and he put out a hand that told of anything but the usage of toil as he added: "i was wondering, as i dressed, which is the better for it, the helper or the helped. ach, well, it is a good introduction. you are mein herr de courval, and i am johann schmidt, at your honorable service now and ever. let us go in. i must rest a little before breakfast. i have known you,"--and he laughed,--"shall we say five years? we will not trouble the women with it." "i? surely not." "pardon me. i was thinking of my own tongue, which is apt to gabble, being the female part of a man's body." "may i beg of you not to speak of it," urged de courval, gravely. "how may i promise for the lady?" laughed schmidt as they moved through the fruit-trees. "ah, here is the basket of roses for the frau von courval." a singular person, thought the vicomte, but surely a gentleman. madame de courval, tired of looking for a home, had resolved to give no trouble to this kindly household and to accept their hours--the breakfast at seven, the noonday dinner, the supper at six. she was already dressed when she heard the step outside of her door, and looking up from her bible, called "_entrez_, my son. ah, roses, roses! did you gather them?" "no; they are for you, with the compliments of our fellow-lodger, a german, i believe, mr. schmidt; another most strange person in this strange land. he speaks english well, but, _mon dieu_, of the oddest. a well-bred man, i am sure; you will like him." "i do not know, and what matters it? i like very few people, as you know, rené; but the place does appear to be clean and neat. that must suffice." he knew well enough that she liked few people. "are you ready, _maman?_ shall we go down?" "yes, i am ready. this seems to me a haven of rest, rené--a haven of rest, after that cruel sea." "it so seems to me, _maman_; and these good quakers. they _tutoyer_ every one--every one. you must try to learn english. i shall give you lessons, and there is a note from mr. wynne, asking me to call at eleven. and one word more, _maman_--" "well, my son?" "you bade me put aside the past. i shall do so; but you--can not you also do the same? it will be hard, for you made me make it harder." "i know--i know, but you are young--i old of heart. life is before you, my son. it is behind me. i can not but think of my two lonely little ones in the graveyard and the quiet of our home life and, my god! of your father!" to his surprise, she burst into tears. any such outward display of emotion was in his experience of her more than merely unusual. "go down to breakfast, rené. i shall try to live in your life. you will tell me everything--always. i shall follow you presently. we must not be late." "yes," he said; but he did not tell her of his morning's adventure. even had he himself been willing to speak of it, the german would not like it, and already schmidt began to exercise over him that influence which was more or less to affect his life in the years yet to come. as he went down to the broad hall, he saw a floor thinly strewn with white sand, settles on both sides, a lantern hanging overhead, and the upper half of the front door open to let the morning air sweep through to the garden. a glance to right and left showed on one side a bare, whitewashed front room, without pictures or mirrors, some colonial chairs with shells carved on feet and knees, and on a small table a china bowl of roses. the room to right he guessed at once to be used as a sitting-room by schmidt. the furniture was much as in the other room, but there were shining brass fire-dogs, silver candlesticks on the mantel, and over it a pair of foils, two silver-mounted pistols, and a rapier with a gold-inlaid handle. under a window was a large secretary with many papers. there were books in abundance on the chairs and in a corner case. the claw-toed tables showed pipes, tobacco-jars, wire masks, and a pair of fencing-gloves. on one side of the hall a tall clock reminded him that he was some ten minutes late. the little party was about to sit down at table when he entered. "this is friend de courval," said the widow. "we have met in the garden," returned schmidt, quietly. "indeed. thou wilt sit by me, friend de courval, and presently thy mother on my right." as she spoke, madame de courval paused at the door while the hostess and her daughter bent in the silent grace of friends. the new-comer took her place with a pleasant word of morning greeting in her pretty french; an old black woman brought in the breakfast. a tranquil courtesy prevailed. "will thy mother take this or that? here are eggs my uncle sent from the country, and shad, which we have fresh from the river, a fish we esteem." there was now for a somewhat short time little other talk. the girl of over sixteen shyly examined the new-comers. the young man approved the virginal curves of neck and figure, the rebellious profusion of dark chestnut-tinted hair, the eyes that could hardly have learned their busy attentiveness in the meeting-house. the gray dress and light gray silk kerchief seemed devised to set off the roses which came out in wandering isles of color on her cheeks. madame's ignorance of english kept her silent, but she took note of the simple attire of her hostess, the exquisite neatness of the green apron, then common among friends, and the high cap. the habit of the house was to speak only when there was need. there was no gossip even of the mildest. "june was out all night," said mrs. swanwick. "that is our cat," she explained to de courval. "but she brought in a dead mouse," said the girl, "to excuse herself, i suppose." schmidt smiled at the touch of humor, but during their first meal was more silent than usual. "i did not tell thee, margaret," said mrs. swanwick, "that william westcott was here yesterday at sundown. i have no liking for him. i said thou wert out." "but i was only in the garden." "i did say thou wert out, but not in the garden." schmidt smiled again as he set his teaspoon across his cup, the conventional sign that he wished no more tea. then the girl, with fresh animation, asked eagerly: "oh, mother, i forgot; am i to have the book ann bingham thought delightful, and her father told thee i should read?" "i am not so minded," replied the mother, and this seemed to end the matter. de courval listened, amused, as again the girl asked cheerfully: "aunt gainor will be here to take me with her to see some china, mother, at twelve. may i not go?" "no, not to-day. there is the cider of last fall we must bottle, and i shall want thy help. the last time," she said, smiling, "thou didst fetch home a heathen god--green he was, and had goggle eyes. what would friend pennington say to that?" "but i do not pray to it." "my child!" said the mother, and then: "if thou didst pray to all aunt gainor's gods, thou wouldst be kept busy. i have my hands full with thee and gainor wynne's fal-lals and thy uncle langstroth's follies." she smiled kindly as she spoke, and again the girl quietly accepted the denial of her request, while de courval listened with interest and amusement. "i shall go with miss wynne," said schmidt, "and buy you a brigade of china gods. i will fill the house with them, margaret." he laughed. "thou wilt do nothing of the kind," said mrs. swanwick. "well, nanny would break them pretty soon. brief would be the lives of those immortals. but i forgot; i have a book for thee, pearl." de courval looked up. "yes," he thought; "the pearl, marguerite. it does seem to suit." "and what is it?" said the mother. "i am a little afraid of thee and thy books." "'the vicar of wakefield' it is called; not very new, but you will like it, pearl." "i might see it myself first." "when pearl and i think it fit for thee," said schmidt, demurely. "i did see also in the shop job scott's 'the opening of the inward eye, or righteousness revealed.' i would fetch thee that--for thyself." the hostess laughed. "he is very naughty, friend de courval," she said, "but not as wicked as he seems." very clearly schmidt was a privileged inmate. madame ate with good appetite, pleased by the attention shown her, and a little annoyed at being, as it were, socially isolated for want of english. as she rose she told her son that she had a long letter she must write to cousin rochefoucauld, and would he ask mr. wynne how it might be sent. then schmidt said to de courval: "come to my room. there we may smoke, or in the garden, not elsewhere. there is here a despotism; you will need to be careful." "do not believe him," said the pearl. "mother would let him smoke in meeting, if she were overseer." "margaret, margaret, thou art saucy. that comes of being with the willing girls and gainor, who is grown old in sauciness--world's people!" and her eyebrows went up, so that whether she was quite in earnest or was the prey of some sudden jack-in-the-box of pure humor, de courval did not know. it was all fresh, interesting, and somehow pleasant. were all quakers like these? he followed schmidt into his sitting-room, where his host closed the door. "sit down," he said. "not there. these chairs are handsome. i keep them to look at and for the occasional amendment of slouching manners. five minutes will answer. but here are two of my own contrivance, democratic, vulgar, and comfortable. ah, do you smoke? yes, a pipe. i like that. i should have been disappointed if you were not a user of the pipe. i am going to talk, to put you in _pays de connaissance_, as you would say. and now for comments! my acquaintance of five years,--or five minutes, was it, that i was under water?--may justify the unloading of my baggage of gossip on a man whom i have benefited by the chance of doing a good deed, if so it be--or a kind one at least. you shall learn in a half hour what otherwise might require weeks." de courval, amused at the occasional quaintness of the english, which he was one day to have explained, blew rings of smoke and listened. "i shall be long, but it will help you and save questions." "pray go on, sir. i shall be most thankful." "_imprimis_, there is mrs. swanwick, born in the church of england, if any are born in church--cyrilla plumstead. she was brought up in luxury, which came to an end before they married her to a stiff quaker man who departed this life with reasonable kindness, after much discipline of his wife in ways which sweeten many and sour some. she has held to it loyally--oh, more or less. that is the setting of our pearl, a creature of divine naturalness, waiting until some quaker cupid twangs his bow. then the kiss-defying bonnet will suffer. by the way, mrs. swanwick is a fair french scholar, but a bit shy with you as yet. "soon thou wilt see josiah langstroth, uncle of mrs. swanwick. ah, there's a man that mocks conjecture; for, being a quaker by pride of ancestral damnation, he goes to meeting twice a year, swears a little to ease his soul, toasts george the third of sundays, and will surely tell you how, driven out of the country, he went to london and was presented to the king and triumphantly kept his hat on his head. he is rich and would provide for his niece, who will take help from no one. he does at times offer money, but is ever well pleased when she refuses. as for hugh wynne, i will go with you to see him, a welsh squire to this day, like the best of them here. i shall leave you to make him out. he is a far-away cousin of margaret's mother. "it is a fine menagerie. very soon you will hear of aunt gainor wynne,--every one calls her aunt; i should not dare to do so,--a sturdy federalist lady, with a passion for old china, horses, and matchmaking, the godmother of mrs. swanwick. take care; she will hate or love you at sight, and as great a maker of mischief as ever perplexed good sense; as tender an old woman at times as ever lacked need of onions to fetch tears; a fine lady when she chooses. "there, i have done you a service and saved your wits industry. you listen well. there is a savor of grace in that. it is a virtue of the smoker. question me if you like." nothing could better have pleased the young man. "i would know more of this town, sir," and he told of his quest of a tavern. the german laughed. "a good lesson--federalists and ape democrats--wild politics of a nation in its childhood. three great men,--washington, hamilton, james wilson, and perhaps john adams; well--great merchants, willings, bingham, and girard; and besides these, quakers, many of them nobler for a creed unworkable in a naughty world, with offshoots of 'world's people,' which saved some fortunes in the war; and, ah, a sect that will die away,--free quakers, high-minded gentlemen who made up for a century of peace when they elected to draw the sword. i fear i have been tedious." "no, not at all; you are most kind, sir, and most interesting. i am sure to like it all. i hope my mother will be contented. we have never of late years been used to luxuries." "she can hardly fail to be satisfied; but it is a simple life. there are only two servants, cicero, and nanny, once a slave, now, as mrs. swanwick says, a servant friend--ah, and a stiff episcopal. she has never ceased to wonder why her mistress ever became a quaker. i am much of her way of thinking. are you of a mind to walk and see a little of the city? later we will call upon mr. wynne." as they rose, he added: "i did not speak of the wrecks of french nobles cast on these shores--only a few as yet. you will see them by and by. they are various--but in general perplexed by inheritance of helplessness. once for all you are to understand that my room is always and equally yours. of course you use the foils. yes; well, we shall fence in the garden. and now come; let us go out." "i forgot, sir. my mother bade me thank you for the roses. she has as yet no english, or would herself have thanked you." "but i myself speak french--of a kind. it will serve to amuse madame; but never will you hear french at its best until miss wynne does talk it." iv as they went northward on front street, with the broad delaware to the right, for as yet no water street narrowed the river frontage, the german said: "i left out of my portrait gallery one schmidt, but you will come to know him in time. he has a talent for intimacy. come, now; you have known him five years. what do you think of him?" more and more strange seemed this gentleman to his young companion. he glanced aside at the tall, strongly built man, with the merry blue eyes, and, a little embarrassed and somewhat amused, replied with habitual caution, "i hardly know as yet, but i think i shall like him." "i like the answer. you will like him, but we may leave him and time to beget opinion. how dignified these georgian fronts are, and the stoops! once folks sat on them at evening, and gossiped of the miseries of war. now there are changed ways and more luxury and a new day--less simpleness; but not among the good people we have left. no. they are of the best, and aristocrats, too, though you may not suspect it. the habit of hospitality in a new land remains. a lady with small means loses no social place because, like our hostess, she receives guests who pay. here will come rich kinsfolk and friends, visitors on even terms--whartons, morrises, cadwaladers, logans,--the old, proud welsh, grandsons of welsh, with at times quaker people and the men in office, for madame is clever and well liked. i tell her she has a quaker salon, which is not my wit, but true." "i had supposed friends too rigid for this." "oh, there are quakers and quakers, and sometimes the overseers feel called upon to remonstrate; and then there is an unpleasantness, and our hostess is all of a sudden moved by the spirit to say things, and has her claws out. and my rose, my rose pearl, can be prickly, too." "she does not look like it, sir." "no? when does a young woman look like what she is or may be? she is a good girl--as good as god makes them; her wits as yet a bit muzzled by the custom of friends. a fair bud--prophetic of what the rose will be." they wandered on to arch street and then westward. "here," said schmidt, as they turned into the open entrance of a graveyard--"here i come at evening sometimes. read that. there are sermons in these stones, and history." de courval saw on a gray slab, "benjamin franklin and deborah, his wife." he took off his hat, saying as he stood: "my father knew him. he came to normandy once to see the model farms of our cousin, rochefoucauld liancourt." "indeed. i never knew the philosopher, but the duke--i knew the duke well,--in paris,--oh, very well, long ago; a high-minded noble. we will come here again and talk of this great man, under the marble, quiet as never in life. you must not be late for wynne. he will not like that." turning southward and walking quickly, they came in half an hour to the busy space in front of wynne's warehouse. he met them at the door, where schmidt, leaving them, said, "i leave you a man, colonel wynne." wynne said, smiling: "i am no longer a colonel, vicomte, but a plain merchant. have the kindness to follow me, vicomte," and so passed on through a room where clerks were busy and into a small, neatly kept office. "sit down, vicomte. we must have a long talk and come quickly to know one another. you speak english, i observe, and well, too. and, now, you have a letter of exchange on me for five thousand livres, or, rather, two hundred pounds. better to leave it with me. i can give you interest at six per cent., and you may draw on me at need. have you any present want?" "no, sir; none--just yet none." "i am told that you left france for england and have had, pardon me, much to lament." "yes, we have suffered like many others." he was indisposed to be frank where there was no need to say more. "what do you purpose to do? a few thousand livres will not go far." "i do not know. anything which will help us to live." "anything? you may teach french like de laisne, or fencing like du vallon, or dancing like the marquis de beau castel. i offered him a clerkship." "offer me one," said de courval. "i write a good hand. i speak and write english. i can learn, and i will." wynne took stock, as he would have said, of the rather serious face, of the eyes of gray which met his look, of a certain eagerness in the young man's prompt seizure of a novel opportunity. "can you serve under a plain man like my head clerk, run errands, obey without question--in a word, accept a master?" "i have had two bitter ones, sir, poverty and misfortune." "can you come at eight thirty, sweep out the office, make the fires at need in winter, with an hour off, at noon, and work till six? such is our way here." the young man flushed. "is that required?" "i did it for a year, vicomte, and used the sword for five years, and came back to prosper." de courval smiled. "i accept, sir; we have never been rich, and i ought to say that we are not of the greater noblesse. when our fortunes fell away, i worked with our peasants in the field. i have no false pride, and my sword is in a box in mrs. swanwick's attic. i fancy, sir, that i shall have no use for it here. why gentlemen should prefer to teach french or dancing to good steady work i cannot understand." "nor i," said wynne, beginning to like this grave and decisive young noble. "think it over," he said. "i have done so." "very good. you will receive thirty dollars a month--to be increased, i trust. when will you come?" "to-morrow--at eight and a half, you said." "yes; but to-morrow a little earlier. the junior clerk you replace will tell you what you are to do, and for the rest mr. potts will give you your orders. a word more: you had better drop your title and be plain mr. de courval. when, as will chance, you go among our friends, it would be an affectation. well, then, to-morrow; but,--and you will pardon me,--to-day we are two gentlemen, equals; to-morrow, here at least, you are a simple clerk among exact and industrious people, and i the master. let us be clear as to this. that is all." "i think i understand. and now may i ask how i may find the french minister? there is a letter my mother would send to her cousin, and i am at a loss, for i fear there are no mails i can trust." "jean de ternant is the french minister, but he will hardly be likely to oblige a _ci-devant_ vicomte. they talk of a new one. give it to me; i will see that it goes by safe hands." with this he rose and added: "mrs. wynne will have the honor to call on the vicomtesse, and we shall be at her service." "thank you," said de courval, a little overcome by his kindness. "my mother is in mourning, sir. she will, i fear, be unwilling to visit." "then my wife will come again. we may leave two good women to settle that; and now i must let you go." then, seeing that de courval lingered, he added, "is there anything else?" "only a word of thanks, and may i ask why you are so good to us? i am--sadly unused to kindness. there was not much of it in england." wynne smiled. "i have heard a little about you--some things i liked--from my correspondents in bristol and london; and, vicomte, my mother was french. when you visit us at merion you shall see her picture stuart made for me from a miniature, and then you will understand why my heart goes out to all french people. but they are not easy to help, these unlucky nobles who will neither beg nor do a man's work. oh, you will see them, and i, too, more and more, i fear. good morning." with this the young man walked thoughtfully away. hugh wynne watched him for a moment, and said to himself, "a good deal of a man, that; schmidt is right." and then, having seen much of men in war and peace, "there must be another side to him, as there was to me. i doubt he is all meekness. i must say a word to mary swanwick," and he remembered certain comments his wife had made on margaret's budding beauty. then he went in. the thoughts of the young man were far from women. he went along the road beside dock creek, and stood a moment on the bridge, amused at the busy throng of which he was now to become a part. on the west side of second street a noisy crowd at a shop door excited his curiosity. "what is that?" he asked a passing mechanic. "i am a stranger here." "oh, that's a vandoo of lottery shares. the odd numbers sell high, specially the threes. that's what they're after." "thank you," said de courval, and then, as he drew nearer, exclaimed, "_mon dieu!_" the auctioneer was perched on a barrel. just below him stood a young frenchman eagerly bidding on the coveted number 33. not until de courval was beside him was he disillusioned. it was not carteaux, nor was the man, on nearer view, very like him. when clear of the small crowd, de courval moved away slowly, vexed with himself and disturbed by one of those abrupt self-revelations which prove to a man how near he may be to emotional insurrection. "if it had been he," he murmured, "i should have strangled him, ah, there at once." he had been imprudent, lacking in intelligence. he felt, too, how slightly impressed he had been by his mother's desire that he should dismiss from his life the dark hour of avignon. more than a little dissatisfied, he put it all resolutely aside and began to reconsider the mercantile career before him. he was about to give up the social creed and ways in which he had been educated. he had never earned a sou, and was now to become a part of the life of trade, a thing which at one time would have seemed to him impossible. would his mother like it? no; but for that there was no help, and some of it he would keep to himself. thirty dollars would pay his own board, and he must draw on his small reserve until he made more. but there were clothes to get and he knew not what besides; nor did he altogether like it himself. he had served in the army two years, and had then been called home, where he was sorely needed. it would have been strange if, with his training and traditions, he had felt no repugnance at this prospect of a trader's life. but it was this or nothing, and having made his choice, he meant to abide by it. and thus, having settled the matter, he went on his way, taking in with observant eyes the wonders of this new country. he made for his mother a neat little tale of how he was to oblige mr. wynne by translating or writing french letters. yes, the hours were long, but he was sure he should like it, and mrs. swanwick would, she had said, give him breakfast in time for him to be at his work by half after eight o'clock; and where was the letter which should be sent, and mrs. wynne would call. the vicomtesse wished for no company, and least of all for even the most respectable bourgeois society; but she supposed there was no help for it, and the boarding-house was very well, indeed, restful, and the people quiet. would she be expected to say thou to them? her son thought not, and after a rather silent noon dinner went out for a pull on the river with schmidt, and bobbed for crabs to his satisfaction, while schmidt at intervals let fall his queer phrases as the crabs let go the bait and slid off sideways. "there is a man comes here to pester mrs. swanwick at times. he goes out of the doors sideways, there, like that fellow in the water--monsieur crab, i call him. he is meek and has claws which are critical and pinch until madame boils over, and then he gets red like a crab. that was when pearl had of miss gainor a gold locket and a red ribbon, and wore it on a day when with miss gainor the girl was by evil luck seen of our quaker crab. "but not all are like that. there is one, israel morris, who looks like a man out of those pictures by vandyke you must have seen, and with the gentleness of a saint. were i as good as he, i should like to die, for fear i could not keep it up. ah you got a nip. they can bite. it can not be entirely true--i mean that man's goodness; but it is naturally performed. the wife is a fair test of humility. i wonder how his virtue prospers at home." de courval listened, again in wonder where had been learned this english, occasionally rich with odd phrases; for usually schmidt spoke a fluent english, but always with some flavor of his own tongue. the supper amused the young man, who was beginning to be curious and observant of these interesting and straightforward people. there were at times long silences. the light give and take of the better chat of the well-bred at home in france was wanting. his mother could not talk, and there were no subjects of common interest. he found it dull at first, being himself just now in a gay humor. after the meal he ventured to admire the buff-and-gold china in a corner cupboard, and then two great silver tankards on a sideboard. mrs. swanwick was pleased. "yes," she said, "they are of queen anne's day, and the arms they carry are of the plumsteads and swanwicks." he called his mother's attention to them. "but," she said, of course in french, "what have these people to do with arms?" "take care," he returned under his breath. "madame speaks french." mrs. swanwick, who had a fair knowledge of the tongue, quickly caught her meaning, but said with a ready smile: "ah, they have had adventures. when my husband would not pay the war tax, as friends would not, the vendue master took away these tankards and sold them. but when the english came in, major andré bought them. that was when he stole benjamin franklin's picture, and so at last gainor wynne, in london, years after, saw my arms on them in a shop and bought them back, and now they are margaret's." de courval gaily related the tale to his mother and then went away with her to her room, she exclaiming on the stair: "the woman has good manners. she understood me." the woman and pearl were meanwhile laughing joyously over the sad lady's criticism. when once in her bed-room, the vicomtesse said that on the morrow she would rest in bed. something, perhaps the voyage and all this new life, had been too much for her, and she had a little fever. a tisane, yes, if only she had a tisane, but who would know how to make one? no, he must tell no one that she was not well. he left her feeling that here was a new trouble and went down-stairs to join schmidt. no doubt she was really tired, but what if it were something worse? one disaster after another had left him with the belief that he was marked out by fate for calamitous fortunes. schmidt cheered him with his constant hopefulness, and in the morning he must not fail mr. wynne, and at need schmidt would get a doctor. then he interested him with able talk about the stormy politics of the day, and for a time they smoked in silence. at last, observing his continued depression, schmidt said: "take this to bed with you--at night is despair, at morning hope--a good word to sleep on. let the morrow take care of itself. bury thy cares in the graveyard of sleep." then he added with seriousness rare to him: "you have the lesson of the mid-years of life yet to learn--to be of all thought the despot. never is man his own master till, like the centurion with his soldiers, he can say to joy come and to grief or anger or anxiety go, and be obeyed of these. you may think it singular that i, a three-days' acquaintance, talk thus to a stranger; but the debt is all one way so far, and my excuse is those five years under water, and, too, that this preacher in his time has suffered." unused till of late to sympathy, and surprised out of the reserve both of the habit of caste and of his own natural reticence, de courval felt again the emotion of a man made, despite himself, to feel how the influence of honest kindness had ended his power to speak. in the dim candle-light he looked at the speaker--tall, grave, the eagle nose, the large mouth, the heavy chin, a face of command, with now a little watching softness in the eyes. he felt later the goodness and the wisdom of the german's advice. "i will try," he said; "but it does seem as if there were little but trouble in the world," and with this went away to bed. then schmidt found mrs. swanwick busy over a book and said: "madame de courval is not well, i fear. would you kindly see to her?" "at once," she said, rising. v the young man's anxiety about his mother kept him long awake, and his sleep was troubled, as at times later, by a dream of carteaux facing him with a smile, and by that strange sense of physical impotence which sometimes haunts the dreamer who feels the need for action and cannot stir. when at six in the morning de courval went down-stairs, he met mrs. swanwick. she turned, and when in the hall said: "i have been with thy mother all night, and now margaret is with her, but thou wilt do no harm to enter. she does not seem to me very ill, but we must have a doctor, and one who has her language. when after a little sleep she wakens, she wanders, and then is clear again." seeing his look of anxiety, she added, "be sure that we shall care for her." he said no word of the pain he felt and scarce more than a word of his gratitude, but, going up-stairs again, knocked softly at a chamber door. "come in," he heard, and entered. a low voice whispered, "she is just awake," and the slight, gray figure of the girl went by him, the door gently closing behind her. in the dim light he sat down by his mother's bed, and taking a hot hand in his, heard her murmur: "_mon fils_--my son. angels--angels! i was a stranger, and they took me in; naked and they clothed me, yes, yes, with kindness. what name did you say? carteaux. is he dead--carteaux?" the young man had a thrill of horror. "mother," he said, "it is i, rené." "ah," she exclaimed, starting up, "i was dreaming. these good people were with me all night. you must thank them and see that they are well paid. do not forget--well paid--and a tisane. if i had but a tisane _de guimauve!_" "yes, yes," he said; "we shall see. perhaps some lemonade." "yes, yes; go at once and order it." she was imperative, and her voice had lost its sweetness for a time. "i must not be made to wait." "very well, _maman_." as he went out, the gray figure passed in, saying, "she is better this morning, and i am so grieved for thee." "thank you," he murmured, and went down-stairs, seeing no one, and out to a seat in the garden, to think what he should do. yes, there must be a doctor. and carteaux--what a fool he had been to tell her his name! the name and the cropped hair of the jacobin, the regular features, by no means vulgar, the blood-red eyes of greed for murder, he saw again as in that fatal hour. whenever any new calamity had fallen upon him, the shrill murder-counseling voice was with him, heard at times like a note of discord even in later days of relief from anxiety, or in some gay moment of mirth. "he was wise," he murmured, remembering the german's counsel, and resolutely put aside the disturbing thought. at last nanny, the black maid, called him to breakfast. he was alone with schmidt and mrs. swanwick. they discussed quietly what doctor they should call; not their friend, dr. redman, as neither he nor dr. rush spoke french. schmidt said: "i have sent a note to mr. wynne not to expect you. set your mind at ease." there was need of the advice. de courval felt the helplessness of a young man in the presence of a woman's illness. he sat still in his chair at breakfast, hardly hearing the german's efforts to reassure him. it was near to eight. nanny had gone up to relieve margaret, who presently came in, saying, "aunt gainor is without, back from her morning ride." there was a heavy footfall in the hall and a clear, resonant voice, "mary swanwick, where are you?" in the doorway, kept open for the summer air to sweep through, the large figure of gainor wynne appeared in riding skirt and low beaver hat, a heavy whip in her hand. the years had dealt lightly with the woman, now far past middle life. there was a mass of hair time had powdered, the florid face, the high nose of her race, the tall, erect, massive build, giving to the observant a sense of masculine vigor. on rare occasions there was also a perplexing realization of infinite feminine tenderness, and, when she pleased, the ways and manners of an unmistakable gentlewoman. as the two men rose, mrs. swanwick said quietly, "aunt gainor, madame de courval is ill." "as much as to say, 'do not roam through the house and shout.'" "this is friend de courval," said mrs. swanwick. "you must pardon me, vicomte," said miss wynne. "you must pardon a rude old woman. i am hugh wynne's aunt. may i ask about your mother? is she very ill? i meant to call on her shortly. i am heartily at your service." "i fear she is very ill," he replied. "have you a doctor?" "we were just now thinking whom we should have," said mrs. swanwick. "the vicomtesse speaks no english." "yes, yes," said mistress wynne; "who shall we have? not dr. rush. he would bleed her, and his french--la, my cat can meow better french. ah, i have it. i will fetch chovet. we have not spoken for a month, because--but no matter, he will come." there was nothing to do but to thank this resolute lady. "i will send for him at once, aunt gainor," said mrs. swanwick. to de courval's surprise, it was margaret who answered. "he will come the quicker for aunt gainor, mother. every one does as she wants." this was to de courval. "except you, you demure little quaker kitten. i must go," and the masterful woman in question was out of the house in a moment, followed by schmidt and de courval. "a chair. i can't mount as i used to." her black groom brought out a chair. in a moment she was on the back of the powerfully built stallion and clattering up front street with perilous indifference to an ill-paved road and any unwatchful foot-passenger. she struck up spruce street and the unpaved road then called delaware fifth street and so down arch. it was mid-morning, and the street full of vehicles and people a-foot. suddenly, when near her own house, she checked her horse as she saw approaching a chaise with leather springs, the top thrown back, and in front a sorry-looking white horse. within sat a man who would have served for the english stage presentation of a frenchman--a spare figure, little, with very red cheeks under a powdered wig; he was dressed in the height of the most extravagant fashion of a day fond of color. the conventional gold-headed cane of the physician lay between his legs. at sight of mistress wynne he applied the whip and called out to his horse in a shrill voice, "_allez_. get on, ça ira!" the spinster cried to him as they came near: "stop, stop, doctor! i want you. stop--do you hear me?" he had not forgotten a recent and somewhat fierce political passage of arms, and turned to go by her. with a quick movement she threw the big stallion in front of ça ira, who reared, stopped short, and cast the doctor sprawling over the dash-board. he sat up in wrath. "_sacré bleu!_" he cried, "i might have been killed. _quelle femme!_ what a woman! and my wig--" it was in the street dust. "why did you not stop? get the man's wig, tom." the groom, grinning, dismounted and stood still, awaiting her orders, the dusty wig in his hand. [illustration: "with a quick movement she threw the big stallion in front of ça ira"] "my wig--give it to me." "no, don't give it to him." the doctor looked ruefully from the black to the angry spinster. "what means this, madame? my wig--" "i want you to go at once to see a sick woman at mrs. swanwick's." "i will not. i am sent for in haste. in an hour or two i will go, or this afternoon." "i don't believe you. you must go now--now. who is it is ill?" people paused, astonished and laughing. "it is citizen jefferson. he is ill, very ill." "i am glad of it. he must wait--this citizen." "but he has a chill--_un diable_ of a chill." "if the devil himself had a chill,--lord, but it would refresh him!--he would have to wait." he tried to pass by. she seized the rein of his horse. her blood was up, and at such times few men cared to face her. "you will go," she cried, "and at once, or--there is a tale i heard about you last year in london from dr. abernethy. that highwayman--you know the story. your wig i shall keep. it is freshly powdered. lord, man, how bald you are!" he grew pale around his rouge. "you would not, surely." "would i not? come, now, i won't tell--oh, not every one. be a good doctor. i have quarreled with dr. rush--and come and see me to-morrow. i have a horrid rheum. and as to citizen jefferson, he won't die, more's the pity." he knew from the first he must go, and by good luck no one he knew was in sight to turn him into ridicule for the pleasure of the great federalist dames. "give him his wig, tom." the little doctor sadly regarded the dusty wig. then he readjusted his head-gear and said he would go. "now, that's a good doctor. come," and she rode off again after him, by no means inclined to set him free to change his mind. at mrs. swanwick's door, as he got out of his chaise, she said: "this lady speaks only french. she is the vicomtesse de courval. and now, mind you, doctor, no citizenesses or any such jacobin nonsense." "_a votre service, madame_," he said, and rapped discreetly low, feeling just at present rather humble and as meek as ça ira. mistress wynne waited until the door closed behind him, and then rode away refreshed. turning to her black groom, she said, "if you tell, tom, i will kill you." "yes, missus." "at all events, he won't bleed her," she reflected, "and he has more good sense than most of them. that young fellow is a fine figure of a man. i wonder what kind of clerk hugh will make of him. i must have him to dine." in the hall dr. chovet met schmidt, who knew him, as, in fact, he knew every one of any importance in the city. "these are to me friends, doctor," he said. "i beg of you to come often," a request to the doctor's liking, as it seemed to carry better assurance of pay than was the usual experience among his emigrant countrymen. he was at once a little more civil. he bowed repeatedly, was much honored, and after asking a few questions of de courval, went up-stairs with mrs. swanwick, reflecting upon how some day he could avenge himself on gainor wynne. de courval, relieved by his presence and a little amused, said, smiling, "i hope he is a good doctor." "yes, he is competent. he manufactures his manners for the moment's need." the doctor came down in half an hour, and, speaking french of the best, said: "madame has had troubles, i fear, and the long voyage and no appetite for sea diet--bad, bad. it is only a too great strain on mind and body. there needs repose and shortly wine,--good bordeaux claret,--and soon, in a week or two, to drive out and take the air. there is no cause for alarm, but it will be long, long." schmidt went with him to the door. de courval sat down. wine, drives, a doctor, and for how long? and perhaps additions to the simple diet of this modest household. well, he must use some of the small means in wynne's hands. and these women, with their cares, their brave self-denial of all help, how could he ever repay this unlooked-for kindness? his mother soon grew better, and, having again seen mr. wynne, he felt that he might shortly take up the work which awaited him. meanwhile, the gentle nursing was effective, and went on without complaint and as a matter of course. miss wynne came at odd hours to inquire or to fetch some luxury, and soon the vicomte must call to see her. the days went by, and there were strawberries for madame from mr. langstroth and from merion, walks for de courval, or a pull on the water with schmidt, and anxiously desired news from france. at last, after a fortnight or more, well on into june, the doctor insisted on claret, and de courval asked of schmidt where it could be had. the german laughed. "i might lie to you, and i should at need, but i have already for the mother's use good bordeaux in the cellar." de courval colored, and, hesitating, asked, "how much am i in your debt?" "six months of the five years. it is i shall be long in debt, i fear. it cannot be all on one side. the life of a man! what credit hath it in the account of things? suppose it had gone the other way, would you contented bide?" "not i," laughed de courval. "let us say, then, i have paid a score of thanks; credit me with these--one should be prudent. only in the bible it is a thank,--one. be careful of the coin. let it rest there. so you go to work to-morrow. it is well; for you have been anxious of late, and for that exacting work is no bad remedy." the next day de courval found himself before seven-thirty in the counting-house. "it is hard in winter," said the clerk who was to instruct him. "got to make the fires then. mr. potts is particular. you must leave no dust, and here are brooms in the closet." and so, perched on a high stool, the clerk, well amused, watched his successor, louis rené, vicomte de courval, sweep out the counting-house. "by george!" said the critic, "you will wear out a broom a day. what a dust! sweep it up in the dust-pan. sprinkle it first with the watering-pot. lord, man, don't deluge it! and now a little sand. don't build a sea-beach. throw out the dust on the ash-heap behind the house." it was done at last. "take your coat off next time. the clerks will be here soon, but we have a few minutes. come out and i will show you the place. oh, this is your desk, quills, paper, and sand, and 'ware old man potts." they went on to the broad landing between the warehouse and dock creek. "there are two brigs from madeira in the creek, partly unloaded." the great tuns of madeira wine filled the air with vinous odors, and on one side, under a shed, were staves and salt fish from the north for return cargoes, and potatoes, flour, and onions in ropes for the french islands. "the ship outside," said the clerk, "is from the indies with tea and silks, and for ballast cheap blue canton china." the vessels and the thought of far-away seas pleased the young man. the big ship, it seemed, had been overhauled by a small british privateer. "but there is no war?" "no, but they claim to take our goods billed for any french port, and as many men as they choose to call english." "and she beat them off?" "yes; mr. wynne gave the master a silver tankard, and a hundred dollars for the men." de courval was excited and pleased. it was no day of tame, peaceful commerce. malayan pirates in the east, insolent english cruisers to be outsailed, the race home of rival ships for a market, made every voyage what men fitly called a venture. commerce had its romance. strange things and stranger stories came back from far indian seas. after this introduction, he thanked his instructor, and returning to the counting-house, was gravely welcomed and asked to put in french two long letters for martinique and to translate and write out others. he went away for his noonday meal, and, returning, wrote and copied and resolutely rewrote, asking what this and that term of commerce meant, until his back ached when he went home at six. he laughed as he gave his mother a humorous account of it all, but not of the sweeping. then she declared the claret good, and what did it cost? oh, not much. he had not the bill as yet. vi despite the disgust he felt at the routine of daily domestic service, the life of the great merchant's business began more and more to interest de courval. the clerks were mere machines, and of mr. wynne he saw little. he went in and laid letters on his desk, answered a question or two in regard to his mother, and went out with perhaps a message to a shipmaster fresh from the indies and eager to pour out in a tongue well spiced with sea oaths his hatred of england and her ocean bullies. the mother's recovery was slow, as chovet had predicted, but at the end of june, on a saturday, he told mistress wynne she might call on his patient, and said that in the afternoon the vicomtesse might sit out on the balcony upon which her room opened. madame was beginning to desire a little change of society and was somewhat curious as to this old spinster of whom rené had given a kind, if rather startling, account. her own life in england had been lonely and amid those who afforded her no congenial society, nor as yet was she in entirely easy and satisfactory relations with the people among whom she was now thrown. they were to her both new and singular. the quaker lady puzzled her inadequate experience--a _dame de pension_, a boarding-house keeper with perfect tact; with a certain simple sweetness, as if any common bit of service about the room and the sick woman's person were a pleasure. the quiet, gentle manners of the quaker household, with now and then a flavor of some larger world, were all to madame's taste. when, by and by, her hostess talked more and more freely in her imperfect french, it was unobtrusive and natural, and she found her own somewhat austere training beginning to yield and her unready heart to open to kindness so constant, and so beautiful with the evident joy of self-sacrifice. during the great war the alliance with france had made the language of that country the fashion. french officers came and went, and among the whig families of position french was even earlier, as in mary plumstead's case, a not very rare accomplishment. but of late she had had little opportunity to use her knowledge, and with no such courage as that of gainor wynne, had preferred the awkwardness of silence until her guest's illness obliged her to put aside her shy distrust in the interest of kindness. she soon found the tongue grow easier, and the vicomtesse began to try at short english sentences, and was pleased to amuse herself by correcting margaret, who had early learned french from her mother, and with ready intelligence seized gladly on this fresh chance to improve her knowledge. one day as mrs. swanwick sat beside her guest's couch, she said: "thy son told me soon after thy coming that thou art not, like most of the french, of the church of rome." he, it seemed, desired to see a friends' meeting, and his mother had expressed her own wish to do the same when well enough. "no," said madame; "we are of the religion--huguenots. there is no church of my people here, so my son tells me, and no french women among the emigrants." "yes, one or two. that is thy bible, is it not?" pointing to the book lying open beside her. "i am reading french when times serve. but i have never seen a french bible. may i look at it? i understand thy speech better every day, and margaret still better; but i fear my french may be queer enough to thee." "it is certainly better than my english," said the vicomtesse, adding, after a brief pause: "it is the french of a kind heart." the vicomtesse as she spoke was aware of a breach in her usual reserve of rather formal thankfulness. "i thank thee for thy pretty way of saying a pleasant thing," returned mrs. swanwick. "i learned it--thy language--when a girl, and was foolishly shy of its use before i knew thee so well. now i shall blunder on at ease, and margaret hath the audacity of youth." "a charming child," said madame, "so gay and so gentle and intelligent." "yes, a good girl. too many care for her--ah, the men! one would wish to keep our girls children, and she is fast ceasing to be a child." she turned to the bible in her hand, open at a dry leaf of ivy. "it has psalms, i see, here at the end." "yes, clement marot's. he was burned at the stake for his faith." "ah, cruel men! how strange! here, i see, is a psalm for one about to die on the scaffold." "yes--yes," said the vicomtesse. "what strange stories it seems to tell! it was, i see, printed long ago." "yes, two years before the massacre of st. bartholomew." "and here is one for men about to go into battle for god and their faith." the hostess looked up. her guest's face was stern, stirred as with some deep emotion, her eyes full of tears. she had been thinking, as she lay still and listened to mary swanwick's comments, of death for a man's personal belief, for his faith, of death with honor. she was experiencing, of a sudden, that failure of self-control which is the sure result of bodily weakness; for, with the remembrance of her husband's murder, she recalled, amid natural feelings of sorrow, the shame with which she had heard of his failure at once to declare his rank when facing death. for a moment she lay still. "i shall be better in a moment," she said. "ah, what have i done?" cried mrs. swanwick, distressed, as she took the thin, white hand in hers. "forgive me." "you have done nothing--nothing. some day i shall tell you; not now." she controlled herself with effectual effort, shocked at her own weakness, and surprised that it had betrayed her into emotion produced by the too vivid realization of a terrible past. she never did tell more of it, but the story came to the quaker dame on a far-off day and from a less reserved personage. at this moment margaret entered. few things escaped the watchful eyes that were blue to-day and gray to-morrow, like the waters of the broad river that flowed by her home. no sign betrayed her surprise at the evident tremor of the chin muscles, the quick movement of the handkerchief from the eyes, tear-laden, the mother's look of sympathy as she dropped the hand left passive in her grasp. not in vain had been the girl's training in the ways of friends. elsewhere she was more given to set free her face to express what she felt, but at home and among those of the society of friends she yielded with the imitativeness of youth to the not unwholesome discipline of her elders. she quietly announced aunt gainor as waiting below stairs. "wilt thou see her?" said mrs. swanwick. "certainly; i have much to thank her for. and tell my son not to come up as yet," for, being saturday, it was a half-holiday from noon, and having been out for a good walk to stretch his desk-cramped legs, he was singing in the garden bits of french songs and teasing june or watching her skilful hunt for grasshoppers. he caroled gaily as he lay in the shade: "la fin du jour sauve les fleurs et rafraîchit les belles; je veux, en galant troubadour, célébrer, au nom de l'amour, chanter, au nom des fleurs nouvelles la fin du jour." the message was given later, and as mistress gainor came in to his mother's room she was a striking figure, with the beaver hat tied under her chin and the long, dark-green pelisse cast open so as to reveal the rich silk of her gown. it was not unfit for her age and was in entire good taste, for as usual she was dressed for her rôle. even her goddaughter was slightly surprised, well as she knew her. this was not the gainor that chovet knew, the woman who delighted to excite the too easily irritated dr. rush, or to shock mrs. adams, the vice-president's wife, with well embroidered gossip about the willing women and the high play at landsdowne, where mrs. penn presided, and shippens, chews, and others came. this was another woman. margaret, curious, lingered behind miss wynne, and stood a moment, a hand on the door. miss wynne came forward, and saying in french which had amazed two generations, "_bon jour, madame_," swept the entirely graceful courtesy of a day when even the legs had fine manners, adding, as the vicomtesse would have risen, "no, i beg of you." "the settle is on the balcony," said the hostess, "and cicero will come up by and by and carry thee out. not a step--not a step by thyself," she added, gently despotic. as miss wynne passed by, the girl saw her courtesy, and, closing the door, said to herself, "i think i could do it," and fell to courtesying on the broad landing. "i should like to do that for friend nicholas waln," and gaily laughing, she went out and down the garden to deliver her message to the young vicomte. neither man, woman nor the french tongue dismayed mistress wynne. "_c'était un long calembourg_, my son," the vicomtesse said later--"a long conundrum, a long charade of words to represent _le bon dieu_ knows what. ah, a tonic, truly. i was amused as i am not often." in fact, she was rarely receptively humorous and never productively so. now she spoke slowly, in order to be understood, comprehending the big woman and knowing her at once for a lady of her own world with no provincial drawbacks, a woman at her ease, and serenely unconscious of, or indifferent to, the quality of the astounding tongue in which she spoke. she talked of london and of the french emigrant nobles in philadelphia, of the marquis de la garde, who taught dancing; of the comte du vallon, who gave lessons in fencing; of de malerive, who made ice-cream. madame, interested, questioned her until they got upon unhappy france, when she shifted the talk and spoke of the kindness of mr. wynne. "it will soon be too hot here," said gainor, "and then i shall have you at the hill--chestnut hill, and in a week i shall come for you to ride in my landau,"--there were only four in the city,--"and the vicomte shall drive with you next saturday. you may not know that my niece mrs. wynne was of french quakers from the midi, and this is why her son loves your people and has more praise for your son than he himself is like to hear from my nephew. for my part, when i hate, i let it out, and when i love or like, i am frank," which was true. just then came the old black servant man cicero, once a slave of james logan the first, and so named by the master, folks said, because of pride in his fine translation of the "de senectute" of cicero, which franklin printed. "cicero will carry thee out," said mrs. swanwick. "will he, indeed?" said gainor, seeing a shadow of annoyance come over the grave face of the sick woman as she said, "i can walk," and rose unsteadily. the pelisse was off, and before the amazed vicomtesse could speak, she was in gainor's strong arms and laid gently down on a lounge in the outer air. "_mon dieu!_" was all she could say, "but you are as a man for strength. thank you." the roses were below her. the cool air came over them from the river, and the violet of the eastward sky reflected the glow of the setting sun. a ship with the tricolor moved up with the flood, a _bonnet rouge_ at the masthead, as was common. "what flag is that?" asked the vicomtesse. "and that red thing? i do not see well." "i do not know," said gainor, calmly fibbing; and seeing her goddaughter about to speak, she put a finger on her lips and thrust a hand ignorant of its strength in the ribs of the hostess as madame, looking down among the trees on the farther slope, said: "who is that? how merry they are!" "adam and eve--in the garden," replied gainor. "for shame!" murmured mary swanwick in english. "it is well she did not understand thee." then she added to the vicomtesse: "it is margaret, madame, and thy son." again gay laughter came up from the distance; the vicomtesse became thoughtful. "i have left you lettuce and some fruit," said miss wynne, "and may i be pardoned for taking the place of cicero?" "ah, madame, kindness in any form is easy to pardon." then gainor went away, while mrs. swanwick sat down, saying: "now no more talk. let me fan thee a little." the next day being the first sunday in july, schmidt said after breakfast: "de courval, you said last night that you would like to go to church. it shall be christ church, if you like--episcopal they call it." they set out early, and on delaware second street saw the fine old church dr. kearsley planned, like the best of christopher wren's work, as de courval at once knew. "i shall go in. i may not stay," said schmidt. "i do not like churches. they seem all too small for me. men should pray to god out of doors. well, it has a certain stately becomingness. it will suit you; but the druids knew best." they found seats near the chancel. just before the service began, a black servant in livery entered by a side door. a large man, tall and erect, in full black velvet, followed. the servant opened a pew; the tall man sat down, and knelt in prayer; the servant went back to the door, and seated himself on the floor upon a cushion. schmidt whispered, "that is george washington." the young man, it is to be feared, paid small attention to the service or to good bishop white's sermon. the grave, moveless, ruddy face held him with the interest of its history. the reverent attention of the great leader pleased him, with his huguenot training. at the close the congregation remained standing until washington had gone out. "come," said schmidt, and crossing the church they waited at the south gate until the president passed. he raised his hand in soldierly salute, and bowing, took off his beaver as he met mrs. chew and the chief-justice. the two men walked away, silent for a time. then the german said: "you have seen a great man, a great soldier,--says our frederick, who ought to know,--a statesman, too, and baited now by jefferson's creature freneau. it must have pleased the almighty to have decreed the making of a man like george washington." that the god of calvin should have pleasure in things made had never occurred to the young huguenot, who was already getting lessons which in days to come would freely modify the effect of the stern tenets which through habit and education he accepted with small cost of thought. his mind, however, was of serious type, and inquiry was in the whole world's atmosphere of his time. he said, "herr schmidt, can a man conceive of god as having enjoyment?" "if you were god, the all-creative, the eternal power, the inconceivable master, would you not make for yourself pleasure, when you could make or mar all things? does it shock you? or has the thought of your church the clipped wings of an eagle that must ever stumble on the earth and yearn for the free flight of the heavens? terrible shears are creeds." de courval was new to such comments. he felt hindered by all the child home-rule of habit, and the discipline of limiting beliefs held the more stringently for the hostile surroundings of neighbors and kinfolks of the church of rome. the german was of no mind to perplex him. he had some clearly defined ideas as to what as a gentleman he could or could not do. as to much else he had no ruling conscience, but a certain kindliness which made him desire to like and be liked of men, and so now, with something akin to affection, he was learning to love the grave young noble to whom he owed a life endowed by nature with great power of varied enjoyment. "we will talk of these things again," he said. "once i was speaking of the making of men, and i said, 'if the father of shakspere had married another woman, or his wife a year later, would "hamlet" ever have been written?'" de courval laughed. "i do not know 'hamlet.'" the german looked around at him thoughtfully and said: "is that indeed so? it is a sermon on the conduct of life. when once i spoke of this and how at birth we are fortuned, the king said to me, i think--" and he broke off his sentence. "you must not take me too seriously, de courval. this is mere gossip of the imagination. i have lived too much in france with the philosophers, who are like paul's men of athens." "i like it," said de courval, pleased, puzzled, flattered, and immensely curious concerning the man at his side; but decent manners forbidding personal questions, he accepted the german's diversion of the talk and asked, "who is that across the street?" "a good soldier, general wayne, and with him the secretary of war, knox. it is said he is one of the few whom washington loves. he is a lonely man, the president, as are the kings of men, on thrones or elsewhere." "to be loved of that man would be worth while," said his companion. he was to see him again in an hour of distress for himself and of trouble and grief for the harassed statesman. when at home he told his mother he had seen washington. "what was he like?" "i can not say--tall, straight, ruddy, a big nose." she smiled at his description. "your father, rené, once told me of a letter marquis la fayette had of him the day after he last parted with washington. it was something like this: 'when our carriages separated, i said, i shall never see him again. my heart said yes. my head said no; but these things happen. at least i have had my day.' that is not like a man, rené. he must have strong affections." "men say not, mother." vii the years which followed our long struggle for freedom were busy years for the mind of man. the philosophers in france were teaching men strange doctrines, and fashion, ever eager for change, reveled in the new political philosophy. the stir of unrest was in the air, among the people, in the talk of the salons. the bastille had long since fallen, and already in the provinces murder and pillage had begun. the terrible example set by jourdan late in '91 was received in paris with other than reprobation. he was to return to avignon and, strange irony of fate, to be condemned as a moderate and to die by the guillotine amid the rejoicing of the children of his victims; but this was to be far away in '94. the massacres of august, '92, when the king left the swiss to their fate, all the lightning and thunder of the gathering storm of war without and frenzied murder within the tottering kingdom, had not as yet in this midsummer been heard of in america. after four years as our minister in paris, mr. jefferson had long ago come back to add the mischief of a notable intellect to the party which sincerely believed we were in danger of a monarchy, and was all for france and for citizen equality, who, as hamilton foresaw, might come to be the most cruel of tyrants. the long battle of states' rights had begun in america. the federalists, led by hamilton, were for strong central rule; their opponents, the republicans, later to be called democrats, were gone mad in their jacobin clubs of many cities, _bonnet rouge_ at feasts, craze about titles, with citizen for mr., and eagerly expecting a new french minister. washington, a federalist, smiled grimly at the notion of kingship, and the creature of no party, with his usual desire for peace, had made up, of both parties, a cabinet sure to disagree. to hear the clamor of the jacobin clubs, a stranger coming among us in '92 might have believed us ruined. nevertheless, hamilton had rescued our finance, assured a revenue not as yet quite sufficient, founded the bank, and assumed the state debts. the country was in peril only from disorders due to excess of prosperity, the podagra of the state. there was gambling in the new script, lotteries innumerable, and the very madness of speculation in all manner of enterprises--canals, toll-pike roads, purchases of whole counties. cool heads like schmidt looked on and profited. the quaker merchants, no wise perturbed by the rashness of speculation, accumulated irredeemable ground rents, and thriving, took far too little interest in the general party issues, but quietly created the great schools which are of our best to-day, endowed charities, and were to be heard of later as fearless christian gentlemen in a time of death and despair, when men unafraid in battle shrank from the foe which struck and was never seen. in the early august days, madame had driven now and then with mistress wynne, and at present was gone, not quite willingly, to stay a while at the hill. mrs. wynne had called, and her husband, more than once, with a guarded word or two from his wife as to the manner of usefulness of his young clerk. "mind you, hugh, let it be secretary. do not hurt the poor lady's pride." so counseled darthea, kindly wise, and he obeyed, having come in time to accept his wife's wisdom in many matters social and other. to the hill farm came to call, on the vicomtesse, the vicomte de noailles, the prosperous partner of william bingham; and, asked by the wynnes, mrs. bingham, to be at a later day the acclaimed beauty of london; her kin, the willings, with the gift of hereditary good looks; and the shippens. the vicomtesse received them all with a certain surprise at their ceremonious good manners and their tranquil sense of unquestioned position. she would return no visits as yet, and her son was busy and, too, like herself, in mourning. in fact, she shrank from general contact with the prosperous, and dreaded for rené this gay world of pretty young women. _ciel!_ what might not happen? on their part, they were curious and kind. emigrant ladies were rare; but, as to foreign titles, they were used to them in the war, and now they were common since a great influx of destitute french had set in, and not all who came were to their liking. "there," said the german one evening, kindling a great pipe, "enough of politics, de courval; you are of the insatiably curious. we are to dine to-morrow at the fashionable hour of four with mistress wynne and the maid, my pearl. it is an occasion of some worthiness. she has come to town for this feast, one of her freaks. did ever you see a great actress?" "i?" said de courval. "no, or yes--once, in france, mademoiselle mars. we of the religion do not go to the theater. what actress do you speak of?" "oh, women--all women; but to-morrow on the stage will be miss gainor, become, by pretty courtesy of possibilities declined, mistress gainor by brevet--" de courval, delighted, cried: "but your little quaker lady--is she to have a rôle? she seems to me very simple." "simple! yes, here, or at meeting, i daresay. thou shouldest see her with friend waln. her eyes humbly adore his shoe-buckles--no, his shoe-ties--when he exhorts her to the preservation of plainness of attire, and how through deep wading, and a living travail of soul, life shall be uplifted to good dominion. it is a godly man, no doubt, and a fine, ripe english he talks; and arthur howell, too." "i must hear them." "you will hear noble use of the great english speech. but best of all are the free quakers, like samuel wetherill, an apostate, says friend pennington with malignant sweetness, but for me a sterling, well-bred gentle, if ever god made one. ah, then the maid, all godliness and grace, will take his hat and cane and, the head a bit aside, make eyes at him. ah, fie for shame! and how we purr and purr--actresses, oh, all of them! there is the making of a quaker _juliet_ in that girl." "one would scarce think it. my mother is _éprise_--oh, quite taken with miss margaret, and now, i think, begins a little to understand this household, so new and so wonderful to me and to her. but i meant to ask you something. i have part paid the queer doctor, and the bill, i suppose, is correct. it is long--" "and large, no doubt." "and what with a new gown my mother needs and some clothes i must have--" the german interrupted him. "de courval, may i not help you, to whom i owe a debt which can never be paid?" "oh, no, no. i shall soon have more wages." he grew red as he spoke. "but why is money such a wonder thing that only some saleable article shall count against it? i lack hospitality to entertain the thought." "would you take it of me?" "i? yes. i took my life of you--a poor thing, but mine own." "i think you had small choice in the matter," laughed rené. "_der teufel!_ very little. let it be a loan, if you will. come, now. you make me unhappy. i lend you five hundred _livres_--a hundred dollars we call it here. you pay, when you can." de courval hesitated. was there not something ignoble in refusing a kindness thus offered? schmidt laughed as he added: "reverse it. put it in this fashion: good master of my fate, let me drown. i would owe no coin of life to any. to end it, i put to-night in this left-hand drawer money. use it freely. leave a receipt each time, if you like." "i am so little used to kindness," said de courval, wavering. "i know," returned schmidt--"bittersweet to some men, but should not be to the more noble nature." "no, no, not to me. i take it and gladly, but"--and once more he colored, as he said with a certain shyness--"would you mind calling me rené? i--i should like it." "and i, too," said the german, as he put a hand of familiar kindliness on the younger man's knee. "now that is settled, and you have done me another favor. i have an errand at germantown, and shall join you at miss wynne's at four to-morrow. are there any ships come in? no? there will be, i fear, evil news from france, and storms, storms that will roll across the sea and beat, too, on these shores. it will stir here some foolish echoes, some feeble mockery of what over there cries murder." de courval had had too much reason to believe him. "ach, i am sleepy. shall you go to see your mother on sunday? there is my mare at your service." yes, he had meant to walk, but he would be glad of the horse. when, on saturday, mrs. swanwick knew that schmidt had gone to the country, she said margaret would walk with the vicomte, and show him the way. he felt a fresh surprise, a little embarrassment. young women were not thus free in france; but as he was the only one thus amazed, he set out with the pearl in some wonderment at what his mother would have said or thought. they walked up front street, and at last along fifth. she was now, as schmidt had said, the other margaret of whom de courval had had brief knowledge at times. a frank, natural, gay good humor was in all her ways, a gentle desire to please, which was but the innocent coquetry of a young girl's heart. she stayed a moment as they crossed walnut street, and replying to a question, said: "yes, that is the jail men called the provostry in the war. my grandfather lay in it--oh, very long. we have his sword in the attic. i would hang it up down-stairs, but friends would not approve, thou must know. and that is independence hall, but thou hast seen it." "yes. are you proud of it?" "surely. my people shed our blood for what strong men did in that hall. my uncle and my grandfather came out of the jail to die, oh, both of them!" "and of what party are you, miss margaret?" "of george washington's," she cried. "but friends must have no party, or their women, at least--not even tea-parties," and she laughed. "i think i am of your party," said de courval--"george washington's." the conventual shelter of the silk bonnet turned toward him as she said: "then we agree; but i am not sure that i like people to agree with me. it spoils talk, mr. schmidt says." "then i am all for jefferson," he cried gaily, thinking in his grave way that this young girl was of a sudden older than her years. "i am not sure that i like that either," she replied, and so chatting with easy freedom they came to miss wynne's door, opposite the quakers' burial-ground, where their dead lay in unmarked graves. a negro servant in the brown livery of the wynnes opened the door, and aunt gainor appeared in the hall in more than usual splendor. "good day, vicomte," and to margaret: "take off your bonnet, child. how can any one, man or woman, kiss thee with that thing on thy head? it might be useful at need, but i do suppose you could take it off on such occasions." "for shame, aunt gainor!" said the pearl, flushing and glad of the bonnet she was in act to remove. miss wynne kissed her, whispering, "good lord! you are on the way to be a beauty!" de courval, who of course had called long since to thank his hostess, had so far dined in no one of the more luxuriously appointed homes of philadelphia. here were portraits; much, too much, china, of which he was no judge; and tables for work that miss wynne never did, or for cards at which she liked high play. "mr. hamilton was to dine here, but was with me just now to be excused." "he was with my mother an hour this morning," said margaret, "about some small affairs we have in new york. he is to be here again on saturday sennight to tell mother all about it." "i am sorry to miss him," said gainor; "but if i lose a guest i desired, i am to have one i do not want. mr. josiah langstroth has bidden himself to dine with me." "uncle josiah? i have not seen him for a month." "there is a joss in the corner like him, vicomte," said miss wynne. "if you look at it, you will need no presentation. i pray you to avoid the temptation of a look." of course both young persons regarded, as she meant they should, the china god on his ebony stand. "a reincarnation of the bulldog," remarked gainor, well pleased with her phrase. "if," said margaret to the young man, "thou dost take my aunt or uncle josiah seriously, it will be what they never do one another. they fight, but never quarrel. my mother thinks this is because then they would stay apart and have no more the luxury of fighting again, a thing they do love." "are you sure that is thy mother's wisdom, margaret?" said gainor. "it is not like her." "if i said it was mine, thou wouldst box my ears." "did ever one hear the like?" the young girl occasionally ventured, when with aunt or uncle, upon these contributions of observation which now and then startle those who, seeing little change from day to day, are surprised by the sudden fruitage of developmental growth. "i shall profit by miss swanwick's warning," said de courval. miss wynne, who kept both houses open, and now would not as usual, on account of the vicomtesse, fill her country house with guests, had come to town to dine mr. hamilton and to amuse herself with the young man. it cannot be said, despite her bluff kindness, that de courval altogether or unreservedly liked her sudden changes of mood or the quick transitions which more or less embarrassed and at times puzzled him. upon his inquiring for his mother, miss wynne replied: "she is better, much better. you are to come to-morrow. you should come more often. it is absurd, most absurd, that you are so tied to the legs of a desk. i shall speak to my nephew." "i beg of you, madame, to do no such thing. i am a clerk and the youngest." and then a little ashamed of his shame, he added: "i sweep out the office and lock up at evening. you would cause mr. wynne to think i had asked you." he spoke with decision. "it is ridiculous. i shall explain, make it easy." then he said, "you will pardon me, who owe you so much, but i shall have to be beforehand and say i do not wish it." "i retreat," said miss wynne. "i haul down my colors." he was quite sure that she never would. "you are again kind, madame," he returned. "i hear mr. schmidt and the joss," she said as she rose, while margaret, unobserved, cast a thoughtful glance at the clerk. it was a new type to her. the gravity, the decisiveness, and the moral courage, although she may not have so labeled the qualities, appealed to her who had proudly borne the annoyances of restricted means among friends and kindred who lived in luxury. she had heard schmidt say to her mother that this de courval was a man on the way to the making of a larger manhood. even young as she was, about to be seventeen in september, she had among the young friends those she liked and some who were disposed to like her too well; but this was another kind of man. when schmidt entered, followed by friend langstroth, de courval was struck by the truth of gainor's reference to the joss. short, very fat, a triple chin and pendant cheeks under small eyes, and a bald head--all were there. "you are both late. my back of mutton will be overdone. the vicomte de courval--mr. langstroth." "glad to see thee; meant to come and see thee. i was to give thee this letter, friend schmidt. mr. wynne sent it. a messenger came up from chester while i was with him at the counting-house. the _saucy sisters_ was lying below for the flood." schmidt glanced at it, hesitated a moment, and put it in his pocket as they went in to dinner. "any news?" asked langstroth. "any news from france?" "i do not know," said schmidt. he had no mind to spoil the meal with what he knew must very likely be evil tidings. "it is from england," he added. miss gainor, understanding him, said: "we were to have had mr. hamilton. i think i told you." "i saw him at the office of the secretary of the treasury," said schmidt; "a less capable successor he has in his place. we talked much about the rage for lotteries, and he would stop them by a law." "he should let things alone," said langstroth. "a nice muddle he has made of it with his bank and his excise." "and what do you know about it?" said gainor, tartly. "fiddlesticks! i know that a man who cannot manage his own affairs had better leave larger things alone." "he has," said schmidt quietly, "as i see it, that rare double gift, a genius for government and finance." "humph!" growled langstroth. schmidt was silent, and took the wynne madeira with honest appreciation, while the young man ate his dinner, amazed at the display of bad manners. then the girl beside him said in a half-whisper: "fiddlesticks! why do people say that? the violin is hard to play, i hear. why do men say fiddlesticks?" de courval did not know, and aunt gainor asked, "what is that, margaret?" "i was saying that the violin must be hard to play." "ah, yes, yes," returned the hostess, puzzled, while schmidt smiled, and the talk fell upon mild gossip and the last horse-race--and so on to more perilous ground. "about lotteries," said josiah, "i have bought thee a ticket, margaret, number 1792--the lottery for the college of princeton." "a nice quaker you are," said miss wynne. "i see they forbid lotteries in massachusetts. the overseers of meeting will be after you." "i should like to see them. a damn pretty business, indeed. suppose thee were to win the big prize, child." he spoke the intolerable language then becoming common among friends. "thee could beat gainor in gowns." "i should not be let to wear them." alas! she saw herself in brocades and lutestring underskirts. the young man ignorantly shared her distress. "there is small chance of it, i fear," said gainor. "a hundred lottery chances i have bought, and never a cent the richer." and so the talk went on, langstroth abusing all parties, schmidt calmly neutral, the young people taking small part, and regarding the lottery business as one of josiah's annoying jokes--no one in the least believing him. at last the cloth was off the well-waxed mahogany table, a fresh pair of decanters set before the hostess, and each guest in turn toasted. langstroth had been for a time comfortably unamiable. he had said abusive things of all parties in turn, and now schmidt amused himself by adding more superlative abuse, while gainor wynne, enjoying the game, fed langstroth with exasperating additions of agreement. the girl, knowing them all well, silently watched the german's face, his zest in annoying josiah unexpressed by even the faintest smile--a perfect actor. de courval, with less full understanding of the players, was at times puzzled, and heard in silence schmidt siding with josiah. "it was most agreeable, my dear," said mistress gainor next day to one of her favorites, tacy lennox. "josiah should of right be a gentleman. he has invented the worst manners ever you saw, my dear tacy. he was like a mad bull, eager for war, and behold--he is fed and petted. ah, but he was furious and bedazed. tacy, i would you had seen it." it was at last quite too much of a trial for josiah, who turned from gainor to schmidt, and then to de courval, with wild opinions, to which every one in turn agreed, until at last, beginning to suspect that he was being played with, he selected a subject sure to make his hostess angry. a look of pugnacious greed for a bone of contest showed on his bulldog face as he turned to mistress wynne. "this madeira is on its last legs, gainor." "all of us are," laughed schmidt. "it is hardly good enough for my toast." "indeed," said gainor; "we shall know when we hear it." then josiah knew that for her to agree with him would this time be impossible. he smiled. "when i am at home, gainor, as thee knows, i drink to our lawful king." he rose to his feet. "here's to george the third." gainor was equal to the occasion. "wait a little, josiah. take away mr. langstroth's glass, cæsar. go to the kitchen and fetch one of the glasses i use no more because the hessian hogs used them for troughs when they were quartered on me in the war. cæsar, a hessian wine-glass for mr. langstroth." de courval listened in astonishment, while schmidt, laughing, cried, "i will drink to george with pleasure." "i know," cried margaret: "to george washington." schmidt laughed. "you are too sharp, pearl. in a minute, but for your saucy tongue, i should have trapped our tory friend. to george the greater," said schmidt. the quaker turned down his glass. "not i, indeed." "i hope the poor man will never hear of it, josiah," said miss wynne as she rose laughing, and presently schmidt and the young people went away, followed shortly after by langstroth. for a while margaret walked on in silence, de courval and the german talking. at last she said: "thou shouldst know that my uncle is not as bad as he seems. he is really a kind and generous man, but he loves to contradict my aunt, and no one else can so easily make her angry." "ah, pearl, the madeira was good," said schmidt--"too good; or, rather, the several madeiras. in the multitude of vinous counselers there is little wisdom, and the man's ways would tempt an angel to mischief." mrs. swanwick, being alone, had gone out to take supper with a friend, and as margaret left them in the hall, schmidt said to de courval: "come in. i have a great package from gouverneur morris, from paris. you may as well hear what news there is. i saw your anxiety, but i was of no mind to have that imitation quaker discuss the agony of a great nation." it took two months or more to hear from france, and each week added to the gathering anxiety with which de courval awaited news. he was grateful for the daily labor, with its steady exactions, which forbade excessive thought of the home land, for no sagacity of his friend or any forecast that man could make three thousand miles away was competent to predict the acts of the sinister historic drama on which the curtain was rising far away in france. as the german opened the envelop and set aside letter after letter, he talked on in his disconnected way. "i could like some bad men more than josiah langstroth. he has what he calls opinions, and will say, 'welladay,'--no, that is my bastard english,--he will say 'well, at all events, that is my opinion.' what means 'all events,' herr rené? a kick would change them. 't is an event--a kick. and mistress wynne is sometimes not easy to endure. she steps heavily on tender toes, even when on errands of goodness." the younger man scarce heard these comments as letter after letter was put aside, until at last he put down his pipe, and schmidt said: "i was sorry to keep you, but now this last letter has it all--all. there is no detail, my friend, but enough--enough. he writes me all france is in a ferment. this is from mr. morris, whom our mobocrats loathe for an aristocrat. he writes: 'the king has vetoed two bills, one about the priests and one of less moment. la fayette is in disgrace, and wants the surgeon's courage to let blood. worst of all, and i write in haste,' he says, 'a mob on june 20th broke into the tuileries and there, in the oeil de boeuf, a butcher mocked the king to his face as monsieur veto. the king laughed, it is said, and set their damned bonnet on his head, and drew his sword, and cried "_vive la nation!_" the war goes ill or well as you please; ill for all, i fear. dillon was murdered by his own regiment after a retreat.'" "i knew him in the army," said de courval. "i was young then. but the king--has he no courage? are they all mad?" "no. he has not the courage of action. he has the courage to endure, if that is to be so nominated. the other is needed just now. that is all--all." "and too much." "yes. come, let us go out and fence a bit in the garden, and sweat out too much madeira. come, there is still light enough." viii through the quiet of a sunday morning, de courval rode slowly up fifth street, and into a land of farms and woodland, to spend a quiet day alone with his mother, miss wynne, not altogether to the young man's regret, having to remain in town over monday. as he came to the scenes where schmidt, in their walks of sundays, had explained to him washington's well-laid plan of the germantown battle, he began at last to escape for a time the too sad reflection which haunted his hours of leisure in the renewed interest of a young soldier who had known only the army life, but never actual war. he bent low in the saddle, hat off to a group on the lawn at cliveden, the once war-battered home of the chews, and was soon after kissing his mother on the porch of the hill farm. there was disquieting news to tell of france, and he soon learned that despite the heat and mosquitos she preferred the tranquillity of the widow's home to the luxury of miss wynne's house. she was as usual calmly decided, and he did not urge her to stay longer. she would return to the city on thursday. they talked of money matters, with reticence on his part in regard to schmidt's kindness and good counsels, and concerning the satisfaction mr. wynne had expressed with regard to his secretary. "it may be good training for thee, my son," she said and then, after a pause, "i begin to comprehend these people," and, pleased with her progress, made little ventures in english to let him see how well she was learning to speak. an habitual respect made him refrain from critical corrections, but he looked up in open astonishment when she said rather abruptly: "the girl in her gray gowns is on the way to become one of the women about whom men go wild. neither are you very ugly, my son. have a care; but a word from me should suffice." "oh, mother," he exclaimed, "do not misunderstand me!" "my son, i know you are not as some of the light-minded cousins we knew in france; but a word of warning does no harm, even if it be not needed." "i think you may be at ease, _maman_. you amaze me when you call her beautiful. a pleasant little maid she seems to me, and not always the same, and at times gay,--oh, when away from her mother,--and intelligent, too. but beautiful--oh, hardly. _soyez tranquille, maman._" "i did not say she was beautiful. i said she was good-looking; or that at least was what i meant. certainly she is unlike our too ignorant demoiselles; but contrast with the familiar may have its peril. it is quite another type from our young women at home, and attractive enough in its way--in its bourgeois way." he smiled. "i am quite too busy to concern myself with young women." in fact he had begun to find interest in a little study of this new type. "yes, quite too busy." "that is as well." but she was not at ease. on the whole, she thought it would be proper now for him to go to mrs. bingham's and to the president's receptions. miss wynne would see that he had the entrée. he was too occupied, he said once more, and his clothes were quite unfit. neither was he inclined yet awhile. and so he rode away to town with several things to think about, and on thursday the vicomtesse made clear to the well-pleased mrs. swanwick that she was glad of the quiet and the english lessons and the crisp talk of schmidt, who spoke french, but not fluently, and concerning whom she was mildly jealous and, for her, curious. "schmidt, my son? no; a name disguised. he is a gentleman to his finger-ends, but surely a strange one." "it is enough, _maman_, that he is my friend. often i, too, am curious; but--ah, well, i wonder why he likes me; but he does, and i am glad of it." "you wonder. i do not," and she smiled. "ah, the vain _maman!_" he cried. it was very rare that she praised him, and she was by long habit given to no demonstrations of affection. two weeks ran on in the quiet routine of the quaker home and the increasing work of the great shipping merchant. de courval was more and more used by wynne in matters other than copying letters in french. sometimes, too, he was trusted with business affairs demanding judgment, and although wynne spoke no word of praise, neither was there any word of censure, and he watched the clerk with interest and growing regard. twice he sent him to new york, and once on an errand to baltimore, where he successfully collected some long-standing debts. a new clerk had come, and de courval, to his relief, was no longer expected to sweep out the counting-house. by degrees wynne fully realized that he had found a helper of unusual capacity, and more and more, as the great and varied business attracted de courval, he was taken into wynne's confidence, and saw the ships come and go, and longed to share the peril and see the wonders of the ocean. there were great tuns of wine from madeira on the pier or in the cellars. gentlemen came to taste it, men with historic names--general wayne, colonel lear for the president, and mr. justice yeates. de courval was bade to knock out bungs and dip in tasting vials. also miss wynne came to refill her cellar, but took small notice of him. he was out of favor for a season, and her nephew had laughed at her remonstrances. "a thoroughbred put to the work of a farm-horse!" "nonsense, aunt gainor! let him alone. you can not spoil him, as you did me. there is stuff in the fellow worth a dozen of my clerks. at six they are gone. if there is work to do, he stays till nine. what that man wants, he will get. what he sets himself to do, he does. let him alone." "a miserably paid clerk," she cried. "he deserves no better. i wash my hands of him." "there is soap in the closet," he laughed. she went away angry, and saw the young noble talking with a ruddy gentleman whose taste in wine has made his name familiar at the dining-tables of the last hundred years. major butler was asking the vicomte to dine, and promising a perilous education in the vintages of madeira. when the major had gone, mr. wynne sent for his clerk. to be opposed was apt to stiffen his welsh obstinacy. "your wages are to be now, sir, two hundred and fifty livres,--fifty dollars a month,--and you are doing well, very well; but the clerks are not to know, except mr. potts." he owed this unusual advance to miss wynne, but probably the master was as little aware of what had caused it as was the irate spinster. de courval thanked him quietly, knowing perfectly well that he had fairly earned what was so pleasantly given. it was now the saturday sennight mentioned by margaret as the day when mr. hamilton was to come to settle certain small business matters with mrs. swanwick. some wit, or jealous dame, as schmidt had said, called mrs. swanwick's the quaker salon; and, in fact, men of all types of opinion came hither. friends there were, the less strict, and at times some, like waln, to protest in their frank way against the too frequent company of world's people, and to go away disarmed by gentle firmness. mrs. swanwick's love of books and her keen interest in every new thing, and now the opening mind and good looks of margaret, together with the thoughtful neutrality of schmidt, captured men, young and old, who were apt to come especially on a saturday afternoon, when there was leisure even for busy statesmen. hither came aaron burr--the woman-hawk, aunt gainor called him, with his dark, fateful face; pickering, in after days of the war department; wolcott, to be the scarce adequate successor of hamilton; logan, and gay cousins--not often more than one or two at a time--with, rarely, the master of the rolls and robert morris, and mr. justice chew--in fact, what was best in the social life of the city. mr. hamilton was shut up with mrs. swanwick in the withdrawing-room, busy. it was now too late to expect visitors--five o'clock of a summer afternoon. the vicomtesse avoided this interesting society, and at last rené ceased to urge her to share what he himself found so agreeable. margaret sat entranced in the "castle of otranto," hardly hearing the _click, click_, of the fencing-foils on the grass plot not far away. birds were in the air; a woodpecker was busy on a dead tree; bees, head down, were accumulating honey for the hive at the foot of the garden; and a breeze from the river was blowing through the hall and out at the hospitably open front door--a peaceful scene, with still the ring and clash of the foils and de courval's merry laughter. "a hit, a palpable hit!" said a voice behind margaret as she rose. "thou art dead for a ducat--dead, friend de courval." "ah," said schmidt, "a critic. does it look easy, mr. de forest?" [illustration: "'well played!' cried schmidt--'the jest and the rapier'"] "i am a man of peace, how shouldst i know? but the game looks easy." he threw up his head and stretched out his hand. "let me look at the thing." "then take off your coat and put on a mask. but i shall not hurt you; there is no need for the mask." he was quietly amused, and if only nicholas waln would come; for now the quaker gentleman had put aside hat and coat, and in plainest gray homespun faced him, a stalwart, soldierly figure. "how does thee hold it, friend schmidt? ah, so?" in a moment the german knew that he was crossing blades with a master of the small sword. margaret and de courval looked on merrily exchanging gay glances. "dead," cried de forest, as he struck fair over the german's heart, "and a damn good hit!" "well played!" cried schmidt--"the jest and the rapier. another bout--no!" to his surprise he saw the quaker gentleman's face change as he hastily put on his coat. "thank thee," he said to de courval as the young man handed him his hat, and without other words than "i bid thee good day. i shall not bide this afternoon," went into the hall and out of the farther door, passing with bowed head and without a word a gentleman who entered. schmidt showed little of the astonishment easily read on de courval's face, who, however, said nothing, having been taught to be chary of comments on his elders; and now taking up his foil again, fell on guard. "a man haunted by his past," said schmidt, as was in fact explained at breakfast next day, when mrs. swanwick, being questioned, said: "yes. he was a colonel in the war, and of reckless courage. later he returned to friends, and now and then has lapses in his language and his ways, and is filled with remorse." "the call of the sword was too much for him," said schmidt. "i can comprehend that. but he had a minute of the joy of battle." "and then," said the pearl, "he had a war with himself." "the maid is beginning to think," said schmidt to himself. but this was all on the next day. as the tall man came out on the porch, margaret said: "my mother is occupied. friend schmidt, thou knowest friend jefferson; and this is our new lodger," and she said boldly, "the vicomte de courval." "ah," exclaimed jefferson, "we have met before. and madame is well, i trust?" "yes; but at this hour she rests. we owe you, sir, our thanks for the good chance of finding what has been to us most truly a home." margaret looked up pleased, she did not fully know why. and so he did really like them and their quiet home? presently schmidt said to jefferson: "there is sad news from france, mr. secretary." "good news, citizen; altogether good. what if men die that a people may live? men die in war. what is the difference? titles will go, a king be swept on to the dust-heap of history." a hot answer was on the lips of the young noble. he turned, vexed at the loss of his chance as alexander hamilton and mrs. swanwick joined them. jefferson ceased to speak to schmidt, and the two statesmen met with the formal courtesy of bitter hatred. jefferson could see no good in the brilliant finance of the man who now talked with courteous ease to one or another. the new-comer was slight of figure, bright-eyed, with the deep line so rarely seen where the nose meets the forehead, and above all graceful, as few men are. the face was less mobile than that of jefferson, who resembled to a strange degree the great actor of his name, a resemblance only to be explained by some common english ancestry in an untraceable past. he had been to a bad school in france as minister, and perhaps had by this time forgotten the day when he desired his agent in london to find for him a coat of arms. presently, after a talk with mrs. swanwick, jefferson, ill-pleased to meet hamilton, was of a mind to go. quite aware that he meant to leave a little sting, he said: "i must be gone. good-by"; and to hamilton: "you have heard, no doubt, the good news from france--citizen?" "i have heard of needless murder and of a weak, ill-served, kindly king insulted by a mob of ruffians." jefferson's thin face grew yet more somber; but what reply the secretary might have made was put aside by the cheerful coming of a man in plain, but not quaker clothes, a republican jacobin of the maddest, as was seen by his interchange of "citizen" with jefferson, and the warm welcome he received. thus reinforced, jefferson lingered where mrs. swanwick and margaret were busy with the hot chocolate, which hamilton, from youthful habit, liked. at a word from their hostess, de courval took a basket, and presently brought from the garden slope peaches such as any back yard among us grew in my childhood--yellow clingstones and open hearts. the widow ministered to the other statesman, who liked peaches and was not to be neglected even for her favorite hamilton, now busily discussing with schmidt the news sent by gouverneur morris. the new-comer had paid no least attention to his hostess, but sat down at the table and fingered the jumbles, apees, and cake known as "lovers'-knots" of nanny's make, until he discovered one to his fancy. mrs. swanwick gave no obvious sign of annoyance, but smilingly stirred the chocolate, while margaret quietly removed the dish of cakes and gave the guest a slice of sweetened bread known as "dutch loaf." "there are fewer currants in the cake than there were last week," remarked the astronomer, for, as schmidt said in an aside to de courval and hamilton, as they watched the great eat like lesser folk: "this is the famous astronomer, david rittenhouse. he divides his thoughts between the heavens and his diet; and what else there is of him is jacobin." "i wish," said hamilton, "that heaven equally engaged the rest of his party. may not i have my chocolate, mrs. swanwick?" "certainly; and might i be noticed a little?" said mrs. swanwick to rittenhouse. the absent-minded philosopher looked up and said: "i forgot. pardon me, citess." hamilton laughed merrily. "is that the last invention?" "it sounds like the name of some wild little animal," said the pearl. "neat, that, margaret," said hamilton; "and might i, too, have a peach? mr. jefferson has emptied the basket." margaret rose, and with de courval went down the garden, a fair presentment of the sexes, seen and approved by hamilton, while jefferson said gaily: "the transit of venus, rittenhouse," for it was that observation which had given this star-gazer fame and recognition abroad. "my compliments, sir," said schmidt. "i regret not to have said it." jefferson bowed. he was at his best, for neither manners nor wit were wanting in his social hour. the astronomer, without comment, went on eating sweet bread. they drank chocolate and chatted idly of the new luxury--ice-cream, which monsieur de malerive made for a living, and sold on the mall we now call independence square. they talked, too, of the sad influx of people from san domingo; the widow, attentive, intellectually sympathetic, a pleasant portrait of what the silver-clad pearl would be in days to come; she, the girl, leaning against a pillar of the porch, a gray figure silently watchful, curious, behind her for background the velvets of the rival statesmen, the long broidered waistcoats, the ribbon-tied queues, and the two strongly contrasted faces. perhaps only schmidt recognized the grace and power of the group on the porch. the warm august evening was near its close, and a dark storm, which hung threateningly over the jersey shore, broke up the party. warned by rolling thunder, the three men went away in peaceful talk. "the hate they have buried in their bellies," said schmidt; "but, rené, they are of the peerage, say what they may. equality! _der gute himmel!_ all men equal--and why not all women, too! he left that out. equal before the law, perhaps--not his slaves; before god, no--nor man. does he think hamilton his equal? he does not love the gentleman entirely. but these two are, as fate, inevitable withal, rulers of men. i have seen the labeled creatures of other lands--kings, ministers. these men you saw here are the growth of a virgin soil--_ach!_ 'there were giants in those days,' men will say." mrs. swanwick listened quietly, considering what was said, not always as quick as margaret to understand the german. he spoke further of the never-pleased virginian, and then the widow, who had kindness for all and respect for what she called experienced opinion, avoiding to be herself the critic and hiding behind a quotation, said, "'there be many that say, who will shew us any good?'" "fine bible wisdom," said schmidt. by and by when she had gone away with margaret about household matters, schmidt said to de courval: "that is one of the beautiful flowers of the formal garden of fox and penn. the creed suits the temperament--a garden rose; but my pearl--_ach!_ a wild rose, creed and creature not matched; nor ever will be." "i have had a delightful afternoon," said rené, unable or indisposed to follow the german's lead. "supper will be late. you promised me the new book." "yes; smith's 'wealth of nations,' not easy reading, but worth while." thereafter the busy days ran on into weeks, and in october of this tragic 1792 came the appalling news of the murdered swiss, self-sacrificed for no country and no large principle beyond the pledge of an oath to a foreign king. more horrible was the massacre of the priests in the garden of the carmelites. to rené's relief, these unlooked-for riots of murder seemed to affect his mother less than he had feared might be the case. "my husband's death was, my son, a prophecy of what was to come." to her it was all personal. for him it was far more, and the german alone understood the double anguish of a man in whom contended a puzzled horror at deaths without apparent reason, of murders of women like the princesse de lamballe,--an orgy of obscene insult,--and a wild anger at the march of the duke of brunswick upon paris. it was his country, after all, and he left his mother feeling disappointed that she did not share his hostile feeling in regard to the _émigrés_ in the german army. the wonderful autumn colors of october and november came and passed, a new wonder to the young man; his mother, to all seeming contented, spending her evenings with him over english lessons, or french books out of logan's excellent library, or busy with never-finished embroidery. on sundays they went to gloria dei, the modest little church of the swedes. there to-day, amid the roar of trade and shipyards, in the churchyard the birds sing over the grave of their historian, wilson, and worn epitaphs relate the love and griefs of a people whose blood is claimed with pride by the historic families of pennsylvania. during these months, aunt gainor was long absent in boston on a visit, a little to the relief of the vicomtesse. schmidt, too, was away in new york, to the regret of rené, who had come more and more to feel wholesomely his influence and increasing attachment. the money help had set him at ease, and he could now laugh when, on counting the coin in the drawer, he found it undiminished. he had remonstrated in vain. the german smiled. "a year more, and i shall be out of debt." had rené not heard of the widow's cruse? "i must be honest. 't is my time. the grateful bee in my bonnet does but improve the shining hour of opportunity. what was there to do but laugh?" and rené at last laughed. december came with snow and gray skies, and the great business de courval had grown to feel his own felt the gathering storm caused by the decree of freedom to white and black in the french islands. the great shipmasters, clark, willing, girard, the free-thinking merchant, and wynne, were all looking as bleak as the weather, and prudently ceased to make their usual sea-ventures before the ice formed, while at the coffee-houses the war between england and france, more and more near, threatened new perils to the commerce of the sea. on january 27, 1793, being saturday, while de courval, wolcott, and gilbert stuart, the artist, sat chatting with hamilton in the dining-room and drinking the widow's chocolate, the painter was begging leave to make a picture of margaret, and asking them to come and see the portrait of mrs. jackson, one of the three charming sisters of mr. bingham. "no, there must be no portrait. it is against the way of friends," said the mother. "i should hear of it from friend waln and others, too." what more there was, rené did not learn. the painter was urgent. stuart did paint her long afterward, in glorious splendor of brocade, beautiful with powder and nature's rouge. but now came nanny, the black maid, and waited while margaret shyly won a little talk with hamilton, who loved the girl. "i have been thinking," she said, "of friend jefferson. why, sir, do they have any titles at all, even citizen? i think a number would be still more simple." she was furnishing an elder with another of the unlooked-for bits of humor which attest the florescence of a mind gathering sense of the comic as the years run on and the fairy godmother, nature, has her way. "good heaven, child! if mr. jefferson had his will with your numeration, i should be zero, and he the angel of arithmetic alone knows what." "what is it, nanny!" said the mother. "massa wynne want to see massa courval--right away in the front room." de courval, wondering what had happened, and why he was wanted in haste, found wynne in schmidt's sitting-room. "close the door," said the master, "and sit down. i have much to say to you, and little time. there is great disturbance in san domingo. i have debts due me there, and, by ill chance, a cargo probably to be there soon--the _george washington_, as you may remember. you made out the bill of lading in french." "i recall it, sir." "the debts may go for hopeless. the cargo is lost if landed. port au prince and cap français are in terror, the planters flying to the towns, the plantations in ruins. the decree of freedom for the black has roused the devil among the slaves, and the low-class whites are ruling the towns." he paused to think, and then added: "i send out to-morrow with the flood my fastest ship, the schooner _marie_, without cargo, mind you. will you go, nominally as supercargo? you are more thoughtful than your years would imply. you are twenty-seven, i think you said. what you are worth in danger--and there will be much--i do not know. there may be questions involving grave decisions, involving courageous action, not merely what every gentleman has--mere personal fearlessness. i am plain, i trust." de courval was silent. "if you get there first, i save a large loss. once ashore, the cargo will be seized, and not a cent paid for it. it is to take or leave, mr. de courval; i shall not blame you if you say no. but if you do say no, i must go. the loss may be serious." here was a chance to repay much kindness, and the threat of danger stirred the young man's blood. "how long should i be absent?" "i do not know. the ship may have gone to martinique, also. there were goods for both islands." "there is but one question, sir--my mother. she has no one else. and may i talk to mr. schmidt?" "to no one better, if he were here. he is not, and i cannot wait. i shall call for your answer at nine to-night. the tide serves at 6 a.m. i ought to say that your perfect english and as perfect french enable you to pass for being of one nation or the other. best to be an american. and de courval? no; that is too plainly french." "i am louis rené. why not mr. lewis, sir, at need?" "good! excellent! i shall write my instructions with care. they will be full; but much must be left to you and the master." "captain biddle, i suppose." "yes. a resolute old sea-dog, but who will obey because i order it. good night. at nine--i must know at nine." de courval lost no time. his mother was alone, as usual avoiding the saturday visitors. "oh," he said to himself as he stood outside of her door, "you must let me go." he paused before he knocked. gratitude, interest, awakened eagerness for perilous adventure, called him to this voyage. he had then, as on later occasions one source of indecision--the mother. if she said no, he must stay; but would she? he knocked gently, and in a moment was standing at her side. she set aside her embroidery-frame. "what is wrong?" she said. "i do not want to hear any more evil news--or at least, no details. who else is dead of those we cared for?" "no one, mother. mr. wynne wishes me to sail for him at dawn to-morrow for san domingo. i may be in time to save him much money." "well," she said coldly, "what else?" her face, always grave, became stern. "and so, to save a trader's money, i am to be left alone." "mother, it seems hard for you to understand these people; and there is another side to it. i have been treated with kindness for which there seems to me small reason. twice my wages have been raised, and this offer is a compliment, as well as a chance to oblige a man i like." "wages!" she cried. "do not imagine me deceived by these good-natured bourgeois, nor by your desire to spare me. secretary, indeed! do they fancy me a fool? you are a clerk." "i am," he said; "but that is not now of importance. he has said that he must go or i must go." "then let him go. you must not disobey me, rené." "mother," he said, "these people have, god knows why, found us a home, and covered us with obligations never possible to be repaid. here at last comes a chance--and you know our old french saying." "yes, yes, i know. but any clerk could go. it is--oh, my son!--that i should miss you day and night." "any clerk could not go, _maman_. it asks this thing--a man not afraid. no timid clerk can go. do not you see, _maman?_" "he will think you afraid if you stay?" "oh, mother, do understand this man better! he is a gentleman--of--of as good a race as ours, a soldier of distinction in the war. he will not think me afraid; but others may." "is there danger, my son?" "yes. to be honest, very great danger. the blacks are free. the lower whites rule the seaports. it is to be more terrible than the riot of murder at home." he had remained standing while he talked. for half a minute the dark figure and unchanging face bent over the embroidery-frame without a word of reply. then rising, she set a hand on each of his shoulders and said, "you must go, rené." centuries of the training and creed of a race of warlike men could not have failed to defeat love-born anxiety, and the dread of loss, in a woman through whom had passed into the making of a man certain ancestral qualities. "you must go," she repeated. "thank you, mother. i was afraid--" "of what?" she cried. "that i should be afraid for a man of my blood to risk life where duty calls him?" "no, mother; i was afraid that you might not see it all as i do." "if, rené, this were but a peaceful errand of months away, i should have said no. the debts, all--all might have stood. i should have been ashamed, but obstinate, my son. we will not discuss it. you must go. and is it for long?" the clear, sweet voice broke a little. "is it for very long?" "i do not know." "ah, well. i do not want to see you in the morning. when you are ready to-night, you will say good-by." "yes, mother. and now i must pack my bag." and he left her. that was strange, he thought. what would have made some women say no decided her to say go. he smiled proudly. "it was like her," he murmured. when at eight that night he came to say good-by, she kissed him and said only, "write to me when you can." at nine hugh wynne had the answer he confidently expected. at dusk of day, the old black cicero tramped after de courval through the snow, as full of thought he went on, his camlet cloak about him, and under it the sword he had left in the quaker's attic. he had told mrs. swanwick and left a letter for schmidt, taking, after some hesitation, fifty dollars out of the drawer. at daybreak, on the slip, mr. wynne waited with the captain. "here," said the merchant, "are your instructions. use your good sense. you have it. have no fear of assuming responsibility. captain biddle, in case of doubt, trust mr. lewis to decide any question involving money." "oh, that is his name--lewis." "yes; mr. lewis will show you my instructions." then taking de courval aside, "you said no word of pay." "no, sir." "very good. some men would have bargained. i shall see that your salary while absent, eighty dollars a month, is put in mary swanwick's hands for your mother." "thank you. that leaves me at ease." "ah, here is some of my own maryland tobacco and a pipe the germans call meerschaum; and one word more: you have infinitely obliged me and my wife. god bless you! good-by! _bon voyage!_ your boat is ready, and captain biddle is impatient to be gone." in a few minutes the _marie_, wing-and-wing, was flying down the delaware with the first of the ebb, the skim of ice crackling at her bow and a fair wind after her. they were like enough to carry the ebb-tide with them to the capes or even to outsail it. de courval stood on the quarter-deck, in the clear, sharp wintry air, while the sun rose over jersey and deepened the prevalent reds which had so struck his mother when in may, nine months before, they first saw the city. now he recalled his sad memories of france, their unhappy poverty in england until their old notary in paris contrived to send them the few thousand livres with which they had come to pennsylvania with the hopes which so often deceived the emigrant, and then god had found for them friends. he saw as he thought of them, the german, who held to him some relation of affectionate nearness which was more than friendship and seemed like such as comes, though rarely, when the ties of blood are drawn closer by respect, service, and love. he had ceased to think of the mystery which puzzled many and of which hamilton and mr. justice wilson were believed to know more than any others. being of the religion, he had said to schmidt in a quiet, natural way that their coming together was providential, and the german had said: "why not? it was provided." then he saw gainor wynne, so sturdy and full of insistent kindness; the strong, decisive nephew; the quaker homes; all these amazing people; and, somehow with a distinctness no other figure had, the pearl in the sunlight of an august evening. the name margaret fits well--ah--yes. to sing to her the old french verse--there in the garden above the river--well, that would be pleasant--and to hear how it would sound he must try it, being in a happy mood. the captain turned to listen, for first he whistled the air and then sang: le blason de la marguerite en avril où naquit amour, j'entrai dans son jardin un jour, où la beauté d'une fleurette me plut sur celles que j'y vis. ce ne fut pas la pâquerette, l'oeillet, la rose, ni le lys: ce fut la belle marguerite, qu'au coeur j'aurai toujours écrite. he laughed. that would hardly do--"_au coeur écrite_"; but then, it is only a song. "well sung," said the captain, not ignorant of french. "do you sing that to the lady who is written in your heart?" "always," laughed de courval--"always." ix it is well for us to follow the fortunes of some of those who were in de courval's mind as the _marie_ lost sight of the steeple of christ church. mrs. swanwick, born in the creed and customs of the church of england, was by many ties of kindred allied to the masters, willings, morrises, and to that good whig rector, the rev. richard peters. she had conformed with some doubts to the creed of john swanwick, her dead husband, but was of no mind to separate her daughter altogether from the gay cousins whose ways her simpler tastes in no wise always approved. it was also black nanny's opinion that the girl should see the gayer world, and she expressed herself on this matter to her mistress with the freedom of an old servant. she could neither read nor even tell the time, and never left the house or garden, except for church or the funeral of some relative. just now, a week after the vicomte had gone, she was busy in the kitchen when mrs. swanwick came in. "were there many at thy cousin's burial?" asked the mistress. "yes, there was; but this goin' out don't agree with me. i ain't young enough to enjoy it." then she said abruptly: "miss margaret she's pinin' like. she ain't no quaker--no more than me." mrs. swanwick smiled, and nanny went on peeling potatoes. "i don't go with friends--i'm church people, and i likes the real quality." "yes, i know, nanny." she had heard all this many times. "i heard the governor askin' you--" "yes, yes. i think she may go, nanny." "she'll go, and some time she'll stay," said nanny. "indeed? well--i shall see," said the mistress. "potatoes ain't what they used to be, and neither is folks." now and then, with more doubt as margaret grew and matured, her mother permitted her to stay for a day at belmont, or at cliveden with the chews, but more readily with darthea wynne. just now an occasional visitor, mr. john penn, the proprietary, had come with his wife to ask the girl to dine at landsdowne. it would be a quiet party. she could come with mr. schmidt, who, like nanny, seeing the girl of late somewhat less gay than usual and indisposed to the young quaker kinsfolk, with whom she had little in common, urged the mother to consent. she yielded reluctantly. "ann," said the gentleman in the ruby-colored coat, "would take care of her." this ann, the daughter of the chief justice allen, was a friend of mary swanwick's youth. there was advice given, and some warnings, which the pleased girl, it is to be feared, thought little of as, wrapped in furs, schmidt drove her in his sleigh over the float bridge at the middle ferry, and at last along the monument road from the lancaster pike to the front of the italian villa john penn built where now in the park stands the horticultural hall. the sky was clear, the sun brilliant. there were far-away glimpses of the river, and on the terrace to meet them, at three o'clock, a group of gay young cousins, who came out with mrs. byrd of westover, the hostess, ann penn, very splendid in gown and powder, with mr. peters, their neighbor, of late made a judge, and the governor in purple velvet short-clothes and gold buckles. he put out in welcome a lace-ruffled hand, of which he was said to be proud. a hood, and over it a calash for shelter from cold, had replaced the girl's quaker bonnet, and now it was cast back, and the frost-red cheeks were kissed, and the profuse compliments of the day paid to the really charming face of margaret, whom nature had set off with color and whom stern decrees of usage had clad for contrast in relieving gray silks. there was whispering among those madcap cousins as they hurried her away to ann greenleaf's room, a niece of mrs. penn, "to set thy hair in order for dinner, thou darling quaker." she was used to their ways, and went merry with the rest up the great stairway whence william penn, in the serene beauty of his youth, looked down at the noisy party, now bent upon a prank altogether in the fashion of their day. as margaret entered the room, she saw miss ann greenleaf being trussed up in stays by a black maid. "why, dear, is the room so dark?" asked margaret; for the curtains were drawn, and there were candles on the mantel and in sconces. "the better to see how we shall look--in the evening," replied miss willing. gowns, silken hose, high, red-heeled shoes, and powder-puffs lay about on bed and chairs. "we have a little secret," cried miss willing, "and we will never tell, dear." "never!" cried they. "we want to dress thee just for to see how thou wouldst look in the gown of decent christians." "i could never think of it." "come, girls," cried miss willing, "let us dress her just once." "oh, but just for a half-hour," they said, and gathered around her, laughing, urgent. nice christians these! she would not. mother would not like it, and--ah, me, she was not unwilling to see herself once in the long cheval-glass. she had had naughty dreams of brocade and powder. despite her resistance, they had off the prim quaker dress, and blushing, half-angry, half-pleased, she was in slim attire, saying: "thou really must not. my stockings, oh, not my stockings! oh, molly greenleaf, how can i? it is dreadful--please not." but the silk stockings were on, and the garters, with compliments my modest pen declines to preserve. there was enough of the maiden neck in view above the undervest, and very splendid length of brocade gown, with lace of the best, and a petticoat, pearl-tinted, "because, dear, we are all quakers," they cried. "and do keep still, or the powder will be all over thee. what color, girls! can it be real? i must kiss thee to see if it be rouge." "for shame!" cried margaret, between tears and laughter. "now a fan--and patches, molly greenleaf! no. the old women wear them; but gloves, crumpled down at the elbow. so!" she had given up at last. it was only for a frolic half-hour. "go now and see thyself." two of the merriest seized lighted candles, for the room was made dark by the drawn curtains, and stood on each side of the long cheval-glass, a pretty picture, with margaret before the mirror, shy and blushing. "great heavens! you are a wonder! isn't she, oh, isn't she, the sweetest thing!" the quaker maiden looked down at the rich brocade and then looked up, and knew that she was beautiful. she stood still, amazed at the revelation, and the gods who give us uncalled-for thoughts set in her mind for a moment the figure of the young vicomte. she colored, and cried, laughing, as she turned away from the glass: "you have had your way with me, and now--undress me, girls, please. i should scarce know how." "oh, the sweet, innocent thing!" cried they. "but wait a little. now thy hair--so--and so, and a bit more powder. la, but you are dangerous! where are thy quaker gown and stockings? where can they be! molly greenleaf, what have you done with them? and, oh, cinderella, the slippers fit to a charm." no one knew where had gone the gown, the shoes, the shawl, the rest of the simple garb. "the fairy godmother has done it," cried miss cadwalader. "what shall we do?" cried betty morris. the gong, a new fashion, rang for dinner. the girl was angry. "this passes the limit of a jest," she cried. "go down? i? no. i will die first." they implored, laughing; but she refused, saying, "i sit here till i have my gown," and would speak no more. at this minute came mrs. penn. "what is all this noise, young women? good lord! margaret swanwick! so this is what these minxes have been at all the morning?" "i have been tricked," said margaret, "and--and i will never forgive them--never." "but come down to dinner, my dear. you will have your revenge when the men see you. there, the governor dislikes to wait. he has sent up to say dinner is ready." "i want my gown," said the pearl, "and i will not go down." only anger kept her from tears. "but the governor must see you. come, no one will know, and, bless me! but you are a beauty!" "isn't she?" they cried in chorus. a glance at the mirror and a triumphant sense of victorious capacities to charm swept over the hesitating girl. life of late had been as gray as her garb. "come, dear. you really must. you are making too much, quite too much, of a bit of innocent fun. if you wait to dress, i shall have to explain it all, and the governor will say you lack courage; and must i say i left you in tears? and the mutton, my dear child--think of the mutton!" "i am not in tears, and i hate you all, every one of you; but i will go." her head was up, as fan in hand she went down in front of the cousins, now mildly penitent, mrs. penn at her side. "did they think to show off an awkward quaker cousin, these thoughtless kittens? give them a lesson, my dear." "i mean to," said margaret, her eyes flashing. the men were about the fire in the great drawing-room, one little girl just slipping out, the future wife of henry baring. the party was large--young mr. rawle and general wayne and the peters from belmont near by. the men turned to bow as mrs. penn stepped aside, and left to view a startling vision of innocence and youth and loveliness. the girl swept a curtsey, the practice when dreams of the world were teasing her had not been in vain. then she rose and moved into the room. for a moment there was silence. except schmidt, no one knew her. the governor, bowing, cried, "by george! margaret, you beat them all! what fairies have metamorphosed you?" "we, we," cried the chorus. the men paid her compliments after the downright fashion of their set. she was gay, quick to reply, amazingly at ease. schmidt watched her, comprehending as no one else did the sudden revelation to the young woman of the power and charm of her beauty and the primal joy of unused weapons. to the younger men she was a little reserved and quiet, to the elder men all grace and sweetness, to the trickster cousins, disconcertingly cool. "where on earth did she learn it all?" said mrs. byrd, as she went out to dinner with mr. penn. "heaven knows. but it was a saucy trick and she will pay for it, i fear, at home." "will she tell?" said morris, the master of the rolls, as he followed behind them with mrs. wayne. "yes," said mrs. byrd, "she will tell; but whether or not, the town will ring with it, in a day or two. a pity, too, for the child is brought up in the straightest way of friends. none of madame logan's fine gowns and half-way naughtiness for her." at dinner margaret quietly amused mr. morris with schmidt's terror of june, the cat, and with mr. jefferson's bout with hamilton, and the tale of the sad lapse of de forest, which greatly pleased general wayne, her right-hand neighbor. when they left the men to their madeira, she insisted on changing her dress. a not duly penitent bevy of maids assisted, and by and by it was a demure quaker moth who replaced the gay butterfly and in the drawing-room helped madame penn to make tea. they paid her fair compliments, and she smiled, saying: "i, dear mrs. penn--was i here? thou must be mistaken. that was grandmama plumstead thou didst have here. oh, a hundred years ago." "ask her to come again," said mrs. penn. "and to stay," said mrs. wayne; "a charming creature." "the maid is clever," said mrs. masters. meanwhile the wine went round on the coasters over the mahogany table in the dining-room, and men talked of france, and grew hot with wine and more politics than pleased their host, who had no definite opinions, or, if any, a sincere doubt as to the quality of a too aged madeira. he gave a toast: "the ladies and our quaker venus." they drank it standing. "this wine needs fining," said his reverence, the rector of christ church. they discussed it seriously. mr. rawle cried, "a toast: george washington and the federal party." "no politics, gentlemen," said penn; "but i will drink the first half of it--his excellency." * * * * * mr. langstroth on this day rode to town, and there learned that margaret was at landsdowne, and also a surprising piece of news with which he did not regale mary swanwick. full of what he had heard, mr. langstroth, being now on horseback and on his way to gray pines, his home, was suddenly minded to see his great-niece. therefore he rode up the avenue at landsdowne, and hitching his horse, learned that the men were still over their wine. "i will go in," he said, well pleased. "ah," said penn, rising, "you are just in time for the punch." he hated the man and all his positive ways, but, the more for that, was courteous, if rather formal. "a glass for mr. langstroth. your health, sir; your very good health." "it is not good," said the new-comer. "but the wine i trust is," said the governor. "it might supply goodness," langstroth replied, "if it were not a bit pricked." it was a tender subject, and his host, feeling grossly wronged, was silent. "any fresh news?" said the attorney-general. "yes, sir; yes. the princeton college lottery was drawn this morning, and guess who drew a prize?" "not i"--"nor i," they cried. "who was it? not you?" "i! no such luck." "who, then?" "well, i bought ten chances in the fall, and one for my great-niece, margaret swanwick. her mother did not like it. friends are all for putting an end to lotteries." "and she won?" "she did. i chose for luck the number of her age and the last two figures of the year--1792. that took it." "how much? how much?" they shouted, the wine and rum punch having done their work. "how much?" "eight thousand, nine hundred, and thirty-four dollars, as i'm a sinner." "the girl may have gay gowns now," cried one. "let us go out, and tell her," said the governor, as men still called him; and upon this, having had wine and rum more than was well, they went laughing into the drawing-room. "oh, news! news!" cried one and another. mrs. penn looked annoyed. "what is it?" she asked. "ho, ho! fine news!" said langstroth. "margaret has the great prize in the princeton lottery--eight thousand and more. it was drawn this morning." "what luck!" cried the ladies. "and you are not jesting?" "no. it is true. i bought it for her," roared langstroth, triumphant. "think of that, margaret--eight thousand and--" "for me--mine!" said the girl, rising as she spoke. "don't speak to me, cousin penn. i have had too much to-day. i am troubled. i must go." no, she did not want to discuss it. she must go home. "may i not go, friend schmidt? if this is a joke, uncle, it is not to my taste. i must go." "certainly. the sleigh is at the door." langstroth was angry. he had had no thanks, not a word. there was some embarrassment, but the women must need felicitate the unwilling winner. she made short answers. "the puss has her claws out," murmured mrs. byrd, as she heard in reply to her congratulations: "i think it is a misfortune--a--a--what will my mother say? i must go." she was a child again. mrs. penn, understanding the girl, went out with her, saying kind things, and helping her to put on her over-wrap. "damn the fool!" said her uncle, who had followed her into the hall, and to whom she would not speak. the gentlemen were silent, not knowing how to sympathize with a misfortune so peculiar. schmidt, tranquil and undisturbed, made the usual formal adieus and followed her out of the room. he tucked in the furs with kindly care, and through the early evening dusk they drove away across the snow, the girl silent, the man respectful of her mood. x it was after dark when schmidt left margaret at her home. as he was about to drive away to the stable, he said, "those are wild girls, but, my dear child, you were so very pretty, i for one almost forgave them." "oh, was i?" she cried, shyly pleased and a little comforted. "but the lottery prize; i shall hear about that, and so will my mother, too. i never gave it a thought when uncle spoke of it long ago." "it is a small matter, pearl. we will talk about it later. now go in and quit thinking of it. it is shrewd weather, and nipping." margaret knew very well that she had good cause to be uneasy. friends had been of late much exercised over the evil of lotteries, and half of langstroth's satisfaction in this form of gambling was due to his love of opposition and his desire to annoy the society of which he still called himself a member. although, to his anger, he had long ago been disowned, he still went to meeting once or twice a year. he had had no such sacrificial conscience in the war as made clement biddle and wetherill "apostates," as friends called them. he was by birthright a member of the society, and stood for king george, and would pay no war tax. but when the vendue-master took his old plate and chairs, he went privately and bought them back; and so, having thus paid for the joy of apparent opposition, drank to the king in private, and made himself merry over the men who sturdily accepting loss for conscience's sake, sat at meals on their kitchen chairs, silently unresistant, but, if human, a little sorrowful concerning the silver which came over with penn and was their only material reminder of the welsh homes their fathers had left that they might worship god in their own simple way. the one person langstroth loved was his great-niece, of whose attachment to the german he was jealous with that keen jealousy known to those who are capable of but one single love. he had meant to annoy her mother; and, with no least idea that he would win a prize for her child, was now vexed at margaret's want of gratitude, and well pleased with the fuss there would be when the news got out and friends came to hear of it. when pearl threw herself into the mother's arms and broke into tears, sobbing out the double story, for a moment mrs. swanwick was silent. "my dear," she said at last, "why didst thou let them dress thee?" "i--i could not help it, and--and--i liked it, mother. thou didst like it once," she added, with a look of piteous appeal. "don't scold me, mother. thou must have liked it once." "i, dear? yes, i liked it. but--scold thee? do i ever scold thee? 't is but a small matter. it will be the talk of a week, and gainor wynne will laugh, and soon it will be forgotten. the lottery is more serious." "but i did not do it." "no." "they will blame thee, mother, i know--when it was all my uncle's doing. let them talk to him." the widow smiled. "nothing would please him better; but--they have long since given up josiah for a lost sheep--" "black, mother?" she was a trifle relieved at the thought of an interview between friend howell, the gentlest of the gentle, and josiah. "brown, not black," said the mother, smiling. "it will someway get settled, my child. now go early to bed and leave it to thy elders. i shall talk of it to friend schmidt." "yes, mother." her confidence in the german gentleman, now for five years their guest, was boundless. "and say thy prayers with a quiet heart. thou hast done no wrong. good night, my child. ask if friend de courval wants anything. since her son went away, she has been troubled, as who would not be. another's real cause for distress should make us feel how small a matter is this of ours." she kissed her again, and the girl went slowly up-stairs, murmuring: "he went away and never so much as said good-by to me. i do not think it was civil." meanwhile the mother sat still, with only the click, click of the knitting-needles, which somehow seemed always to assist her to think. she had steadily refused help in money from uncle josiah, and now, being as angry as was within the possibilities of a temper radiant with the sunshine of good humor, she rejoiced that she owed josiah nothing. "he shall have a piece of my mind," she said aloud, and indeed a large slice would have been a sweetening addition to his crabbed sourness. "ah, me!" she added, "i must not think of the money; but how easy it would make things!" not even schmidt had been permitted to pay more than a reasonable board. no, she would not repine; and now madame, reluctantly accepting her son's increased wages, had insisted that his room be kept vacant and paid for, and was not to be gainsaid about the needed fur-lined roquelaure she bought for her hostess and the extra pay for small luxuries. "may god forgive me that i have been unthankful for his goodness," said mary swanwick, and so saying she rose and putting aside her thoughts with her knitting, sat down to read a little in the book she had taken from the library, to friend poulson's dismay. "thou wilt not like it, mary swanwick." in a minute of mischief young mr. willing had told her of a book he had lately read--a french book, amusing and witty. he had left her wishing he could see her when she read it, but self-advised to stay away for a time. she sat down with anticipative satisfaction. "what hard french!" she thought. "i must ask help of madame," as she often called her, friend courval being, as she saw plainly, too familiar to her guest. as she read, smiling at the immortal wit and humor of a day long passed, suddenly she shut the book with a quick movement, and set it aside. "what manner of man was this rabelais? friend poulson should have been more plain with me; and as for master willing, i shall write to him, too, a bit of my mind." but she never did, and only said aloud: "if i give away any more pieces of my mind, i shall have none left," and turned, as her diary records, to the "pilgrim's progress," of which she remarked, "an old book by one john bunyan, much read by friends and generally approved, ridiculed by many, but not by me. it seems to me good, pious wit, and not obscene like the other. i fear i sin sometimes in being too curious about books." thus having put on paper her reflections, she went to bed, having in mind a vague and naughty desire to have seen margaret in the foolish garb of worldly folk. margaret, ashamed, would go nowhere for a week, and did more than the needed housework, to nanny's disgust, whose remembrances were of days of luxury and small need for "quality folks" to dust rooms. the work over, when tired of her labor, margaret sat out in the winter sunshine in the fur-lined roquelaure, madame's extravagant gift, and, enraptured, read "the mysteries of udolpho," or closing the book, sailed with the _marie_, and wondered what san domingo was like. meanwhile the town, very gay just now with dinners mr. john adams thought so excessive, and with sleigh-riding parties to belmont and cliveden, rang with wild statements of the dressing scene and the lottery. very comic it was to the young bucks, and, "pray, mrs. byrd, did the garters fit?" "fie, for shame!" "and no stays, we hear," wives told their husbands, and once in the london coffee-house, in front of which, long ago, congo slaves were sold and where now men discussed things social, commercial, and political, schmidt had called a man to stern account and exacted an apology. the gay girls told their quaker cousins, and at last friends were of a mind to talk to mary swanwick, especially of the lottery. before graver measures were taken, it was advisable that one should undertake to learn the truth, for it was felt not to be desirable to discipline by formal measures so blameless a member where clearly there had been much exaggeration of statement. ten days after the dinner at landsdowne, john pemberton was met in the hall of the swanwick house by mr. schmidt, both women being out. the german at once guessed the errand of this most kindly of quaker gentles, and said, "mr. pemberton, you are come, i suppose, to speak for friends of the gossip about these, my own friends. pray be seated. they are out." "but my errand is not to thee, who art not of the society of friends." "i am of the society of these friends. i know why you are come. talk to me." "i am advised in spirit that it may be as well to do so. thou art a just man. i shall speak." on this he sat down. it was a singular figure the german saw. the broad, white beaver hat, which the quaker gentleman kept on his head, was turned up in front and at the back over abundant gray hair. a great eagle nose overhanging a sharp chin, brought near to it by the toothless jaws of age, gave to the side face a queer look of rapacity, contradicted by the refinement and serene kindliness of the full face now turned upon the german. "friend schmidt," he said, "our young friend, we are told, has been unwise and exhibited herself among those of the world in unseemly attire. there are those of us who, like friend logan, are setting a bad example in their attire to the young. i may not better state how we feel than in the words of william penn: 'choose thy clothes by thine own eye, not by another's; the more simple and plain they are the better; neither unshapely nor fantastical, and for use and decency, not for pride.' i think my memory serves me." "i shall not argue with you, sir, but being in part an eye-witness, i shall relate what did occur," and he told very simply of the rude jest, and of the girl's embarrassment as he had heard it from the mother. "i see," said pemberton. "too much has been made of it. she will hear no more of it from friends, and it may be a lesson. wilt thou greet her with affectionate remembrance from an old man and repeat what i have said?" "i will do so." "but there is a matter more serious. we are told that she bought a lottery-ticket, and has won a great prize. this we hear from josiah langstroth." "did he say this--that she bought a ticket?" "we are so advised." "then he lied. he bought it in her name, without asking her." "art thou sure? thy language is strong." "yes, i am sure." "and what will mary swanwick do with this money won in evil ways?" "i do not know." "it is well that she should be counseled." "do you not think, sir, as a man of sense and a gentleman and more, that it may be well to leave a high-minded woman to dispose of this matter? if she goes wrong, will it not then be time to interfere? there is not a ha'-penny of greed in her. let her alone." the quaker sat still a moment, his lean figure bent over his staff. "thou art right," he said, looking up. "the matter shall rest, unless worse come of it." "why not see mr. langstroth about it?" said the german, mischievously inclined. "he is of friends, i presume." "he is not," said pemberton. "he talked in the war of going forth from us with wetherill, but he hath not the courage of a house-fly. his doings are without conscience, and now he is set in his ways. he hath been temperately dealt with long ago and in vain. an obstinate man; when he sets his foot down thou hast to dig it up to move him. i shall not open the matter with josiah langstroth. i have been led to speak harshly. farewell." when mrs. swanwick heard of this and had talked of it to margaret, the pearl said, "we will not take the money, and uncle cannot; and it may go." her decisiveness both pleased and astonished the mother. it was a maturing woman who thus anticipated schmidt's advice and her own, and here for a little while the matter lay at rest. not all friends, however, were either aware of what pemberton had learned or were fully satisfied, so that one day daniel offley, blacksmith, a noisy preacher in meetings and sometimes advised of elders to sit down, resolved to set at rest alike his conscience and his curiosity. therefore, on a february afternoon, being the 22d, and already honored as the birthday of washington, he found margaret alone, as luck would have it. to this unusual house, as i have said, came not only statesmen, philosophers, and the rich. hither, too, came the poor for help, the lesser quakers, women and men, for counsel or a little sober gossip. all were welcome, and offley was not unfamiliar with the ways of the house. he found margaret alone, and sitting down, began at once and harshly to question her in a loud voice concerning the story of her worldly vanity, and asked why she could thus have erred. the girl had had too much of it. her conscience was clear, and pemberton, whom she loved and respected, had been satisfied, as schmidt had told them. she grew red, and rising, said: "i have listened to thee; but now i say to thee, daniel offley, that it is none of thy business. go home and shoe thy horses." he was not thus to be put down. "this is only to add bad temper to thy other faults. as a friend and for many of the society, i would know what thee has done with thee devil wages of the lottery." [illustration: "'thou canst not shoe my conscience'"] she looked at him a moment. the big, ruddy face struck her as comical. her too often repressed sense of humor helped her, and crying, "thou canst not shoe my conscience, daniel offley," she fled away up-stairs, her laughter ringing through the house, a little hysterical, perhaps, and first cousin to tears. the amazed preacher, left to his meditations, was shocked into taking off his beaver and saying strong words out of a far away past. she was angry beyond the common, for schmidt had said it was all of it unwise and meddlesome, nor was the mother better pleased than he when she came to hear of offley's visit. "i am but half a friend," she confessed to schmidt, not liking altogether even the gentler inquiries of john pemberton. when on the next sunday madame de courval was about to set out for the swedes' church, mrs. swanwick said, "it is time to go to meeting, my child." "i am not going, mother." "but thou didst not go last first day." "no. i cannot, mother. may i go with madame?" "why not?" said schmidt, looking up from his book. and so the pearl went to gloria dei. "they have lost a good quaker by their impertinence," said schmidt to himself. "she will never again go to meeting." and, despite much gentle urging and much persuasive kindness, this came at last to be her custom, although she still wore unchanged her simple quaker garb. madame at least was pleased, but also at times thoughtful of the future when the young vicomte would walk between them down swanson street to church. there was, of course, as yet no news of the _marie_, and many bets on the result of the bold venture were made in the coffee-houses, for now, in march of the year '93, the story of the king's death and of war between france and england began further to embitter party strife and alarm the owners of ships. if the vicomtesse was anxious, she said no word of what she felt. outside of the quiet home where she sat over her embroidery there was an increase of political excitement, with much abuse, and in the gazettes wild articles over classic signatures. with jacobin france for exemplars, the half-crazed republicans wore tricolor cockades, and the _bonnet rouge_ passed from head to head at noisy feasts when "ça ira" and the "marseillaise" were sung. many persons were for war with england, but the wiser of both parties were for the declaration of neutrality, proclaimed of late amid the fury of extreme party sentiment. the new french minister eagerly looked for by the republicans was soon to come and to add to the embarrassment of the government whatever of mischief insolent folly could devise. meanwhile the hearts of two women were on the sea, and the ship-owners were increasingly worried; for now goods for french ports would be seized on the ocean and sailors claimed as english at the will of any british captain. amid all this rancor of party and increase of anxiety as to whether america was to be at war or peace, the small incident of a girl's change of church was soon forgotten. it was not a rare occurrence, and only remarkable because, as schmidt said to gainor wynne somewhat later, it proved what a convincing preacher is anger. mistress wynne had come home from boston after a week's travel, and being tired, went to bed and decided to have a doctor, with chovet for choice, because rush had little gossip. she was amply fed with it, including the talk about the change of dress and the lottery. so good was the effect that, on the doctor's departure, she threw his pills out of the window, and putting on pattens, took her cane and went away through the slush to see margaret. on the way many things passed through her mind, but most of all she remembered the spiritual struggles of her own young days, when she, too, had broken with friends. and now when she met margaret in the hall, it was not the girl who wept most, as gainor cried to schmidt to go and not mock at two women in tears no man could understand. "ah," cried schmidt, obediently disappearing, "he who shall explicate the tears of women shall be crowned by the seraphs." thus he saw gainor in her tender mood, such as made her to be forgiven much else of men and of angels. she comforted the girl, and over the sad story of the stays and garters she laughed--not then, but in very luxury of unfettered mirth on her homeward way. he who got the largest satisfaction out of poor margaret's troubles was josiah langstroth, as he reflected how for the first time in his life he had made mary swanwick angry, had stirred up friends, and at last had left the presbyterian ministers of the trustees of princeton college in a hopeless quandary. if the owner of the prize in their lottery would not take it, to whom did it belong? and so at last it was left in miss swanwick's name in the new bank hamilton had founded, to await a use of which as yet no man dreamed. xi when de courval lost sight of the red city, and while the unusual warmth of the winter weather was favoring their escape from the ice adrift on the bay, the young man reflected that above all things it was wise to be on good terms with his captain. accordingly, he said: "it is fit, sir, that you should advise me as to mr. wynne's instructions. have the kindness to read them. i have not done so." much gratified, the captain took the paper. "hum!" he exclaimed, "to reach port au prince in time to prevent unloading of the _george washington_. to get her out and send her home with her cargo." he paused. "we may be in time to overhaul and stop her; but if she has arrived, to carry her out from under the guns of the fort is quite another matter. 'to avoid the british cruisers.' well, yes, we are only in ballast,"--he looked up with pride at the raking masts and well-trimmed sails,--"the ship does not float can catch the _marie_. 'free to do as seems best if we are stopped by privateers.' ah, he knows well enough what i should do." "he seems to have provided for that," said de courval, glancing at the carronades and the long tom in the bow such as many a peaceful ship prudently carried. the captain grinned. "that is like hugh wynne. but these island fools rely on us for diet. they will be starving, and if the _george washington_ reach the island before we do, they will lose no time, and, i guess, pay in worthless bills on france, or not at all. however, we shall see." this ended the conversation. they had the usual varied luck of the sea; but the master carried sail, to the alarm of his mates, and seeing none of the dreaded cruisers, overtook a french merchant ship and learned with certainty of the outbreak of war between france and great britain, a fresh embarrassment, as they well knew. at sundown on february the 15th, the lookout on the crosstrees saw the mountains of san domingo back of the city of port au prince, and running in under shelter of one of the many islands which protect the bay, the captain and the supercargo took counsel as to what they should do. "if," said de courval, "i could get ashore as a french sailor at night, and learn something of how things stand, we might be helped." the captain feared risks neither for himself nor for another, and at last said: "i can run you in at dark, land you on a spit of sand below the town, and wait for you." thus it was that in sailor garb, a tricolor cockade in his hat, de courval left the boat at eight at night and began with caution to approach the town. the brilliant moon of a clear tropic night gave sufficient light, and following the shore, he soon came upon the warehouses and docks, where he hoped to learn what ships were in the harbor. soon, however, he was halted by sentries, and being refused permission to pass, turned away from the water-front. passing among rude cabins and seeing almost no one, he came out at last on a wide, well-built avenue and into a scene of sorrowful misery. although the new commissioners of the republic had put down the insurrection of the slaves with appalling slaughter, their broken bands were still busy with the torch and the sword, so that the cities were filled with refugees of the plantation class--men and women who were quite helpless and knew not where to turn for shelter or for the bread of the day. de courval had been quite unprepared for the wretchedness he now saw. indistinct in the moon-made shadows, or better seen where the light lay, were huddled groups of women and children, with here and there near by a man made helpless by years of the ownership of man. children were crying, while women tried in vain to comfort them. others were silent or wildly bewailing their fate. to all seeming, indifferent to the oft-repeated appeals of misery, went by officials, army officers, smoking cigarettes, drunken sailors, and such women as a seaport educates to baseness. half of the town had been for months in ashes. the congestion of the remainder was more and more felt as refugees from ruined plantations came hither, hungry and footsore, to seek food where was little and charity where was none. unable to do more than pity, the young vicomte went his way with care along a street strangely crowded with all manner of people, himself on the lookout for a café where he might find seamen. presently he found what he sought, and easily fell into sea-talk with a group of sailors. he learned only that the town was without the usual supplies of food from the states; that the troops lived on fish, bananas, and yams, and that general esbarbé had ruthlessly put down the negro insurrection. only one ship had come in of late. the outbreak of war between england and france had, in fact, for a time put an end to our valuable trade with the islands. learning nothing of value, he paid his score and stood a moment in the doorway, the drunken revel of idle sailors behind him and before him the helpless wretchedness of men and women to whom want had been hitherto unknown. he must seek elsewhere for what he wished to learn. as he hesitated, two men in white linen went by with a woman. they were laughing and talking loudly, apparently indifferent to the pitiable groups on door-steps or on the sidewalks. "let us go to the cocoanut," said the woman. one of the men said "yes." they went on, singing a light drinking song. no one seemed to care for any one else: officials, sailors, soldiers, destitute planters seemed all to be in a state of detachment, all kindly human ties of man to man broken. in fact, for a year the island had been so gorged with tragedy that it no longer caused remark. de courval followed the men and women, presuming that they were going to a café. if he learned nothing there, he would go back to the ship. pushing carelessly by a group of refugees on the outside of the "cocoanut," the party went in, and one, an official, as he seemed to be, sat down at a table with the woman. de courval, following, took the nearest table, while the other companion of the woman went to the counter to give an order. the woman sat still, humming a coarse creole love-song, and the vicomte looked about him. the room was dimly lighted, and quite half of it was occupied by the same kind of unhappy people who lay about on the streets, and may have paid for leave to sit in the café. the unrestrained, noisy grief of these well-dressed women amazed the young man, used to the courage and self-control of the women of his own class. the few tables near by were occupied by small parties of officers, in no way interested in the wretchedness about them. a servant came to de courval. what would he have? fried fish there was, and baked yams, but no other dish. he asked for wine, paid for it, and began to be of a sudden curious about the party almost within touch. the woman was a handsome quadroon. pinned in her high masses of black hair were a dozen of the large fireflies of the tropics, a common ornament of a certain class of women. from moment to moment their flashing lanterns strangely illuminated her hair and face. as he watched her in wonder, the man who had gone to the counter came back and sat down, facing the crowd. "those _sacrés enfants_," he said, "they should be turned out; one can hardly hear a word for the bawling. i shall be glad to leave--" "when do you go, commissioner?" said the woman. "in a day or two. i am to return to france as soon as possible and make our report." de courval was startled by the voice, and stared at the speaker. the face was no longer clean-shaven, and now wore the mustache, a recent jacobin fashion. the high-arched eyebrows of the man of the midi, the sharp voice, decided him. it was carteaux. for a moment rené had the slight vertigo of a man to whose intense passion is forbidden the relief of physical action. the scene at avignon was before him, and instantly, too, the sense of need to be careful of himself, and to think solely of his errand. he swallowed his wine in haste, and sat still, losing no word of the talk, as the other man said: "they will unload the american ship to-morrow, i suppose." "yes," said carteaux; "and pay in good republican _assignats_ and promises. then i shall sail on her to philadelphia, and go thence to france. our work here is over." de courval had heard enough. if the ship went to the states, there he would find his enemy. to let him go, thus unpunished, when so near, was obviously all that he could do. he rose and went out. in a few minutes he had left the town behind him and was running along the beach, relieved by rapid action. he hailed the boat, lying in wait off the shore, and had, as he stood, the thought that with his father's murderer within reach, duty had denied him the privilege of retributive justice. it was like the dreams with which at times he was troubled--when he saw carteaux smiling and was himself unable to move. looking back, as the boat ran on to the beach, he saw a red glow far away, and over it the pall of smoke where hundreds of plantations were burning, with everywhere, as he had heard, ruin, massacre, and ruthless executions of the revolted slaves set free. such of the upper class as could leave had departed, and long since blanchelande, ex-governor, had been sent to france, to be remembered only as the first victim of the guillotine. the captain, uneasy, hurried de courval into the boat, for he had been gone two hours. there was a light, but increasing wind off shore to help them and before them a mile's pull. as they rowed to the ship, the captain heard de courval's news. "we must make sure it is our ship," said the captain. "i could row in and see. i should know that old tub a hundred yards away--yes, sir, even in the night." "the town, captain, is in confusion--full of planters, men, women, and children lying about the streets. there is pretty surely a guard on board that ship. why not beat in closer without lights, and then, with all the men you can spare, find the ship, and if it is ours, take her out?" "if we can. a good idea. it might be done." "it is the only way. it must be done. give me the mate and ten men." "what! give you my men, and sit down and wait for you? no, sir. i shall go with you." he was of a breed which has served the country well on sea and land, and whose burial-places are battle-fields and oceans. it was soon decided to wait to attack until the town was asleep. in the interval de courval, in case of accident, wrote to his mother and to schmidt, but with no word of carteaux. then for a while he sat still, reflecting with very mingled feelings that success in carrying the ship would again cut him off from all chance of meeting carteaux. it did seem to him a malignant fate; but at last dismissing it, he buckled on his sword, took up his pistols, and went on deck. at midnight the three boats set out with muffled oars, and after a hard pull against an off-shore wind, through the warm tropic night, they approached the town. the captain whistled softly, and the boats came together. "speak low," he said to de courval. "it is the _george washington_ and no mistake. they are wide-awake, by ill luck, and singing." "yes, i hear them." "but they are not on deck. there are lights in the cabin." the "ça ira" rang out in bits across the water. the young noble heard it with the anguish it always awakened; for unfailingly it gave back to memory the man he longed to meet, and the blood-dabbled mob which came out of the hall at avignon shouting this jacobin song. the captain said: "we will board her on this side, all together. she is low in the water. pull in with your boat and secure the watch forward and i will shut the after hatches and companionway. look out for the forecastle. if her own men are on board, they will be there." de courval's heart alone told him of the excitement he felt; but he was cool, tranquil, and of the temperament which rises to fullest competence in an hour of danger. a minute later he was on deck, and moving forward in the silence of the night, came upon the watch. "hush!" he said; "no noise. two to each man. they are asleep. there--choke hard and gag. here, cut up this rope; a good gag." in a moment three scared sailors awoke from dreams of their breton homes, and were trussed with sailor skill. "now, then," he said in french, "a pistol ball for the man who moves. stay by them, you jones, and come, the rest of you. rouse the crew in the forecastle, mate. call to them. if the answer is in french, let no man up. don't shoot, if you can help it." he turned quickly, and, followed by four men, ran aft, hearing wild cries and oaths. a man looking out of a port-hole had seen two boats and the glint of muskets. as the captain swung over the rail, half a dozen men ran up on deck shouting an alarm. the captain struck with the butt of his pistol. a man fell. de courval grappled with a burly sailor, and falling, rose as the mate hit the guard on the head with a marline-spike. then an officer fired, and a sailor went down wounded. it was savage enough, but brief, for the american crew and captain released, were now running aft from the forecastle, and the french were tumbled into the companionway and the hatches battened down in haste, but no man killed. "get up sail!" cried the captain. "an ax to the cable; she is moored to a buoy. tumble into the boats, some of you! get a rope out ahead, and pull her bow round. now, then, put out the lights, and hurry, too!" as he gave his orders, and men were away up the rigging, shot after shot from the cabin windows drew, as was meant, the attention of the town. lights were seen moving on the pier, the sound of oars was heard. there was the red flare of signals on shore; cries and oaths came from below and from the shore not far away. it was too late. the heavy ship, as the cable parted, swung round. the wind being off the land, sail after sail filled, and picking up his boats in haste, the captain stood by the helm, the ship slowly gathering way, while cannon-shots from the batteries fell harmless in her wake. "darn the old sea-barrel!" the captain cried. two boats were after them. "down! all of you, down!" a dozen musket-balls rattled over them. "give them a dose, boys!" "no, no!" cried de courval. "shoot over them! over! ah, good! well done!" for at the reply the boats ceased rowing, and, save for a few spent bullets, the affair was ended. the brig, moving more quickly, soon left their pursuers, and guided by lights on the _marie_, they presently joined her. "now, then," said the captain, "get out a boat!" when one by one the disgusted guard came on deck and in the darkness were put in the boat, their officer asked in french who had been their captors. de courval, on hearing this, replied, "his majesty's schooner _st. george_, privateer of bristol." "but, _mon dieu_," cried the bewildered man, "this ship is american. it is piracy." "no, monsieur; she was carrying provisions to a french port." the persistent claim of england, known as the "provision order," was well in force, and was to make trouble enough before it was abandoned. the officer, furious, said: "you speak too well our tongue. ah, if i had you on shore!" de courval laughed. "adieu, citizen." the boat put off for the port, and the two ships made all sail. by and by the captain called to de courval to come to the cabin. "well, mr. lewis,--if that is to be your name,--we are only at the beginning of our troubles. these seas will swarm with ships of war and english privateers, and we must stay by this old tub. if she is caught, they will go over the manifest and take all they want out of her, and men, too, damn 'em." "i see," said de courval. "is there anything to do but take our chance on the sea?" "i shall run north and get away from the islands out of their cruising grounds." "what if we run over to martinique? how long would it take?" "three days and a half as we sail, or as that old cask does. but what for?" "i heard that things are not so bad there. we might sell the old tub's cargo." "sell it? they would take it." "perhaps. but we might lie off the port if there is no blockade and--well, negotiate. once rid of the cargo, she would sail better." "yes; but mr. wynne has said nothing of this. it is only to risk what we have won. i won't risk it." "i am sorry," said de courval, "but now i mean to try it. kindly run your eye over these instructions. this is a matter of business only." the captain reddened angrily as he said, "and i am to obey a boy like you?" "yes, sir." the master knew hugh wynne well, and after a pause said grimly: "very good. it is out of the frying-pan into the fire." he hated it, but there was the order, and obedience to those over him and from those under him was part of his sailor creed. in four days, about dawn, delayed by the slower ship, they were off the port of st. pierre. the harbor was empty, and there was no blockade as yet. "and now," said the captain, "what to do? you are the master, it seems. run in, i suppose?" "no, wait a little, captain. if, when i say what i want done, it seems to you unreasonable, i shall give it up. get a bit nearer; beat about; hoist our own flag. they will want to understand, and will send a boat out. then we shall see." "i can do that, but every hour is full of risk." still he obeyed, beginning to comprehend his supercargo and to like the audacity of the game. near to six o'clock the bait was taken. a boat put out and drew near with caution. the captain began to enjoy it. "a nibble," he said. "give me a boat," said de courval. "they will not come nearer. there are but five men. i must risk it. let the men go armed." in ten minutes he was beside the frenchmen, and seeing a young man in uniform at the tiller, he said in french: "i am from that brig. she is loaded with provisions for this port or san domingo, late from the states." "very well. you are welcome. run in. the vicomte will take all, and pay well. _foi d'honneur_, monsieur; it is all as i say. you are french?" "yes; an _émigré_." "we like not that, but i will go on board and talk it over." when on the _marie_ they went to the cabin with the captains of the two american ships. "and now let us talk," said de courval. "who commands here for the republic?" "citizen rochambeau; a good jacobin, too." de courval was startled. "a cousin of my mother--the vicomte--a jacobin!" "is monsieur for our side?" asked the officer. "no; i am for the king." "king, monsieur! the king was guillotined on january 21." "_mon dieu!_" "may i ask your name, monsieur?" "i am the vicomte de courval, at your service." "by st. denis! i know; you are of normandy, of the religion, like ourselves. i am the comte de lourmel." "and with the jacobins?" "yes. i have an eminent affection for my head. when i can, my brother and i will get away." "then we may talk plainly as two gentlemen." "assuredly." "i do not trust that vicomte of yours--a far-away cousin of my mother, i regret to say." "nor would i trust him. he wished the town illuminated on account of the king's death." "it seems incredible. poor louis! but now, to our business. any hour may bring a british cruiser. this cargo is worth in peace twenty thousand dollars. now it is worth thirty-two thousand,--salt beef, potatoes, pork, onions, salt fish, and some forty casks of madeira. ordinarily we should take home coffee and sugar, but now it is to be paid for in louis d'or or in gold joes, here--here on board, monsieur." "but the cargo?" "the sea is quiet. when the money is on deck, we will run in nearer, and you must lighter the cargo out. i will give you one day, and only one. there is no other way. we are well armed, as you see, and will stand no jacobin tricks. tell the vicomte sans culottes i am his cousin, de courval. stay, i shall write a note. it is to take on my terms, and at once, or to refuse." "he will take it. money is plenty; but one cannot eat louis d'ors. how long do you give us?" "two hours to go and return; and, monsieur, i am trusting you." "we will play no tricks." and so presently the boat pushed off and was away at speed. "and now what is all that damned parley-vouing? it was too fast for me," said the captain; but on hearing, he said it would work. he would hover round the _george washington_ with cannon loaded and men armed. within the time set the officer came back with another boat. "i have the money," he said. "the vicomte swore well and long, and would much desire your company on shore." de courval laughed. "i grieve to disappoint him." "the lighters are on the way," said de lourmel--"a dozen; and upon my honor, there will be no attempt at capture." the ship ran in nearer while the gold was counted, and then with all possible haste the cargo, partly a deck-load, was lightered away, the wind being scarcely more than a breeze. by seven at night the vessel was cleared, for half of the _marie's_ men had helped. a small barrel of wine was put in the count's boat, and a glad cheer rang out as all sail was set. then at last the captain came over to where de courval, leaning against the rail, allowed himself the first pipe of the busiest day of his life; for no man of the crew had worked harder. "i want to say you were right, young man, and i shall be glad to say so at home. i came darn near to not doing it." "why, without you, sir," said de courval, "i should have been helpless. the cutting out was yours, and this time we divide honors and hold our tongues." "not i," said the master; nor did he, being as honest as any of his race of sea-dogs. the lumbering old brig did fairly well. after three stormy weeks, in mid-march off the jersey coast they came in sight of a corvette flying the tricolor. the captain said things not to be put on record, and signaled his clumsy consort far astern to put to sea. "an englishman all over," said the captain. then he sailed straight for the corvette with the flag he loved flying. there was a smart gale from the east, and a heavy sea running. of a sudden, as if alarmed, the stars and stripes came down, a tricolor went up, and the _marie_ turned tail for the jersey coast. de courval watched the game with interest. the captain enjoyed it, as men who gamble on sea chances enjoy their risks, and said, laughing, "i wonder does that man know the coast? he's a morsel reckless." the corvette went about and followed. "halloa! he's going to talk!" a cannon flash was followed by a ball, which struck the rail. "not bad," said the captain, and turning, saw de courval on the deck. "are you hit, man?" he cried. "not badly." but the blood was running freely down his stocking as he staggered to his feet. "get him below!" "no, no!" cried de courval. the mate ripped open his breeches. "a bad splinter wound, sir, and an ugly bruise." in spite of his protests, they carried him to the cabin and did some rude sea surgery. another sharp fragment had cut open his cheek, but what dr. rush would have called "diachylon plaster" sufficed for this, and in great pain he lay and listened, still for a time losing blood very freely. the corvette veered and let go a broadside while the captain looked up at the rigging anxiously. "too much sea on," he said. "i will lay his damn ribs on absecom beach, if he holds on." apparently the corvette knew better, and manoeuvered in hope to catch a too wary foe, now flying along the shallow coast in perilous waters. at nightfall the corvette gave up a dangerous chase, got about, and was off to sea. at morning the english war-ship caught the brig, being clever enough to lie off the capes. the captain of the _george washington_ wisely lacked knowledge of her consort the schooner, and the englishman took out of his ship five men, declaring them britons, although they spoke sound, nasal cape cod american. xii an express-rider from chester had ridden through the night to carry to mr. wynne at merion the news of his ships' return and a brief note from the captain to say that all had gone well. though weaker than he was willing to believe, de courval was able with some help to get on deck and was welcomed by wynne, who saw with sudden anxiety the young man's pallor; for although neither wound was serious, he had lost blood enough to satisfy even the great dr. rush, and limped uneasily as he went to the rail to meet the ship-owner. "are you hurt?" asked wynne. "not badly. we had a little bout with a british corvette. captain biddle will tell you, sir. st. denis! but it was fun while it lasted; and the cutting out, too." "i envy you," said wynne, with swift remembrance of the market-place in germantown, the glow of battle in his gray welsh eyes. de courval's face lighted up at the thought of it. "but now," he said--"now i must see my mother--oh, at once." "the tide is at full flood. a boat shall drop you at the foot of the garden. can you walk up from the shore, or shall i send you a chaise?" "i can walk, sir." he was too eager to consider his weakness, and strong hands helping him into and out of the boat, in a few minutes, for the distance was small, he was set ashore at the foot of the garden, now bare and leafless. he dismissed the men with thanks, and declared he required no further help. with much-needed care he limped up the slope, too aware of pain and of an increase of weakness that surprised him, but nevertheless with a sense of exhilaration at the thought of coming home--yes, home--after having done what he well knew would please his mother. no other thought was in his mind. of a sudden he heard voices, and, looking up, saw mrs. swanwick and margaret. gay, excited, and happy, he stumbled forward as they came, the girl crying out: "the vicomte, mother!" "ah, but it is good to see you!" he said as he took the widow's hand and kissed it, and then the girl's, who flushed hot as he rose unsteadily. seeing her confusion, he said: "pardon me. it is our way at home, and i am so, so very glad to get back to you all!" "but--thou art lame!" cried the widow, troubled. "and his face--he is hurt, mother!" "yes, yes; but it is of no moment. we had a one-sided battle at sea." then he reeled, recovering himself with effort. "my mother is well?" "yes. lean on me. put a hand on my arm," said mrs. swanwick. "ah, but the mother will be glad!" and thus, the pearl walking behind, they went into the house. "tell madame he is here, margaret." the young woman went by them and up-stairs to the vicomtesse's bedroom, breathless as she entered in haste. the vicomtesse said sharply: "always knock, child." "i forgot. he is come. he is here. i--we are so glad for thee." "my son?" she rose. "yes, yes." margaret fled away. it was not for other eyes; she knew that. the vicomtesse met him on the landing, caught him in her arms, kissed him, held him off at arm's-length, and cried. "are you ill, rené?" "no, no; a little hurt, not badly. i have lost blood," and then, tottering, added faintly, "a wound, a wound," and sank to the floor. she called loudly in alarm, and schmidt, coming in haste from his room and lifting him, carried him to his bedchamber. he had overestimated his strength and his power of endurance. mother and hostess took possession of him. nanny hurried with the warming-pan for the bed; and reviving, he laughed as they came and went, acknowledged the welcome comfort of lavender-scented sheets and drank eagerly the milk-punch they brought. within an hour schmidt had the little french surgeon at his bedside, and soon rené's face and torn thigh were fitly dressed. there was to be quiet, and only madame or mrs. swanwick, and a little laudanum and no starvation. they guarded him well, and, as he said, "fiercely," and, yes, in a week he might see people. "not mistress wynne," said the doctor; "a tornado, that woman: but mr. schmidt and mr. wynne." he was impatient enough as he lay abed and ate greedily wonderful dishes from darthea wynne; and there, from the only greenhouse in the town, were flowers, with mrs. robert morris's compliments, and books, the latest, from mistress gainor, "for the hero, please," for by now the town was astir with captain biddle's story. the german wrote for him notes of thanks, but as yet would not talk. he could wait to hear of his voyage. he was on a settle one morning alone with schmidt. there came a discreet knock at the door. "come in," called schmidt, and margaret entered, saying: "these are the first. i gathered them myself at uncle josiah's," from which it may be understood that josiah had made his peace. "i found them on the wissahickon. smell of them," she said as she set her bowl of fragrant trailing-arbutus before him, coloring a little, and adding: "mother said i must not stay. we are glad thou art better." "oh, thank you, thank you," said the young man. the air of spring, the youth of the year, was in the room. as the door closed behind margaret, schmidt asked: "rené, did you ever see the quaker lady?--the flower, i mean." "yes, once. and now again. how she grows!" "yes, she does grow," said schmidt. "i have noticed that at her age young women grow." while he spoke, mr. wynne came in, a grave, reserved, sturdy man, in whom some of the unemotional serenity of his quaker ancestry became more notable as he went on into middle life. schmidt excused himself, and wynne sat down, saying: "you seem quite yourself, vicomte. i have heard the whole story from captain biddle. you have made one more friend, and a good one. you will be amused to learn that the french party is overjoyed because of your having victualed the starving jacobins. the federals are as well pleased, and all the ship-owners at the baffling of the corvette. no, don't speak; let me finish. the merchants at the coffee-house have voted both of you tankards, and five hundred dollars for the crew, and what the women will say or do the lord knows. you will have need to keep your head cool among them all." "ah, mr. wynne, if my head was not turned by what you said to me when we parted, it is safe enough." "my opinion has been fully justified; but now for business. both ships are in. you have made an unlooked-for gain for me. your share--oh, i shall take care of the captain, too--your share will be two thousand dollars. it is now in the bank with what is left of your deposit with me. i can take you again as my clerk or stephen girard will send you as supercargo to china. for the present i have said my say." "i thank you, sir. it is too much, far too much. i shall go back to my work with you." "and i shall be glad to have you. but i fear it may not be for life--as i should wish." "no, mr. wynne. some day this confusion in france must end, and then or before, though no jacobin, i would be in the army." "i thought as much," said wynne. "come back now to me, and in the fall or sooner something better may turn up; but for a month or two take a holiday. your wages will go on. now, do not protest. you need the rest, and you have earned it." with this he added: "and come out to merion. my wife wants to thank you; and madame must come, too. have you heard that we are to have a new french minister in april?" "indeed? i suppose he will have a great welcome from the republicans." "very likely," said wynne. it was more from loss of blood that rené had suffered than from the gravity of the wound. his recovery was rapid, and he was soon released from the tyranny which woman loves to establish about the sickness-fettered man. the vicomtesse had some vague regret when he asserted his independence, for again he had been a child, and her care of him a novel interest in a life of stringent beliefs, some prejudices, and very few positive sources of pleasure. the son at this time came to know her limitations better and to recognize with clearer vision how narrow must always have been a life of small occupations behind which lay, as yet unassailed, the pride of race and the more personal creed of the obligations of a caste which no one, except mistress wynne, ventured to describe to schmidt as needing social spectacles. "a provincial lady," she said; "a lady, but of the provinces." the german smiled, which was often his only comment upon her shrewd insight and unguarded talk. the vicomtesse settled down again to her life of books, church, and refusals to go anywhere except to darthea at merion, where she relaxed and grew tender among the children. she would have her son go among gayer people, and being free for a time he went as bidden, and was made much of at the town houses of the gay set. but as he would not play loo for money, and grew weary at last of the rôle of othello and of relating, much against his will, his adventures to a variety of attentive desdemonas who asked questions about his life in france, of which he had no mind to speak, he soon returned to the more wholesome company of schmidt and the tranquil society of the widow's house. schmidt, with increasing attachment and growing intimacy of relation, began again the daily bouts with the foils, the long pulls on the river, and the talks at night when the house was quiet in sleep. the grave young huguenot was rather tired of being made to pass as a hero, and sternly refused the dinners of the jacobin clubs, declining to claim for himself the credit of relieving the jacobin vicomte, his kinsman. the more certain news of war between france and great britain had long since reached philadelphia, and when, one afternoon in april, mr. alexander hamilton, just come from a visit to new york, appeared at the widow's, he said to schmidt that citizen genêt, the french minister, had reached charleston in the _ambuscade_, a frigate. he had brought commissions for privateers, and had already sent out two, the _citizen genêt_ and the _sans culottes_, to wage war on english commerce. the secretary of state, jefferson, had protested against the french consul's condemning prizes, but the republican jacobins, gone mad with joy, took sides against their leader, and mocked at the president's proclamation of neutrality. such was his news. mr. hamilton was depressed and had lost his usual gaiety. it was all bad, very bad. the man's heart ached for the difficulties of his friend, the harassed president. meanwhile imitative folly set the jacobin fashions of long pantaloons and high boots for good republicans. the young men took to growing mustachios. tricolor cockades appeared in the streets, while the red cap on barbers' poles and over tavern signs served, with news of the massacres in france, to keep in de courval's mind the thought of his father's fate. in the meantime, amid feasts and clamorous acclaim, genêt came slowly north with his staff of secretaries. schmidt saw at this time how depressed his young friend had become and felt that in part at least it was due to want of steady occupation. trying to distract him one evening, he said: "let us go to the fencing school of the comte du vallon. i have long meant to ask you. it is late, but the _émigrés_ go thither on a friday. it will amuse you, and you want something i cannot teach. your defense is slow, your attack too unguarded." "but," said de courval, "i cannot afford lessons at a dollar. it is very well for morris and lloyd." schmidt laughed. "i let the comte have the rooms free. the house is mine. yes, i know, you avoid the _émigrés_; but why? oh, yes, i know you have been busy, and they are not all to your taste, nor to mine; but you will meet our bookseller de méry and de noailles, whom you know, and you will like du vallon." it was nine o'clock when, hearing foils ringing and laughter, they went up-stairs in an old warehouse on the north side of dunker's court, and entered presently a large room amid a dozen of what were plainly french gentlemen, who were fencing in pairs and as merry as if no heads of friends and kindred were day by day falling on the guillotine. schmidt knew them all and had helped many. they welcomed him warmly. "_bonjour, monsieur._ we amuse ourselves well, and forget a little," said du vallon. "ah, the vicomte de courval! enchanted to see you here. allow me to present monsieur de malerive. he is making a fortune with the ice-cream, but he condescends to give us a lesson now and then. gentlemen, the vicomte de courval." the foils were lowered and men bowed. scarce any knew him, but several came forward and said pleasant things, while, as they left to return to their fencing, schmidt made his brief comments. "that is the chevalier pontgibaud, rené,--the slight man,--a good soldier in the american war. the vicomte de noailles is a partner of bingham." "indeed!" said rené. "he is in trade, as i am--a noailles!" "yes; may you be as lucky. he has made a fortune, they say." "take a turn with the marquis," said du vallon. the marquis taught fencing. de courval replied, "with pleasure," and the clatter of foils began again, while du vallon and schmidt fell apart into quiet talk. "the young man is a clerk and i hear has won credit and money. _bon chien, bonne chasse._ do you know his story? ah, my sad avignon! la rochefoucauld told me they killed his father; but of course you know all about it." "no, i have heard but little," said schmidt. "i know only that his father was murdered. des aguilliers told me that; but as de courval has not, does not, speak of it, i presume him to have his reasons. pray let us leave it here." "as you please, _mon ami_." but du vallon thought the german strangely lacking in curiosity. the time passed pleasantly. de courval did better with tiernay, who taught french to the young women and was in the shabby splendor of clothes which, like their owner, had seen better days. they went away late. yes, he was to have lessons from du vallon, who had courteously criticized his defense as weak. but the remedy had answered the german's purpose. here was something to learn which as yet the young man did badly. the lessons went on, and schmidt at times carried him away into the country with fowling-pieces, and they came home loaded with wood pigeons; and once, to de courval's joy, from the welsh hills with a bear on the back of their chaise and rattles for pearl from what de courval called the _serpent à sonnettes_--"a nice jacobin snake, _mademoiselle_." and so the quiet life went on in the quaker house with books, walks, and the round of simple duties, while the young man regained his former vigor. the spring came in with flowers and blossoms in the garden, and, on the 21st of may, citizen genêt was to arrive in this year of '93. the french frigate _ambuscade_, lying in the river and hearing from chester in due season, was to warn the republicans with her guns of the coming of the minister. "come," said schmidt, as the casements shook with the signal of three cannon. "pearl said she would like to see it, and the farce will be good. we are going to be amused; and why not?" "will friend de courval go with us?" asked margaret. walks with the young woman were somehow of late not so easily had. her mother had constantly for her some interfering duties. he was glad to go. at the signal-guns, thousands of patriots gathered in front of the state house, and in what then was called the mall, to the south of it. schmidt and the young people paused on the skirts of the noisy crowd, where were many full of liquor and singing the "marseillaise" with drunken variations of the tune. "a sight to please the devil of laughter," said schmidt. "there are saints for the virtues, why not devils for men's follies? the mischief mill for the grinding out of french jacobins from yankee grain will not run long. let us go on around the mall and get before these foolish folk. ah, to insult this perfect day of may with drunkenness! is there not enough of gladness in the upspring of things that men must crave the flattery of drink?" he was in one of those moods when he was not always, as he said, understandable, and when his english took on queer ways. pausing before the gray jail at the corner of delaware, sixth street, and walnut, they saw the poor debtors within thrust out between the bars of the windows long rods with bags at the end to solicit alms. schmidt emptied his pockets of shillings, and they went on, the girl in horror at the blasphemies of those who got no coin. said schmidt: "our friend wynne lay there in the war for months. ask madam darthea for the tale, de courval. 't is pretty, and worth the ear of attention. when i rule the world there will be no prisons. i knew them once too well." so rare were these glimpses of a life they knew not of that both young people, surprised, turned to look at him. "wert thou in jail, sir?" said the pearl. "did i say so? life is a jail, my good margaret; we are all prisoners." the girl understood, and asked no more. crossing the potter's field, now washington square, they leaped over the brook that ran through it from the northwest. "here below us lie the dead prisoners of your war, pearl. the jail was safe, but now they are free. god rest their souls! there's room for more." scarcely was there room in that summer of '93. passing the bettering house on spruce street road, and so on and out to the schuylkill, they crossed the floating bridge, and from the deep cutting where gray's lane descended to the river, climbed the slope, and sat down and waited. very soon across the river thousands of men gathered and a few women. the bridge was lined with people and some collected on the bank and in the lane below them, on the west side of the stream. hauterive, the french consul at new york, and mr. duponceau and alexander dallas of the democratic club, stood near the water on the west end of the bridge, waiting to welcome genêt. "i like it very well," said schmidt; "but the play will not run long." "oh, they are coming!" cried margaret. this was interesting. she was curious, excited and with her bonnet off, as de courval saw, bright-eyed, eager, and with isles of color mysteriously passing over her face, like rose clouds at evening. a group of horsemen appeared on the top of the hill above them, one in front. "genêt, i suppose," said de courval. a good-looking man, florid, smiling, the tricolor on the hat in his hand, he bowed to right and left, and honored with a special salute mademoiselle, near-by on the bank. he had the triumphant air of a very self-conscious conqueror. cheers greeted him. "_vive la république!_ d----george washington! hurrah for citizen genêt!" with waving of french flags. he stopped below them in the lane. a boy in the long pantaloons of protest, with the red cap of the republic on his head, was lifted up to present a bouquet of three colors made of paper flowers. citizen genêt gave him the fraternal kiss of liberty, and again the crowd cheered. "are these people crazy?" asked the quaker maiden, used to friends' control of emotion. "mad? yes, a little." genêt had paused at the bridge. mr. dallas was making him welcome to the capital. david rittenhouse stood by, silent in adoration, his attention divided between genêt and a big bun, for he had missed his dinner. "it is all real," said the german. "the bun doth equally well convince. oh, david, didst thou but dream how comic thou art!" meanwhile de courval by turns considered the fair face and the crowd, too tragically reminded to be, like schmidt, altogether amused. but surely here indeed was comedy, and for many of this careless multitude a sad ending of politics in the near summer months. the crowd at the water's-edge closed around genêt, while the group of four or five men on horseback who followed him came to a halt on the roadway just below where were seated schmidt and his companions. the riders looked around them, laughing. then one spoke to a young secretary, and the man thus addressed, turning, took off his hat and bowed low to the quaker maid. "_mon dieu!_" cried de courval, springing up as the attachés moved on. "_c'est carteaux!_ it is he!" schmidt heard him; the girl to the left of schmidt less plainly. "what is it?" she cried to de courval. his face as she saw it was of a sudden white, the eyes wide open, staring, the jaw set, the hands half-open, the figure as of a wild creature about to leap on its prey. "take care!" said schmidt. "take care! keep quiet!" he laid a strong hand on de courval's shoulder. "come away! people are looking at you." "yes, yes." he straightened, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "art thou ill?" asked margaret. "no, no. i am glad--glad as never before. let us go. it will keep. it will keep." she looked at him with wonder. they climbed the bank and went up the hill across the woodlands, andrew hamilton's estate, and homeward by the middle ferry at high street, no one speaking. the girl, troubled and apprehensive, walked on, getting now and then from the bonnet's seclusion a quick side glance at a face a little flushed and wearing a look of unwonted satisfaction. schmidt was as silent as his companions. comedy again, he thought, and as ever behind it the shadow tragedy. "if i were that man, i should be afraid--a secretary of this accursed envoy. i must know more. ah, here is the other man behind the every-day de courval." de courval went in and up-stairs to his room and at the five-o'clock supper showed no sign of the storm which had swept over him. after the meal he followed his mother, and as usual read aloud to her a chapter of the french bible. then at dusk he pulled out on the river, and, finding refreshment in a cold plunge, rowed to shore, returning in full control of the power to consider with schmidt, as now he knew he must do, a situation not so simple as it seemed when he set eyes on his enemy. "i have been waiting for you, rené. i guess enough to know this for a very grave matter. you will want to tell me." "i have often wanted to talk to you, but, as you may or may not know, it was also too painful to discuss until the need came; but now it has come." "you will talk to me, rené, or not, as seems the better to you." "i shall speak, and frankly; but, sir, wait a little." without replying further, the german took up a book and read. the young man let fall his head on his hands, his elbows on a table. he had tried to forget, but now again with closed eyes and, with that doubtful gift of visual recall already mentioned he saw the great, dimly lighted hall at avignon, the blood-stained murderers, the face of his father, his vain appeal. the tears rained through his fingers. he seemed to hear again: "yvonne! yvonne!" and at last to see, with definiteness sharpened by the morning's scene, the sudden look of ferocity in a young man's face--a man not much older than himself. he had thought to hear from it a plea for mercy. ah, and to-day he had seen it gay with laughter. one day it would not laugh. he wiped away tears as he rose. the german gentleman caught him to his broad breast. "what is it, my son? ah, i would that you were my son! let us have it out--all of it. i, too, have had my share of sorrow. let me hear, and tell it quietly. then we can talk." thus it came about that with a sense of relief rené told his story of failing fortunes, of their château in ruins, and of how, on his return from avignon, he had found his mother in a friendly farm refuge. he told, too, with entire self-command of the tragedy in the papal city, his vain pursuit of carteaux, their flight to england, and how on the voyage his mother had wrung from him the whole account of his father's death. "does she know his name?" asked schmidt. "carteaux? yes. i should not have told it, but i did. she would have me tell it." "and that is all." for a little while the german, lighting his pipe, walked up and down the room without a word. then at last, sitting down, he said: "rené, what do you mean to do?" "kill him." "yes, of course," said schmidt, coolly; "but--let us think a little. do you mean to shoot him as one would a mad dog?" "certainly; and why not?" "you ask 'why not?' suppose you succeed? of course you would have to fly, leave your mother alone; or, to be honest with you, if you were arrested, the death of this dog would be, as men would look at it, the murder of an official of the french legation. you know the intensity of party feeling here. you would be as sure to die by the gallows as any common criminal; and--there again is the mother to make a man hesitate." "that is all true; but what can i do, sir? must i sit down and wait?" "for the present, yes. opinion will change. time is the magician of opportunities. the man will be here long. wait. go back to your work. say nothing. there are, of course, the ordinary ways--a quarrel, a duel--" "yes, yes; anything--something--" "anything--something, yes; but what thing? you must not act rashly. leave it to me to think over; and promise me to do nothing rash--to do nothing in fact just yet." de courval saw only too clearly that his friend was wiser than he. after a moment of silence he said: "i give you my word, sir. and how can i thank you?" "by not thanking me, not a rare form of thanks. now go to bed." when alone, schmidt said to himself: "some day he will lose his head, and then the tiger will leap. it was clear from what i saw, and who could sit quiet and give it up? not i. a duel? if this man i have learned to love had du vallon's wrist of steel or mine, it would be easy to know what to do. ah, if one could know that rascal's fence--or if i--no; the boy would never forgive me; and to cheat a man out of a just vengeance were as bad as to cheat him of a woman's love." as for killing a man with whom he had no personal quarrel, the german, unreproached by conscience, considered the matter entirely in his relation to de courval. and here, as he sat in thought, even a duel troubled him, and it was sure to come; for soon or late, in the limited society of the city, these two men would meet. he was deeply disturbed. an accident to de courval was possible; well, perhaps his death. he foresaw even this as possible, since duels in that time were not the serio-comic encounters of the french duel of to-day. as schmidt sat in self-counsel as to what was advisable he felt with curious joy that his affection for the young noble was disturbing his judgment of what as a gentleman he would have advised. the situation was, as he saw, of terrible significance. a large experience of men and events failed to assist him to see his way. no less bewildered and even more deeply troubled, de courval lay awake, and, as the hours went by, thought and thought the thing over from every point of view. had he met carteaux that morning alone, away from men, he knew that he would have throttled the slighter man with his strong young hands, glad of the joy of brute contact and of personal infliction of the death penalty with no more merciful weapon than his own strength. he thrilled at the idea; but schmidt, coldly reasonable, had brought him down to the level of common-sense appreciation of unregarded difficulties. his mother! he knew her now far better than ever. his mother would say, "go, my son." she would send him out to take his chances with this man, as for centuries the women of her race had sent their men to battle. he was more tender for her than she would be for herself. his indecision, the product of a larger duty to her lonely, helpless life, increased by what schmidt had urged, left him without a helpful thought, while ever and ever in the darkness he felt, as his friend had felt, that in some moment of opportune chance he should lose for her and himself all thought of consequences. perhaps of those who saw the episode of sudden passionate anger in gray's lane none was more puzzled and none more curious than margaret swanwick. anything as abrupt and violent as de courval's irritation was rare in her life of tranquil experiences, and nothing she had seen of him prepared her for this outbreak. of late, it is to be confessed, de courval had been a frequent guest of her thoughts, and what concerned him began greatly to concern her. something forbade her to ask of schmidt an explanation of what she had seen. usually she was more frank with him than with any one else, and why now, she thought, should she not question him? but then, as if relieved by the decision, she concluded that it was not her business, and put aside the curiosity, but not completely the anxiety which lay behind it. if she told her mother and asked of her what de courval's behavior might have meant, she was sure that her eagerness would be reproved by a phrase which mrs. swanwick used on fitting occasions--"thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's secrets." many things were to happen before the girl would come to understand why, in the quiet of a may morning, a rather reserved gentleman had of a sudden looked like a wild animal. xiii a cheering crowd escorted genêt to oeller's hotel. a few days later washington received the minister, de ternant's successor, with a coldly formal speech, and the envoy came away in wrath; for had he not seen in the parlor of the president, medallions of decapitated citizen capet and his family? his insolent demands for money owing to france, but not yet due, and for a new and more liberal compact, are matters of history. there were wild claims for the right of french consuls to condemn prizes without intermediation of our courts, and yet more and more absurd requests and specious arguments, to which jefferson replied with decision, but with more tenderness than pleased the federalists. when the privateer _citizen genêt_ anchored off market street wharf, two enlisted americans on board were arrested, and the cabinet, being of one opinion, the president ordered the privateer to leave. genêt appealed to the secretary of state for delay and against this inconceivable wrong to a sister republic, and as the cabinet remained firm, and the democrats raged, the town was for days on the verge of riot and bloodshed. on the 27th of may, while on an errand for mr. wynne, about four in the afternoon, de courval saw the crowd going into oeller's hotel for a great dinner in honor of genêt. on the steps stood a man waving the tricolor. it was carteaux. "_mon dieu!_" murmured de courval, "shall i get used to it?" his errand took him past the house of the vice-president, john adams. servants and friends were carrying in muskets. a noisy mob hooted and drifted away to oeller's. there had been threats of destroying the house, and adams meant to be ready. the young man went on deep in thought. in front of the senate house he bowed to edmund randolph, an occasional visitor at the quaker salon and now attorney-general at the age of thirty-eight. returning, de courval met stephen girard, who stopped him. short, sallow, a little bald, and still slight of build, he was watching with a look of amusement the noisy mob in front of the hotel. "_ah, bonjour, monsieur._ and you would not go as my supercargo. it is open for the asking." he spoke french of course. "these yonder are children, but they are not as serious as they think themselves. come this afternoon to my farm on the neck and eat of my strawberries. there will be the french consul-general and the secretary carteaux. no politics, mind you. my heart is with the revolutionary government at home, but my politics in america are here," and he struck his breeches' pocket. "i am not for war, _monsieur_." de courval excused himself, and went away murmuring: "again, again! it must end. i must make it end. ah, mother, mother!" schmidt, troubled by the young man's gloom and loss of spirits, did all he could, but characteristically made no effort to reopen a subject on which he had as yet reached no other decision than the counsel of delay. the mother questioned her son. it was nothing. he was not quite well, and the heat of july was great. the german was yet more disturbed when one evening after the fencing lesson du vallon said: "i had here to-day two of the staff of that _sacré_ citizen genêt. there is already talk of his recall for insolence to the president. _le bon dieu_ be praised!" "why, marquis, do you permit these cattle to come here?" "one must live, monsieur schmidt." "perhaps." "one of them is a pleasure to fence with--a monsieur carteaux, a meager jacobin. i could not touch him." "i should like to, with the buttons off the foils," said schmidt. "i also. that does make a difference." schmidt went away thoughtful. the next afternoon, feeling the moist heat, the vicomtesse went to darthea at merion. the two men fenced as usual, while mother and daughter sat in shadow on the porch, and a faint, cool air came up from the river. "_ach, du lieber himmel!_ but it is hot!" cried the german, casting down his foil. "you are doing better. let us go and cool off in the river. come." they went down the garden, picking the ripe plums as they went. "what is wrong with you, rené? you promised me." "it is the heat. miss margaret looks ill. no one could endure it, and in the counting-house it is dreadful, and with no work to distract me." "the pearl goes again to gray court to-morrow," said the german. "indeed." "yes. i shall miss her, but it is as well. and, you, rené--it is not the heat. why do you put me off with such excuses?" "well, no. it is of course that villain," and he told of girard and the invitation. "rené, a day will come when you will meet that man, and then the thing will somehow end. you cannot go on suffering as you are doing." "i know; but a devil of indecision pursues me." "an angel, perhaps." "oh, yes. pity me. my mother stands like a wall i may not pass between me and him. it is horrible to think that she--she is protecting my father's murderer. if i told her, by heaven! she would bid me go and kill him. you do not know her. she would do it; but, then, who knows what might chance? if i die, she is alone, friendless. i fear to risk it. _mon dieu_, sir, i am afraid!" "and yet some day you will have to put an end to all this doubt. comfort yourself with this: fate, which plays with us will take you in hand. let it go just now." "i will try to. i will. if i were as these good quakers--ah, me, i should sit down,"--and he smiled,--"and thee and thou providence, and be quiet in the armor of meek unresistance." "they do kill flies," said the german. "ah, i wish then they would attend to the mosquitos," cried de courval, laughing. "as to non-resistance, friend, it hath its limitations. did i tell thee of daniel offley? my pearl told me," and he related the defeat of the blacksmith. "insolent," said rené. "no; the man believed that he had a mission. i should like to have his conscience for a week or two, to see how it feels; and, as for non-resistance, canst thou keep a secret?" "i? why not? what is it?" he was curious. as they talked, standing beside the river, rené watched the flat stones he threw ricochet on the water. "once on a time, as they say in madame swanwick's book of sixty-five tales, by nancy skyrin, a man, one schmidt, came into the dining-room and sat down quietly to read at an open window for the sake of the breeze from the river. it might have been on second day. it chanced to be the same time a quaker man who hath of late come often sat without on the step of the porch, a proper lad, and young, very neat in gray. near by sat a maid. up from the river came the little god who is of all religions and did tempt the young man. the man within lost interest in his book." then rené gave up the game of skip-stone, and, turning, said, "_mon dieu_, you did not listen?" "did he not? he had listened to the talk in the book, and wherefore not to them? it amused him more. for a little the maid did not seem greatly displeased." "she did not seem displeased?" "no. and then--and then that friend who was perverted into a lover would _brusquer_ matters, as you say, and did make a venture, being tempted by the little devil called cupid. the man who listened did not see it, but it does seem probable she was kissed, because thereupon was heard a resounding smack, and feeling that here had been a flagrant departure from non-resistance, the man within, having been satisfactorily indiscreet, fell to reading again and the quaker went away doubly wounded. dost thou like my story, friend de courval?" "no, i do not." he was flushing, angry. "i told you i had no conscience." "upon my word, i believe you. why did you not kick him?" "i leave you the privilege." "come. i hate your story,"--and laughing, despite his wrath,--"your conscience needs a bath." "perhaps." and they went down to the boat, the german still laughing. "what amuses you?" "nothing. nothing amuses one as much as nothing. i should have been a diplomatist at the court of love." and to himself: "is it well for these children? here is another tangle, and if--if anything should go amiss here are three sad hearts. d----the jacobin cur! i ought to kill him. that would settle things." for many days de courval saw nothing of his enemy. schmidt, who owned many houses and mortgages and good irredeemable ground rents, was busy. despite the fear of foreign war and the rage of parties, the city was prosperous and the increase of chariots, coaches, and chaises so great as to cause remark. house rents rose, the rich of the gay set drank, danced, gambled, and ran horses on the road we still call race street. wages were high. all the wide land felt confidence, and speculation went on, for the poor in lotteries, for the rich in impossible canals never to see water. on august 6 of this fatal year '93, uncle josiah came to fetch the pearl away for a visit, and, glad as usual to be the bearer of bad news, told schmidt that a malignant fever had killed a child of dr. hodge and three more. it had come from the _sans culottes_, privateer, or because of damaged coffee fetched from he knew not where. the day after, dr. redman, president of the college of physicians, was of opinion that this was the old disease of 1762--the yellow plague. schmidt listened in alarm. before the end of august three hundred were dead, almost every new case being fatal. on august 20, schmidt was gone for a day. on his return at evening he said: "i have rented a house on the hill above the falls of schuylkill. we move out to-morrow. i know this plague. _el vomito_ they call it in the west indies." mrs. swanwick protested. "no," he said; "i must have my way. you have cared for me in sickness and health these five years. now it is my turn. this disease will pass along the water-front. you are not safe an hour." she gave way to his wishes as usual, and next day they were pleasantly housed in the country. business ceased as if by agreement, and the richer families, if not already in the country, began to flee. the doom of a vast desertion and of multiplying deaths fell on the gay and prosperous city. by september 10 every country farm was crowded with fugitives, and tents received thousands along the schuylkill and beyond it. sooner or later some twenty-three thousand escaped, and whole families camped in the open air and in all weather. more would have gone from the city, but the shops were shut, money ceased to circulate, and even the middle class lacked means to flee. moreover, there was no refuge open, since all the towns near by refused to receive even those who could afford to leave. hence many stayed who would gladly have gone. madame de courval was at merion, and margaret had now rejoined her mother, brought over by her uncle. he had ventured into the city and seen matthew clarkson, the mayor, on business. he would talk no business. "terrible time," said josiah--"terrible! not a man will do business." did he feel for these dying and the dead? schmidt doubted it, and questioned him quietly. the doctors were not agreed, and rush bled every one. he, josiah, was not going back. half a dozen notes he held had been protested; a terrible calamity, but fine for debtors; a neat excuse. mr. wynne had closed his counting-house, and was absent on the ohio, and de courval was left to brood; for now the french legation had gone to the country, the cabinet fled to germantown, and the president long before to mount vernon for his summer rest. the day after josiah's visit, schmidt left a letter on mrs. swanwick's table, and rode away to town without other farewell. "look at that, my friend," said the widow to rené, and burst into tears. he read and re-read the letter: dear madam: the city has no nurses, and help is needed, and money. i have a note from girard. he has what wetherill once described as the courage of the penny, not the cowardice of the dollar. i go to help him, for how long i know not, and to do what i can. my love to my friend rené. i shall open your house. i have taken the key. i shall write when i can. i leave in my desk money. use it. i owe what no money can ever repay. i am, as always, your obedient, humble servant, _j. s._ there was consternation in the home and at merion, where he was a favorite, and at the hill, which gainor had filled with guests; but day after day went by without news. no one would carry letters. few would even open those from the city. the flying men and women told frightful stories. and now it was september. two weeks had gone by without a word from schmidt. the "national gazette" was at an end, and the slanderer freneau gone. only one newspaper still appeared, and the flight went on: all fled who could. at length de courval could bear it no longer. he had no horse, and set off afoot to see his mother at merion, saying nothing of his intention to mrs. swanwick. he learned that wynne was still on the ohio; ignorant of the extent of the calamity at home. "mother," he said, "again i must go into danger. mr. schmidt has gone to the city to care for the sick. for two weeks we have been without news of him. i can bear it no longer. i must go and see what has become of him." "well, and why, my son, should you risk your life for a man of whom you know nothing? when before you said it was a call of duty i bade you go. now i will not." "mother, for a time we lived on that man's generous bounty." "what!" she cried. "yes. it was made possible for me because i had the good fortune to save him from drowning. i did not tell you." "no, of course not." he told briefly the story of his rescue of the german. "if he is well, i must know it. he is more than merely my friend. if he is ill, i must care for him. if he is dead--oh, dear mother, i must go!" "i forbid it absolutely. if you go, it is against my will." he saw that she meant it. it was vain to protest. he rose. "i have no time to lose, mother. pray for me." "that i do always, but i shall not forgive you; no--yes, kiss me. i did not mean that; but think of my life, of yours, what it owes me. you will not go, my son." "yes, i am going. i should be base, a coward, ungrateful, if i did not go. good-by, mother. let them know at mrs. swanwick's." he was gone. she sat still a little while, and then rising, she looked out and saw him go down the garden path, a knapsack on his back. "his father would never have left me. ah, but he is my son--all of him. he was right to go, and i was weak, but, my god, life is very hard!" for a moment she looked after his retreating figure, and then, fearless, quiet, and self-contained, took up again the never-finished embroidery. xiv in the summer of 1793, the city of penn numbered forty-five thousand souls, and lay in the form of an irregularly bounded triangle, the apex being about seven squares, as we say, west of the delaware. from this it spread eastward, widening until the base, thinly builded with shops, homes, and warehouses, extended along the delaware river a distance of about two miles from callowhill street to cedar. it was on the parts nearest to the river that the death-cloud lay. de courval had walked from the falls of schuylkill late in the morning, and, after having been ferried across the schuylkill, passed by forest and farm roads over a familiar, rolling country, and arrived at merion, in the welsh barony, where he parted from his mother. to this distance he was now to add the seven miles which would bring him to the city. he soon reached the lancaster road, and after securing a bowl of bread and milk, for which he paid the exorbitant price of two shillings at a farm-house, he lay down in the woods and, lighting his meerschaum pipe, rested during the early afternoon, glad of shelter from the moist heat of the september day. he had much to think about. his mother he dismissed, smiling. if, after what he had said, he had not obeyed the call of duty and gratitude, he knew full well that she would have been surprised, despite her protests and the terror with which his errand filled her. he, too, felt it, for it is the form which peril takes rather than equality of risk which makes disease appal many a man for whom war has the charm which awakens the lust of contest, and not such alarm as the presence of the unseen foe which gives no quarter. he dismissed his fears with a silent appeal for strength and support. he thought then of his enemy. where was he? this pestilence, the inexplicable act of an all-powerful god, had for a time been set as a barrier between him and his foe. if either he or carteaux died of it, there was an end of all the indecisions that affection had put in his way. he had a moral shock at the idea that he was unwilling to believe it well that the will of god should lose him the fierce joy of a personal vengeance. how remote seemed such a feeling from the religious calm of the quaker home! and then a rosy face, a slight, gray-clad figure, came before him with the clearness of visual perception which was one of his mental peculiarities. the sense of difference of rank which his mother had never lost, and would never lose, he had long since put aside. margaret's refinement, her young beauty, her gay sweetness, her variety of charm, he recalled as he lay; nor against these was there for him any available guard of common sense, that foe of imprudent love, to sum up the other side with the arithmetic of worldly wisdom. he rose, disturbed a little at the consciousness of a power beginning to get beyond his control, and went on his way down the long, dusty road, refreshed by the fair angel company of love and longing. very soon he was recalled from his dreams. as he came within a mile of the city, he saw tents as for an army, camp-fires, people cooking, men, women, and children lying about by the roadside and in the orchards or the woods. two hungry-looking mechanics begged help of him. he gave them each a shilling and went on. the nearer shore of the quiet schuylkill was lined with tents. over the middle-ferry floating bridge came endlessly all manner of vehicles packed with scared people, the continuous drift from town of all who could afford to fly, a pitiful sight in the closing day. beyond the river were more tents and half-starved families. at dusk, as he went eastward on market street, there were fewer people, and beyond sixth street almost none. the taverns were closed. commerce was at an end. turning south, he crossed the bridge over dock creek at second street and was soon in a part of the city where death and horror had left only those whom disease, want of means, or some stringent need, forbade to leave their homes. twenty-four thousand then or later fled the town. a gallant few who could have gone, stayed from a sense of duty. exposure at night was said to be fatal, so that all who could were shut up indoors, or came out in fear only to feed with pitch and fence palings the fires kindled in the streets which were supposed to give protection, but were forbidden later. a canopy of rank tar-smoke hung over the town and a dull, ruddy glow from these many fires. grass grew in the roadway of the once busy street, and strange silence reigned where men were used to move amid the noises of trade. as he walked on deep in thought, a woman ran out of a house, crying: "they are dead! all are dead!" she stopped him. "is my baby dead, too?" "i--i do not know," he said, looking at the wasted, yellow face of the child in her arms. she left it on the pavement, and ran away screaming. he had never in his life touched the dead; but now, though with repugnance, he picked up the little body and laid it on a door-step. was it really dead? he asked himself. he stood a minute looking at the corpse; then he touched it. it was unnaturally hot, as are the dead of this fever. not seeing well in the dusk, and feeling a strange responsibility, he laid a hand on the child's heart. it was still. he moved away swiftly through the gathering gloom of deserted streets. on front street, near lombard, a man, seeing him approach, ran from him across the way. a little farther, the sense of solitude and loneliness grew complete as the night closed dark about him. he had been long on his way. a half-naked man ran out of an alley and, standing before him, cried: "the plague is come upon us because they have numbered the people. death! death! you will die for this sin." the young man, thus halted, stood appalled and then turned to look after the wild prophet of disaster, who ran up lombard street, his sinister cries lost as he disappeared in the gloom. rené recalled that somewhere in the bible he had read of how a plague had come on the israelites for having numbered the people. long afterward he learned that a census of philadelphia had been taken in 1792. he stood still a moment in the gloom, amid the silence of the deserted city and then of a sudden moved rapidly onward. he had reached the far edge of the town, his mind upon schmidt, when he saw to his surprise by the glow of a dying fire a familiar form. "mr. girard!" he cried, in pleased surprise; for in the country little was as yet known of the disregard of death with which this man and many more were quietly nursing the sick and keeping order in a town where, except the comparatively immune negroes, few aided, and where the empty homes were being plundered. the quick thought passed through rené's mind that he had heard this man called an atheist by daniel offley. he said to girard: "ah, monsieur, have you seen monsieur schmidt?" "not for three days. he has been busy as the best. there is one man who knows not fear. where is he, vicomte?" "we do not know. we have heard nothing since he left us two weeks ago. but he meant to live in mrs. swanwick's house." "let us go and see," said girard; and with the man who already counted his wealth in millions rené hurried on. at the house they entered easily, for the door was open, and went up-stairs. in schmidt's room, guided by his delirious cries, they found him. girard struck a light from his steel and flint, and presently they had candles lighted, and saw the yellow face, and the horrors of the _vomito_, in the disordered room. "_mon dieu!_ but this is sad!" said girard. "ah, the brave gentleman! you will stay? i shall send you milk and food at once. give him water freely, and the milk. bathe him. are you afraid?" "i--yes; but i came for this, and i am here to stay." "i shall send you a doctor; but they are of little use." "is there any precaution to take?" "yes. live simply. smoke your pipe--i believe in that. you can get cooler water by hanging out in the air demijohns and bottles wrapped in wet linen--a west-indian way, and the well water is cold. i shall come back to-morrow." and so advising, he left him. de courval set the room in order, and lighted his pipe, after obeying girard's suggestions. at intervals he sponged the hot body of the man who was retching in agony of pain, babbling and crying out about courts and princes and a woman--ever of a woman dead and of some prison life. de courval heard his delirious revelations with wonder and a pained sense of learning the secrets of a friend. in an hour came dr. rush, with his quiet manner and thin, intellectual face. like most of those of his profession, the death of some of whom in this battle with disease a tablet in the college of physicians records to-day, he failed of no duty to rich or poor. but for those who disputed his views of practice he had only the most virulent abuse. a firm friend, an unpardoning hater, and in some ways far ahead of his time, was the man who now sat down as he said: "i must bleed him at once. calomel and blood-letting are the only safety, sir. i bled dr. griffith seventy-five ounces to-day. he will get well." the doctor bled everybody, and over and over. his voice seemed to rouse schmidt. he cried out: "take away that horse leech. he will kill me." he fought them both and tore the bandage from his arm. the doctor at last gave up, unused to resistance. "give him the calomel powders." "out with your drugs!" cried the sick man, striking at him in fury, and then falling back in delirium again, yellow and flushed. the doctor left in disgust, with his neat wrist ruffles torn. on the stair he said: "he will die, but i shall call to-morrow. he will be dead, i fear." "is he gone?" gasped schmidt, when, returning, rené sat down by his bedside. "yes, sir; but he will come again." "i do not want him. i want air--air." as he spoke, he rose on his elbow and looked about him. "i knew you would come. i should never have sent for you. _mein gott!_" he cried hoarsely, looking at the room and the bedclothes. "horrible!" his natural refinement was shocked at what he saw. "_ach!_ to die like a wallowing pig is a torture of disgust! an insult, this disease and torment." then wandering again: "i pray you, sir, to hold me excused." the distracted young man never forgot that night. the german at dawn, crying, "air, air!" got up, and despite all de courval could do staggered out to the upper porch and lay uncovered on a mattress upon which de courval dragged him. the milk and food came, and at six o'clock stephen girard. "i have been up all night," he said; "but here is a black to help you." to de courval's delight, it was old cicero, who, lured by high wages given to the negro, whom even the pest passed by, had left the widow's service. "now," said girard, "here is help. pay him well. our friend will die, i fear; and, sir, you are a brave man, but do not sit here all day." de courval, in despair at his verdict, thanked him. but the friend was not to die. cicero proved faithful, and cooked and nursed and rené, as the hours of misery went on, began to hope. the fever lessened in a day or two, but schmidt still lay on the porch, speechless, yellow and wasted, swearing furiously at any effort to get him back to bed. as the days ran on he grew quiet and rejoiced to feel the cool breeze from the river and had a smile for rené and a brief word of cheer for girard, who came hither daily, heroically uncomplaining, spending his strength lavishly and his money with less indifference. schmidt, back again in the world of human interests, listened to his talk with rené, himself for the most part silent. twice a day, when thus in a measure relieved, as the flood served, de courval rowed out on the river, and came back refreshed by his swim. he sent comforting notes by cicero to his mother and to mrs. swanwick, and a message of remembrance to margaret, and was careful to add that he had "fumed" the letters with sulphur, that things were better with schmidt, and he himself was well. cicero came back with glad replies and fruit and milk and lettuce and fresh eggs and what not, while day after day three women prayed at morning and night for those whom in their different ways they loved. one afternoon dr. rush came again and said it was amazing, but it would have been still better if he had been let to bleed him, telling how he had bled dr. mease six times in five days, and now he was safe. but here he considered that he would be no further needed. schmidt had listened civilly to the doctor with the mild, tired, blue eyes and delicate features; feeling, with the inflowing tide of vigor, a return of his normal satisfaction in the study of man, he began, to de courval's joy, to amuse himself. "do you bleed the quakers, too?" he asked. "why not?" said the doctor, puzzled. "have they as much blood as other people? you look to be worn out. pray do not go. sit down. cicero shall give you some chocolate." the doctor liked few things better than a chance to talk. he sat down again as desired, saying: "yes, i am tired; but though i had only three hours' sleep last night, i am still, through the divine goodness, in perfect health. yesterday was a triumph for mercury, jalap, and bleeding. they saved at least a hundred lives." "are the doctors all of your way of thinking?" "no, sir. i have to combat prejudice and falsehood. sir, they are murderers." "sad, very sad!" remarked schmidt. "i have one satisfaction. i grieve for the blindness of men, but i nourish a belief that my labor is acceptable to heaven. malice and slander are my portion on earth; but my opponents will have their reward hereafter." "most comforting!" murmured schmidt. "but what a satisfaction to be sure you are right!" "yes, to know, sir, that i am right and these my enemies wrong, does console me; and, too, to feel that i am humbly following in the footsteps of my master. but i must go. the chocolate is good. my thanks. if you relapse, let me know, and the lancet will save you. good-by." when rené returned, having attended the doctor to the door, schmidt was smiling. "ah, my son," he said, "only in the old testament will you find a man like that--malice and piety, with a belief in himself no man, no reason, can disturb." "yes, i heard him with wonder." "he has done me good, but now i am tired. he has gone--he said so--to visit miss gainor, at the hill. i should like to hear her talk to him." an attack of gout had not improved that lady's temper, and she cruelly mocked at the great doctor's complaints of his colleagues. when she heard of de courval, and how at last he would not agree to have schmidt held for the doctor to bleed him she said he was a fine fellow; and to the doctor's statement that he was a fool, she retorted: "you have changed your religion twice, i do hear. when you are born again, try to be born a fool." the doctor, enraged, would have gone at once, but the gout was in solid possession, and the threat to send for dr. chovet held him. he laughed, outwardly at least, and did not go. the next day he, too, was in the grip of the fever, and was bled to his satisfaction, recovering later to resume his gallant work. and now that, after another week, schmidt, a ghastly frame of a man, began to eat, but still would not talk, de courval, who had never left him except for his swim or to walk in the garden, leaving cicero in charge, went out into the streets to find a shop and that rare article, tobacco. it was now well on into this fatal september. the deaths were three hundred a week. the sick no man counted, but probably half of those attacked died. at night in his vigils, de courval heard negroes, with push-carts or dragging chaises, cry: "bring out your dead! bring out your dead!" the bodies were let down from upper windows by ropes or left outside of the doorways until the death-cart came and took them away. it was about noon when rené left the house. as he neared the center of the city, there were more people in the streets than he expected to see; but all wore a look of anxiety and avoided one another, walking in the middle of the roadway. no one shook hands with friend or kinsman. many smoked; most of them wore collars of tarred rope, or chewed garlic, or held to their faces vials of "vinegar of the four thieves" once popular in the plague. he twice saw men, stricken as they walked, creep away like animals, beseeching help from those who fled in dismay. every hour had its sickening tragedy. as he stood on second street looking at a man chalking the doors of infected houses, a lightly clad young woman ran forth screaming. he stopped her. "what is it? can i help you?" a great impulse of desire to aid came over him, a feeling of pitiful self-appeal to the manhood of his courage. "let me go! my husband has it. i won't stay! i am too young to die." a deadly fear fell upon the young huguenot. "i, too, am young, and may die," he murmured; but he went in and up-stairs. he saw an old man, yellow and convulsed; but being powerless to help him, he went out to find some one. on the bridge over dock creek he met daniel offley. he did not esteem him greatly, but he said, "i want to know how i can help a man i have just left." the two men who disliked each other had then and there their lesson. "i will go with thee." they found the old man dead. as they came out, offley said, "come with me, if thee is minded to aid thy fellows," and they went on, talking of the agony of the doomed city. hearses and push-carts went by in rows, heavy with naked corpses in the tainted air. very few well-dressed people were seen. fashion and wealth had gone, panic-stricken, and good grass crops could have been cut in the desolate streets near the delaware. now and then some scared man, walking in the roadway, for few, as i said, used the sidewalk, would turn, shocked at hearing the quaker's loud voice; for, as was noticed, persons who met, spoke softly and low, as if feeling the nearness of the unseen dead in the houses. while de courval waited, offley went into several alleys on their way, and came out more quiet. "i have business here," said offley, as he led the way over the south side of the potter's field we now call washington square. he paused to pay two black men who were digging wide pits for the fast-coming dead cast down from the death-carts. a catholic priest and a lutheran clergyman were busy, wearily saying brief prayers over the dead. offley looked on, for a minute silent. "the priest is of rome," he said, "one keating--a good man; the other a lutheran." "strange fellowship!" thought de courval. they left them to this endless task, and went on, daniel talking in his oppressively loud voice of the number of the deaths. the imminence of peril affected the spirits of most men, but not offley. de courval, failing to answer a question, he said: "what troubles thee, young man? is thee afeared?" "a man should be--and at first i was; but now i am thinking of the papist and lutheran--working together. that gives one to think, as we say in french." "i see not why," said offley. "but we must hasten, or the health committee will be gone." in a few minutes they were at the state house. daniel led him through the hall and up-stairs. in the council-room of penn was seated a group of notable men. "here," said offley in his great voice, "is a young man of a will to help us." girard rose. "this, gentlemen, is my countryman, the vicomte de courval." matthew clarkson, the mayor, made him welcome. "sit down," he said. "we shall presently be free to direct you." de courval took the offered seat and looked with interest at the men before him. there were carey, the future historian of the plague; samuel wetherill, the free quaker; henry de forrest, whom he had met; thomas savory; thomas wistar; thomas scattergood; jonathan seargeant; and others. most of them, being friends, sat wearing their white beaver hats. tranquil and fearless, they were quietly disposing of a task from which some of the overseers of the poor had fled. six of those present were very soon to join the four thousand who died before november. when the meeting was over girard said to de courval: "peter helm and i are to take charge of the hospital on bush hill. are you willing to help us? it is perilous; i ought to tell you that." "yes, i will go," said rené; "i have now time, and i want to be of some use." "we thank you," said matthew clarkson. "help is sorely needed." "come with me," said girard. "my chaise is here. help is scarce. too many who should be of us have fled." as they went out, he added: "i owe this city much, as some day it will know. you are going to a scene of ungoverned riot, of drunken negro nurses; but it is to be changed, and soon, too." james hamilton's former country seat on bush hill was crowded with the dying and the dead; but there were two devoted doctors, and soon there was better order and discipline. de courval went daily across the doomed city to his loathsome task, walking thither after his breakfast. he helped to feed and nurse the sick, aided in keeping the beds decent, and in handling the many who died, until at nightfall, faint and despairing, he wandered back to his home. only once schmidt asked a question, and hearing his sad story, was silent, except to say: "i thought as much. god guard you, my son!" one day, returning, he saw at evening on front street a man seated on a door-step. he stopped, and the man looked up. it was the blacksmith offley. "i am stricken," he said. "will thee help me?" "surely i will." de courval assisted him into the house and to bed. he had sent his family away. "i have shod my last horse, i fear. fetch me dr. hutchinson." "he died to-day." "then another--dr. hodge; but my wife must not know. she would come. ask friend pennington to visit me. i did not approve of thee, young man. i ask thee pardon; i was mistaken. go, and be quick." "i shall find some one." he did not tell him that both pennington and the physician were dead. de courval was able to secure the needed help, but the next afternoon when he returned, the blacksmith was in a hearse at the door. de courval walked away thoughtful. even those he knew avoided him, and he observed, what many noticed, that every one looked sallow and their eyes yellow. a strange thing it seemed. and so, with letters well guarded, that none he loved might guess his work, september passed, and the german was at last able to be in the garden, but strangely feeble, still silent, and now asking for books. a great longing was on the young man to see those he loved; but october, which saw two thousand perish, came and went, and it was well on into the cooler november before the pest-house was closed and de courval set free, happy in a vast and helpful experience, but utterly worn out and finding his last week's walks to the hospital far too great an exertion. what his body had lost for a time, his character had gained in an exercised charity for the sick, for the poor, and for the opinions of men on whom he had previously looked with small respect. a better and wiser man on the 20th of november drove out with schmidt to the home of the wynnes at merion, where schmidt left him to the tender care of two women, who took despotic possession. "at last!" cried the mother, and with tears most rare to her she held the worn and wasted figure in her arms. "_mon dieu!_" she cried, as for the first time she heard of what he had done. for only to her was confession of heroic conduct possible. "and i--i would have kept you from god's service. i am proud of you as never before." all the long afternoon they talked, and mr. wynne, just come back, and darthea would have him to stay for a few days. at bedtime, as they sat alone, hugh said to his wife, "i was sure of that young man." "is he not a little like you?" asked darthea. "nonsense!" he cried. "do you think every good man like me? i grieve that i was absent." "and i do not." xv the weeks before mrs. swanwick's household returned to the city were for de courval of the happiest. he was gathering again his former strength in the matchless weather of our late autumnal days. to take advantage of the re-awakened commerce and to return to work was, as wynne urged, unwise for a month or more. the american politics of that stormy time were to the young noble of small moment, and the terror, proclaimed in france in september on barras's motion, followed by the queen's death, made all hope of change in his own land for the present out of the question. with the passing of the plague, genêt and his staff had come back; but for rené to think of what he eagerly desired was only to be reminded of his own physical feebleness. meanwhile genêt's insolent demands went on, and the insulted cabinet was soon about to ask for his recall, when, as schmidt hoped, carteaux would also leave the country. the enthusiasm for the french republic was at first in no wise lessened by genêt's conduct, although his threat to appeal to the country against washington called out at last a storm of indignation which no one of the minister's violations of law and of the courtesies of life had yet occasioned. at first it was held to be an invention of "black-hearted anglican aristocrats," but when it came out in print, genêt was at once alarmed at the mischief he had made. he had seriously injured his republican allies,--in fact, nearly ruined the party, said madison,--for at no time in our history was washington more venerated. the democratic leaders begged men not to blame the newly founded republic, "so gloriously cemented with the blood of aristocrats," for the language of its insane envoy. the federalists would have been entirely pleased, save that neither england nor france was dealing wisely with our commerce, now ruined by the exactions of privateers and ships of war. both parties wailed over this intolerable union of insult and injury; but always the president stood for peace, and, contemplating a treaty with england, was well aware how hopeless would be a contest on sea or land with the countries which, recklessly indifferent to international law, were ever tempting us to active measures of resentment. for de courval the situation had, as it seemed, no personal interest. there has been some need, however, to remind my readers of events which were not without influence upon the fortunes of those with whom this story is concerned. schmidt was earnestly desirous that they should still remain in the country, and this for many reasons. de courval and he would be the better for the cool autumn weather, and both were quickly gathering strength. madame de courval had rejoined them. the city was in mourning. whole families had been swept away. there were houses which no one owned, unclaimed estates, and men missing of whose deaths there was no record, while every day or two the little family of refugees heard of those dead among the middle class or of poor acquaintances of whose fates they had hitherto learned nothing. neither schmidt nor rené would talk of the horrors they had seen, and the subject was by tacit agreement altogether avoided. meanwhile they rode, walked, and fished in the schuylkill. schmidt went now and then to town on business, and soon, the fear of the plague quite at an end, party strife was resumed, and the game of politics began anew, while the city forgot the heroic few who had served it so well, and whom to-day history also has forgotten and no stone commemorates. one afternoon schmidt said to de courval: "come, let us have a longer walk!" margaret, eager to join them, would not ask it, and saw them go down the garden path toward the river. "bring me some goldenrod, please," she called. "yes, with pleasure," cried de courval at the gate, as he turned to look back, "if there be any left." "then asters," she called. "a fair picture," said schmidt, "the mother and daughter, the bud and the rose. you know the bluets folks hereabouts call the quaker ladies,--oh, i spoke of this before,--pretty, but it sufficeth not. some sweet vanity did contrive those quaker garments." it was in fact a fair picture. the girl stood, a gray figure in soft eastern stuffs brought home by our ships. one arm was about the mother's waist, and with the other she caught back the hair a playful breeze blew forward to caress the changeful roses of her cheek. "i must get me a net, mother, such as the president wore one first day at christ church." "thou must have been piously attending to thy prayers," returned mrs. swanwick, smiling. "oh, but how could i help seeing?" "it is to keep the powder off his velvet coat, my dear. when thou art powdered again, we must have a net." "oh, mother!" it was still a sore subject. "i should like to have seen thee, child." "oh, the naughty mother! i shall tell of thee. ah, here is a pin in sight. let me hide it, mother." the woman seen from the gate near-by was some forty-five years old, her hair a trifle gray under the high cap, the face just now merry, the gown of fine, gray linen cut to have shown the neck but for the soft, silken shawl crossed on the bosom and secured behind by a tie at the waist. a pin held it in place where it crossed, and other pins on the shoulders. the gown had elbow sleeves, and she wore long, openwork thread glove mitts; for she was expecting mistress wynne and josiah and was pleased in her own way to be at her best. schmidt, lingering, said: "it is the pins. they must needs be hid in the folds not to be seen. ah, vanity has many disguises. it is only to be neat, thou seest, rené, and not seem to be solicitous concerning appearances." few things escaped the german. they walked away, and as they went saw mistress gainor wynne go by in her landau with langstroth. "that is queer to be seen--the damsel in her seventies and uncle bulldog josiah. he had a permanent ground rent on her hill estate as lasting as time, a matter of some ten pounds. they have enjoyed to fight over it for years. but just now there is peace. oh, she told me i was to hold my tongue. she drove to gray court, and what she did to the man i know not; but the rent is redeemed, and they are bent on mischief, the pair of them. as i was not to speak of it, i did not; but if you tell never shall i be forgiven." he threw his long bulk on the grass and laughed great laughter. "but what is it?" said rené. "_guter himmel_, man! the innocent pair are gone to persuade the pearl and the sweet mother shell--she that made it--to take that lottery prize. i would i could see them." "but she will never, never do it," said rené. "no; for she has already done it." "what, truly? _vraiment!_" "yes. is there not a god of laughter to whom i may pray? i have used up my stock of it. when cicero came in one day, he fetched a letter to stephen girard from my pearl. she had won her mother to consent, and girard arranged it all, and, lo! the great prize of money is gone long ago to help the poor and the sick. now the ministers of princeton college may pray in peace. laugh, young man!" but he did not. "and she thought to do that?" "yes; but as yet none know. they will soon, i fear." "but she took it, after all. what will friends say?" "she was read out of meeting long ago, disowned, and i do advise them to be careful how they talk to madame of the girl. there is a not mild maternal tigress caged somewhere inside of the gentlewoman. 'ware claws, if you are wise, friend waln!" de courval laughed, and they went on their way again, for a long time silent. at flat rock, above the swiftly flowing schuylkill, they sat down, and schmidt, saying, "at last the pipe tastes good," began to talk in the strain of joyous excitement which for him the beautiful in nature always evoked, when for a time his language became singular. "ah, rené, it is worth while to cross the ocean to see king autumn die thus gloriously. how peaceful is the time! they call this pause when regret doth make the great reaper linger pitiful--they call it the indian summer." "and we, the summer of st. martin." "and we, in my homeland, have no name for it, or, rather, _spätsommer_; but it is not as here. see how the loitering leaves, red and gold, rock in mid-air. a serene expectancy is in the lingering hours. it is as still as a dream of prayer that awaiteth answer. listen, rené, how the breeze is stirring the spruces, and hark, it is--ah, yes--the angelus of evening." his contemplative ways were familiar, and just now suited the young man's mood. "a pretty carpet," he said, "and what a gay fleet of colors on the water!" "yes, yes. there is no sorrow for me in the autumn here, but after comes the winter." his mood of a sudden changed. "let us talk of another world, rené--the world of men. i want to ask of you a question; nay, many questions." his tone changed as he spoke. "i may embarrass you." de courval knew by this time that on one subject this might very well be the case. he said, however, "i do not know of anything, sir, which you may not freely ask me." he was more at ease when schmidt said, "we are in the strange position of being two men one of whom twice owes his life to the other." "ah, but you forget to consider what unending kindness i too owe--i, a stranger in a strange land; nor what your example, your society, have been to me." "thank you, rené; i could gather more of good from you than you from me." "oh, sir!" "yes, yes; but all that i have said is but to lead up to the wide obligation to be frank with me." "i shall be." "when i was ill i babbled. i was sometimes half-conscious, and was as one man helplessly watching another on the rack telling about him things he had no mind to hear spoken." "you wandered much, sir." "then did i speak of a woman?" "yes; and of courts and battles." "did i speak of--did i use my own name, my title? of course you know that i am not herr schmidt." "yes; many have said that." "you heard my name, my title?" "yes; i heard them." for a minute there was silence. then schmidt said: "there are reasons why it must be a secret--perhaps for years or always. i am graf von ehrenstein; but i am more than that--much more and few even in germany know me by that name. and i did say so?" "yes, sir." "it must die in your memory, my son, as the priests say of what is heard in confession." this statement, which made clear a good deal of what de courval had heard in the german's delirium, was less singular to him than it would have seemed to-day. more than one mysterious titled person of importance came to the city under an assumed name, and went away leaving no one the wiser. "it is well," continued schmidt, "that you, who are become so dear to me, should know my story. i shall make it brief." "soon after my marriage, a man of such position as sometimes permits men to insult with impunity spoke of my wife so as to cause me to demand an apology. he fell back on his higher rank, and in my anger i struck him on the parade-ground at potsdam while he was reviewing his regiment. a lesser man than i would have lost his life for what i did. i was sent to the fortress of spandau, where for two years i had the freedom of the fortress, but was rarely allowed to hear from my wife or to write. books i did have, as i desired, and there i learned my queer english from my only english books, shakespeare and the bible." "ah, now i understand," said de courval; "but it is not shakespeare you talk. thanks to you, i know him." "no, not quite; who could? after two years my father's interest obtained my freedom at the cost of my exile. my wife had died in giving birth to a still-born child. my father, an old man, provided me with small means, which i now do not need, nor longer accept, since he gave grudgingly, because i had done that which for him was almost unpardonable. i went to england and france, and then came hither to breathe a freer air, and, as you know, have prospered, and am, for america, rich. you cannot know the disgust in regard to arbitrary injustice with which i left my own land. i felt that to use a title in this country would be valueless, and subject me to comment and to inquiry i wished to avoid. you have earned the right to know my story, as i know yours. mr. alexander hamilton and my business adviser, mr. justice wilson, alone know my name and title, and, i may add, mr. gouverneur morris. i shall say to the two former that you share this knowledge. they alone know why it is reasonable and, indeed, may have been prudent that, until my return home, i remain unknown. it is needless to go farther into the matter with you. this simple life is to my taste, but i may some day have to go back to my own land--i devoutly trust never. we shall not again open a too painful subject." de courval said, "i have much to thank you for, but for nothing as for this confidence." "yet a word, rené. for some men--some young men--to know what now you know of me, would disturb the intimacy of their relation. i would have it continue simple. so let it be, my son. come, let us go. how still the woods are! there is here a quiet that hath the quality of a gentle confessor who hears and will never tell. listen to that owl!" as they drew near to the house the german said: "_ach_, i forgot. in december i suppose we must go to the city. you are not as yet fit for steady work; but if i can arrange it with wynne, why not let me use you? i have more to do here and in new york than i like. now, do not be foolish about it. there are rents to gather in, journeys to make. let me give you five hundred _livres_ a month. you will have time to ride, read, and see the country. i shall talk to hugh wynne about the matter." thus, after some discussion and some protest, it was arranged, the young man feeling himself in such relation to the older friend as made this adjustment altogether agreeable and a glad release from a return to the routine of the counting-house. too often the thought of carteaux haunted him, while he wondered how many in france were thus attended. when in after years he saw go by men who had been the lesser agents in the massacres, or those who had brought the innocent to the guillotine, he wondered at the impunity with which all save marat had escaped the personal vengeance of those who mourned, and, mourning, did nothing. even during the terror, when death seemed for so many a thing to face smiling, the man who daily sent to the guillotine in paris or the provinces uncounted thousands, walked the streets unguarded, and no one, vengeful, struck. in fact, the terror seemed to paralyze even the will of the most reckless. not so felt the young noble. he hungered for the hour of relief, let it bring what it might. the simple and wholesome life of the quaker household had done much to satisfy the vicomtesse, whose life had never of late years been one of great luxury, and as she slowly learned english, she came to recognize the qualities of refinement and self-sacrifice which, with unusual intelligence, made mrs. swanwick acceptably interesting. it became her custom at last to be more down-stairs, and to sit with her embroidery and talk while the knitting-needles clicked and the ball of wool hanging by its silver hoop from the quaker lady's waist grew smaller. sometimes they read aloud, french or english, or, with her rare smile, the vicomtesse would insist on sharing some small household duty. the serene atmosphere of the household, and what schmidt called the gray religion of friends, suited the huguenot lady. as concerned her son, she was less at ease, and again, with some anxiety, she had spoken to him of his too evident pleasure in the society of margaret, feeling strongly that two such young and attractive people might fall easily into relations which could end only in disappointment for one or both. the girl's mother was no less disturbed, and schmidt, as observant, but in no wise troubled, looked on and, seeing, smiled, somewhat dreading for rené the inevitable result of a return to town and an encounter with his enemy. genêt had at last been recalled, in december, but, as du vallon told schmidt, carteaux was to hold his place as chargé d'affaires to fauchet, the new minister, expected to arrive in february, 1794. on the day following the revelations made by schmidt, and just after breakfast, margaret went out into the wood near by to gather autumn leaves. seeing her disappear among the trees, de courval presently followed her. far in the woods he came upon her seated at the foot of a great tulip-tree. the basket at her side was full of club moss and gaily tinted toadstools. the red and yellow leaves of maple and oak, falling on her hair and her gray gown, made, as it seemed to him, a pleasant picture. de courval threw himself at her feet on the ground covered with autumn's lavished colors. "we have nothing like this in france. how wonderful it is!" "yes," she said; "it is finer than ever i saw it." then, not looking up, she added, after a pause, the hands he watched still busy: "why didst thou not bring me any goldenrod last evening? i asked thee." "i saw none." "ah, but there is still plenty, or at least there are asters. i think thou must have been gathering _pensées_, as thy mother calls them; pansies, we say." "yes, thoughts, thoughts," he returned with sudden gravity--"_pensées_." "they must have been of my cousin shippen or of fanny cadwalader, only she is always laughing." this young woman, who still lives in all her beauty on stuart's canvas, was to end her life in england. "oh, neither, neither," he said gaily, "not i. guess better." "then a quiet quaker girl like--ah--like, perhaps, deborah wharton." he shook his head. "no? thou art hard to please," she said. "well, i shall give them up--thy _pensées_. they must have been freaked with jet; for how serious thou art!" "what is that--freaked with jet?" she laughed merrily. "oh, what ignorance! that is milton, monsieur--'lycidas.'" she was gently proud of superior learning. "ah, i must ask mr. schmidt of it. i have much to learn." "i would," and her hands went on with their industry of selecting the more brilliantly colored leaves. "i have given thee something to think of. tell me, now, what were the thoughts of jet in thy _pensées_--the dark thoughts." "i cannot tell thee. some day thou wilt know, and that may be too soon, too soon"; for he thought: "if i kill that man, what will they think of revenge, of the guilt of blood, these gentle quaker people?" aloud he said: "you cannot think these thoughts of mine, and i am glad you cannot." he was startled as she returned quickly, without looking up from her work: "how dost thou know what i think? it is something that will happen," and, the white hands moving with needless quickness among the gaily tinted leaves, she added: "i do not like change, or new things, or mysteries. does madame, thy mother, think to leave us? my mother would miss her." "and you? would not you a little?" "yes, of course; and so would friend schmidt. there, my basket will hold no more. how pretty they are! but thou hast not answered me." "we are not thinking of any such change." "well, so far that is good news. but i am still curious. mr. schmidt did once say the autumn has no answers. i think thou art like it." she rose as she spoke. "ah, but the spring may make reply in its time--in its time. let me carry thy basket, miss margaret." she gave it to him with the woman's liking to be needlessly helped. "i am very gay with red and gold," she cried, and shook the leaves from her hair and gown. "it is worse than the brocade and the sea-green petticoat my wicked cousins put on me." she could laugh at it now. "but what would friends say to the way the fine milliner, nature, has decked thee, mademoiselle? they would forgive thee, i think. mr. schmidt says the red and gold lie thick on the unnamed graves at fourth and mulberry streets, and no quaker doth protest with a broom." "he speaks in a strange way sometimes. i often wonder where he learned it." "why dost thou not ask him?" "i should not dare. he might not like it." "but thou art, it seems, more free to question some other people." "oh, but that is different; and, monsieur," she said demurely, "thou must not say thou and thee to me. thy mother says it is not proper." he laughed. "if i am thou for thee, were it not courteous to speak to thee in thy own tongue?" she colored, remembering the lesson and her own shrewd guess at the lady's meaning, and how, as she was led to infer, to _tutoyer_, to say thou, inferred a certain degree of intimacy. "it is not fitting here except among friends." "and why not? in france we do it." "yes, sometimes, i have so heard." but to explain further was far from her intention. "it sounds foolish here, in people who are not of friends. i said so--" "but are we not friends?" "i said friends with a big f, monsieur." "i make my apologies,"--he laughed with a formal bow,--"but one easily catches habits of talk." "indeed, i am in earnest, and thou must mend thy habits. friend marguerite swanwick desires to be excused of the vicomte de courval," and, smiling, she swept the courtesy of reply to his bow as the autumn leaves fell from the gathered skirts. "as long as thou art thou, it will be hard to obey," he said, and she making no reply, they wandered homeward through level shafts of sunlight, while fluttering overhead on wings of red and gold, the cupids of the forest enjoyed the sport, and the young man murmured: "thou and thee," dreaming of a walk with her in his own normandy among the woodlands his boyhood knew. "thou art very silent," she said at last. "no, i am talking; but not to you--of you, perhaps." "indeed," and she ceased to express further desire to be enlightened, and fell to asking questions about irregular french verbs. just before they reached the house, margaret said: "i have often meant to ask thee to tell me what thou didst do in the city. friend schmidt said to mother that stephen girard could not say too much of thee. tell me about it, please." "no," he returned abruptly. "it is a thing to forget, not to talk about." "how secretive thou art!" she said, pouting, "and thou wilt never, never speak of france." in an instant she knew she had been indiscreet as he returned: "nor ever shall. certainly not now." "not--not even to me?" "no." his mind was away in darker scenes. piqued and yet sorry, she returned, "thou art as abrupt as daniel offley." "mademoiselle!" "what have i said?" "daniel offley is dead. i carried him into his own house to die, a brave man when few were brave." "i have had my lesson," she said. there were tears in her eyes, a little break in her voice. "and i, pearl; and god was good to me." "and to me," she sobbed; "i beg thy pardon--but i want to say--i must say that thou too wert brave, oh, as brave as any--for i know--i have heard." "oh, pearl, you must not say that! i did as others did." she had heard him call her pearl unreproved, or had she not? he would set a guard on his tongue. "it is chilly. let us go in," for they had stood at the gate as they talked. it was their last walk, for soon the stripped trees and the ground were white with an early snowfall and the autumn days had gone, and on the first of december reluctantly they moved to the city. xvi least of all did de courval like the change to the busy life of the city. a growing love, which he knew would arouse every prejudice his mother held dear, occupied his mind when he was not busy with schmidt's affairs or still indecisively on the outlook for his enemy. genêt, dismissed, had gone to new york to live, where later he married de witt clinton's sister, being by no means willing to risk his head in france. his secretary, as de courval soon heard, was traveling until the new minister arrived. thus for the time left more at ease, de courval fenced, rode, and talked with schmidt. december of this calamitous year went by and the rage of parties increased. neither french nor english spared our commerce. the latter took the french islands, and over a hundred and thirty of our ships were seized as carriers of provisions and ruthlessly plundered, their crews impressed and many vessels left to rot, uncared for, at the wharves of san domingo and martinique. a nation without a navy, we were helpless. there was indeed enough wrong done by our old ally and by the mother-country to supply both parties in america with good reasons for war. the whole land was in an uproar and despite the news of the terror in france, the jacobin clubs multiplied in many cities north and south, and broke out in the wildest acts of folly. in charleston they pulled down the statue of the great statesman pitt. the democratic club of that city asked to be affiliated with the jacobin club in paris, while the city council voted to use no longer the absurd titles "your honour" and "esquire." philadelphia was not behindhand in folly, but it took no official form. the astronomer rittenhouse, head of the republican club, appeared one day at the widow's and showed schmidt a copy of a letter addressed to the vestry of christ church. he was full of it, and when, later, mr. jefferson appeared, to get the chocolate and the talk he dearly liked, rittenhouse would have had him sign the appeal. "this, citizen," said the astronomer, "will interest and please you." the secretary read, with smiling comments: "'to the vestry of christ church: it is the wish of the respectable citizens that you cause to be removed the image of george the second from the gable of christ church.' why not?" said the secretary, as he continued to read aloud: "'these marks of infamy cause the church to be disliked.'" "why not remove the church, too?" said schmidt. "'t is of as little use," said jefferson, and this mrs. swanwick did not like. she knew of his disbelief in all that she held dear. "thou wilt soon get no chocolate here," she said; for she feared no one and at times was outspoken. "madame, i shall go to meeting next first day with the citizen friends. my chocolate, please." he read on, aloud: "'it has a tendency to keep the young and virtuous away.' that is you and i, rittenhouse--'the young and virtuous.'" but he did not sign, and returned this amazing document, remarking that his name was hardly needed. "they have refused," said the astronomer, "actually refused, and it is to be removed by outraged citizens to-day, i hear. a little more chocolate, citess, and a bun--please." "citess, indeed! when thou art hungry enough to speak the king's english," said mrs. swanwick, "thou shall have thy chocolate; and if thy grammar be very good, there will be also a slice of sally-lunn." the philosopher repented, and was fed, while schmidt remarked on the immortality a cake may confer; but who sally was, no one knew. "you will be pleased to hear, rittenhouse, that dr. priestly is come to the city," said the secretary. "he is at the harp and crown on third street." "i knew him in england," said schmidt; "i will call on him to-day. a great chemist, rené, and the finder of a new gas called oxygen." when the star-gazer had gone away the secretary, after some talk about the west indian outrages, said: "i shall miss your chocolate, madame, and my visits. you have heard, no doubt, of the cabinet changes." "some rumors, only," said schmidt. "i have resigned, and go back to my home and my farming. mr. hamilton will also fall out this january, and general knox, no very great loss. colonel pickering takes his place." "and who succeeds hamilton, sir?" "oh, his satellite, wolcott. the ex-secretary means to pull the wires of his puppets. he loves power, as i do not. but the chocolate, alas!" "and who, may i ask," said mrs. swanwick, "is to follow thee, friend jefferson?" "edmund randolph, i believe. bradford will have his place of attorney-general. and now you have all my gossip, madame, and i leave next week. i owe you many thanks for the pleasant hours in your home. good-by, mr. schmidt; and vicomte, may i ask to be remembered to your mother? i shall hope to be here now and then." "we shall miss thee, friend jefferson," said the widow. "i would not lessen thy regrets," he said. "ah, one lingers." he kissed the hand he held, his bright hazel eyes aglow. "good-by, miss margaret." and bowing low, he left them. schmidt looked after him, smiling. "now thou art of a mind to say naughty things of my friend," said mrs. swanwick. "i know thy ways." "i was, but i meant only to criticize his politics. an intelligent old fox with golden eyes. he is of no mind to accept any share of the trouble this english treaty will make, and this excise tax." rené, who was beginning to understand the difficulties in a cabinet where there was seldom any unanimity of opinion, said: "there will be more peace for the president." "and less helpful heads," said schmidt. "hamilton is a great loss, and jefferson in some respects. they go not well in double harness. come, rené, let us go and see the philosopher. i knew him well. great men are rare sights. a jacobin philosopher! but there are no politics in gases." the chemist was not at home, and hearing shouts and unusual noise on second street, they went through church alley to see what might be the cause. a few hundred men and boys of the lower class were gathered in front of christ church, watched by a smaller number of better-dressed persons, who hissed and shouted, but made no attempt to interfere when, apparently unmolested, a man, let down from the roof of the gable, tore off the leaden medallion of the second george[1] amid the cheering and mad party cries of the mob. [1] the leaden bas-relief has since been replaced. schmidt said: "now they can say their prayers in peace, these jacobin christians." in one man's mind there was presently small thought of peace. when the crowd began to scatter, well pleased, schmidt saw beside him de la forêt, consul-general of france, and with him carteaux. he threw his great bulk and broad shoulders between de courval and the frenchmen, saying: "let us go. come, rené." as he spoke, carteaux, now again in the service, said: "we do it better in france, citizen consul. the committee of safety and père couthon would have shortened the preacher by a head. oh, they are leaving. have you seen the caricature of the aristocrat washington on the guillotine? it has made the president swear, i am told." as he spoke, de courval's attention was caught by the french accents and something in the voice, and he turned to see the stranger who spoke thus insolently. "not here, rené. no! no!" said schmidt. he saw de courval's face grow white as he had seen it once before. "let us go," said de la forêt. "a feeble mob of children," returned carteaux. as he spoke, de courval struck him a single savage blow full in the face. "a fight! a fight!" cried the crowd. "give them room! a ring! a ring!" there was no fight in the slighter man, who lay stunned and bleeding, while rené struggled in schmidt's strong arms, wild with rage. "you have done enough," said the german; "come!" rené, silent, himself again, stared at the fallen man. "what is the meaning of this outrage!" said de la forêt. "your name, sir?" "i am the vicomte de courval," said rené, perfectly cool. "you will find me at madame swanwick's on front street." carteaux was sitting upon the sidewalk, still dazed and bleeding. the crowd looked on. "he hits hard," said one. "come, rené," said the german, and they walked away, rené still silent. "i supposed it would come soon or late," said schmidt. "we shall hear from them to-morrow." [illustration: "rené struggled in schmidt's arms, wild with rage"] "_mon dieu_, but i am glad. it is a weight off my mind. i shall kill him." schmidt was hardly as sure. neither man spoke again until they reached home. "come to my room, rené," said the german after supper. "i want to settle that ground-rent business." as they sat down, he was struck with the young man's look of elation. "oh, my pipe first. where is it? ah, here it is. what do you mean to do?" "do? i do not mean to let him think it was only the sudden anger of a french gentleman at a jacobin's vile speech. he must know why i struck." "that seems reasonable." "but i shall not involve in my quarrel a man of your rank. i shall ask du vallon." "shall you, indeed! there is wanted here a friend and an older head. what rank had i when you saw me through my deadly duel with el vomito? now, no more of that." de courval yielded. "i shall write to him and explain my action. he may put it as he pleases to others." "i see no better way. write now, and let me see your letter." rené sat at the table and wrote while schmidt smoked, a troubled and thoughtful man. "he is no match for that fellow with the sword; and yet"--and he moved uneasily--"it will be, on the whole, better than the pistol." any thought of adjustment or of escape from final resort to the duel he did not consider. it would have been out of the question for himself and, as he saw it, for any man of his beliefs and training. "here it is, sir," said rené. the german gentleman laid down his long pipe and read: sir: i am desirous that you should not consider my action as the result of what you said in my hearing to m. de la forêt. i am the vicomte de courval. in the massacre at avignon on the twelfth of september, 1791, when my father was about to be released by jourdan, your voice alone called for his condemnation. i saw him die, butchered before my eyes. this is why i struck you. louis rené de courval. "that will do," said schmidt. "he shall have it to-night. you will have a week to spend with du vallon. no prudent man would meet you in the condition in which you left him." "i suppose not. i can wait. i have waited long. i regret the delay chiefly because in this city everything is known and talked about, and before we can end the matter it will be heard of here." "very probably; but no one will speak of it before your mother, and you may be sure that these good people will ask no questions, and only wonder and not realize what must come out of it." "perhaps, perhaps." he was not so sure and wished to end it at once. it had been in his power to have made the social life of the better republicans impossible for his father's murderer; but this might have driven carteaux away and was not what he desired. the constant thought of his mother had kept him as undecided as hamlet, but now a sudden burst of anger had opened the way to what he longed for. he was glad. when, that night, jean carteaux sat up in bed and read by dim candlelight de courval's letter, he, too, saw again the great hall at avignon and recalled the blood madness. his jacobin alliances had closed to him in philadelphia the houses of the english party and the federalists, and in the society he frequented, at the official dinners of the cabinet officers, he had never seen de courval, nor, indeed, heard of him, or, if at all casually, without his title and as one of the many _émigrés_ nobles with whom he had no social acquaintance. it was the resurrection of a ghost of revenge. he had helped to send to the guillotine others as innocent as jean de courval, and then, at last, not without fear of his own fate, had welcomed the appointment of commissioner to san domingo and, on his return to france, had secured the place of secretary to genêt's legation. the mockery of french sentiment in the clubs of the american cities, the cockades, and red bonnets, amused him. it recoiled from personal violence, and saying wild things, did nothing of serious moment. the good sense and the trust of the great mass of the people throughout the country in one man promised little of value to france, as carteaux saw full well when the recall of genêt was demanded. he felt the chill of failure in this cooler air, but was of no mind to return to his own country. he was intelligent, and, having some means, meant that his handsome face should secure for him an american wife, and with her a comfortable dowry; for who knew of his obscure life in paris? and now here was that affair at avignon and the ruin of his plans. he would at least close one mouth and deny what it might have uttered. there was no other way, and for the rest--well, a french _émigré_ had heard him speak rashly and had been brutal. the jacobin clubs would believe and stand by him. de la forêt must arrange the affair, and so far this insolent _ci-devant_ could have said nothing else of moment. de la forêt called early the next day, and was referred to schmidt as rené left the room. no pacific settlement was discussed or even mentioned. the consul, well pleased, accepted the sword as the weapon, and this being sunday, on thursday at 7 a.m. there would be light enough, and they would cross on the ice to new jersey; for this year one could sleigh from the city to the capes, and from new york to cape cod--or so it was said. meanwhile the jacobin clubs rang with the insult to a french secretary, and soon it was the talk in the well-pleased coffee-houses and at the tables of the great merchants. rené said nothing, refusing to gratify those who questioned him. "a pity," said mrs. chew to penn, the governor, as men still called him. "and why was it? the young man is so serious and so quiet and, as i hear, religious. i have seen him often at christ church with his mother, or at gloria dei." "one can get a good deal of religion into a blow," remarked hamilton, "or history lies. the man insulted him, i am told, and the vicomte struck him." even hamilton knew no more than this. "still, there are milder ways of calling a man to account," said young thomas cadwalader, while hamilton smiled, remembering that savage duel in which john cadwalader, the father, had punished the slanderer, general conway. "will there be a fight?" said mrs. byrd. "probably," said penn, and opinion among the federals was all for the vicomte. meanwhile no one spoke of the matter at the widow's quiet house, where just now the severe winter made social visits rare. as for de courval he fenced daily with du vallon, who was taken into their confidence and shared schmidt's increasing anxiety. xvii on thursday, at the dawn of a gloomy winter morning, the two sleighs crossed over a mile of ice to the jersey shore. large flakes of snow were falling as schmidt drove, the little doctor, chovet, beside him, de courval silent on the back seat. nothing could keep chovet quiet very long. "i was in the duel of laurens, the president of the congress. oh, it was to be on christmas day and near to seven street. mr. penn--oh, not the fat governor but the senator from georgia--he slipped in the mud on the way, and laurens he help him with a hand, and they make up all at once and no further go, and i am disappoint." it was an endless chatter. "and there was the conway duel, too. ah, that was good business!" schmidt, out of patience, said at last, "if you talk any more, i will throw you out of the sleigh." "oh, _le diable!_ and who then will heal these which go to stick one the other? ha! i ask of you that?" "the danger will be so much the less," said schmidt. chovet was silenced. on the shore they met de la forêt and carteaux, and presently found in the woods an open space with little snow. the two men stripped to the shirt, and were handed the dueling-swords, schmidt whispering: "be cool; no temper here. wait to attack." "and now," said the consul, as the seconds fell back, "on guard, messieurs!" instantly the two blades rang sharp notes of meeting steel as they crossed and clashed in the cold morning air. "he is lost!" murmured schmidt. the slighter man attacked furiously, shifting his ground, at first imprudently sure of his foe. a prick in the chest warned him. then there was a mad interchange of quick thrusts and more or less competent defense, when de courval, staggering, let fall his rapier and dropped, while carteaux, panting, stood still. schmidt knelt down. it was a deep chest wound and bled but little outwardly. de courval, coughing up foamy blood, gasped, "it is over for a time--over." chovet saw no more to do than to get his man home, and so strangely does associative memory play her tricks that schmidt, as he rose in dismay, recalled the words of the dying _mercutio_. then, with apparent ease, he lifted rené, and, carrying him to the sleigh, wrapped him in furs, and drove swiftly over the ice to the foot of the garden. "fasten the horse, doctor," he said, "and follow me." rené smiled as the german carried him. "the second time of home-coming wounded. how strange! don't be troubled, sir. i do not mean to die. tell my mother yourself." "if you die," murmured schmidt, "he shall follow you. do not speak, rené." he met margaret on the porch. "what is it?" she cried, as he went by her with his burden. "what is the matter?" "a duel. he is wounded. call your mother." not waiting to say more, he went carefully up-stairs, and with chovet's help rené was soon in his bed. it was quietly done, mrs. swanwick, distressed, but simply obeying directions, asked no questions and margaret, below-stairs, outwardly calm, her quaker training serving her well, was bidding nanny to cease crying and to get what was needed. once in bed, rené said only, "my mother--tell her, at once." she had heard at last the quick haste of unwonted stir and met schmidt at her chamber door. "may i come in?" he asked. "certainly, monsieur. something has happened to rené. is he dead?" "no; but, he is hurt--wounded." "then tell me the worst at once. i am not of those to whom you must break ill news gently. sit down." he obeyed her. "rené has had a duel. he is badly wounded in the lung. you cannot see him now. the doctor insists on quiet." "and who will stop me?" she said. "i, madame," and he stood between her and the door. "just now you can only do him harm. i beg of you to wait--oh, patiently--for days, perhaps. if he is worse, you shall know it at once." for a moment she hesitated. "i will do as you say. who was the man?" "carteaux, madame." "carteaux here! _mon dieu!_ does he live?" "yes. he was not hurt." "and men say there is a god! christ help me; what is it i have said? how came he here, this man?" he told her the whole story, she listening with moveless, pale, ascetic face. then she rose: "i am sorry i did not know of this beforehand. i should have prayed for my son that he might kill him. i thank you, monsieur. i believe you love my rené." "as if he were my son, madame." days went by, darkened with despair or brightened with faint hope. alas! who has not known them? the days grew to weeks. there were no longer guests, only anxious inquirers and a pale, drooping young woman and two mothers variously troubled. but if here there were watching friendship and love and service and a man to die to-day or to-morrow to live, in the darkened room were spirits twain ever whispering love or hate. outside of the house where de courval lay, the jacobin clubs rejoiced and feasted carteaux, who burned de courval's note and held his tongue, while fauchet complained of the insult to his secretary, and mr. randolph neither would nor could do anything. the february of 1794 passed, and march and april, while glentworth, washington's physician, came, and afterward dr. rush, to chovet's disgust. meanwhile the young man lay in bed wasting away with grim doubts of phthisis in the doctors' minds until in may there was a gain, and, as once before, he was allowed a settle, and soon was in the air on the upper porch, and could see visitors. schmidt, more gaunt than ever, kissed the hand of the vicomtesse in his german fashion, as for the first time through all the long vigils they had shared with mary swanwick she thanked him for positive assurance of recovery. "he is safe, you tell me. may the god who has spared my son remember you and bless you through all your days and in all your ways!" he bent low. "i have my reward, madame." some intuitive recognition of what was in his mind was perhaps naturally in the thought of both. she said, "will it end here?" seeing before him a face which he could not read, he replied, "it is to be desired that it end here, or that some good fortune put the sea between these two." "and can you, his friend, say that? not if he is the son i bore. i trust not," and, turning away, she left him; while he looked after her and murmured: "there is more mother in me than in her," and going out to where rené lay, he said gaily: "out of prison at last, my boy. a grim jail is sickness." "ah, to hear the birds who are so free," said rené. "are they ever ill, i wonder?" "mr. hamilton is below, rené--just come from new york. he has been here twice." "then i shall hear of the world. you have starved me of news." there was little good to tell him. the duke, their cousin, had fled from france, and could write to madame only of the terror and of deaths and ruin. the secretary came up fresh with the gaiety of a world in which he was still battling fiercely with the republican party, glad of the absence of his rival, jefferson, who saw no good in anything he did or said. "you are very kind," said de courval, "to spare me a little of your time, sir." indeed he felt it. hamilton sat down, smiling at the eagerness with which rené questioned him. "there is much to tell, vicomte. the outrages on our commerce by the english have become unendurable, and how we are to escape war i do not see. an embargo has been proclaimed by the president; it is for thirty days, and will be extended to thirty more. we have many english ships in our ports. no one of them can leave." "that ought to bring them to their senses," said rené. "it may," returned hamilton. "and what, sir, of the treaty with england?" hamilton smiled. "i was to have been sent, but there was too much opposition, and now, as i think, wisely, chief-justice jay is to go to london." "ah, mr. hamilton, if there were but war with england,--and there is cause enough,--some of us poor exiles might find pleasant occupation." the secretary became grave. "i would do much, yield much, to escape war, vicomte. no man of feeling who has ever seen war desires to see it again. if the memory of nations were as retentive as the memory of a man, there would be an end of wars." "and yet, sir," said rené, "i hardly see how you--how this people--endure what you so quietly accept." "yes, yes. no man more than washington feels the additions of insult to injury. if to-day you could give him a dozen frigates, our answer to england would not be a request for a treaty which will merely secure peace, and give us that with contempt, and little more. what it personally costs that proud gentleman, our president, to preserve his neutral attitude few men know." rené was pleased and flattered by the thoughtful gravity of the statesman's talk. "i see, sir," he said. "there will be no war." "no; i think not. i sincerely hope not. but now i must go. my compliments to your mother; and i am glad to see you so well." as he went out, he met schmidt in the hall. "ah, why did you not prevent this duel?" he said. "no man could, sir. it is, i fear, a business to end only when one of them dies. it dates far back of the blow. some day we will talk of it, but i do not like the outlook." "indeed." he went into the street thoughtful. in principle opposed to duels, he was to die in the prime of life a victim to the pistol of burr. the pleasant may weather and the open air brought back to de courval health and the joys of life. the girl in the garden heard once more his bits of french song, and when june came with roses he was able to lie on the lower porch, swinging at ease in a hammock sent by captain biddle, and it seemed as if the world were all kindness. as he lay, schmidt read to him, and he missed only margaret, ordered out to the country in the care of aunt gainor, while, as he grew better, he had the strange joy of senses freshened and keener than in health, as if he were reborn to a new heritage of tastes and odors, the priceless gift of wholesome convalescence. he asked no questions concerning carteaux or what men said of the duel; but as schmidt, musing, saw him at times gentle, pleased, merry, or again serious, he thought how all men have in them a brute ancestor ready with a club. "just now the devil is asleep." he alone, and the mother, fore-looking, knew; and so the time ran on, and every one wanted him. the women came with flowers and strawberries, and made much of him, the gray mother not ill-pleased. in june he was up, allowed to walk out or to lie in the boat while schmidt caught white perch or crabs and talked of the many lands he had seen. then at last, to rené's joy, he might ride. "here," said schmidt, "is a note from mistress gainor. we are asked to dine and stay the night. no, not you. you are not yet fit for dinners and gay women. these doctors are cruel. there will be, she writes, mr. jefferson, here for a week; mr. langstroth, and a woman or two; and wolcott of the treasury, 'if hamilton will let him come,' she says." for perhaps wisely the new official followed the ex-secretary's counsels, to the saving of much needless thinking. "a queer party that!" said schmidt. "what new mischief are she and the ex-quaker josiah devising?" he would be there at three, he wrote, the groom having waited a reply. "have you any message for miss margaret, rené?" he asked next day. "tell her that all that is left of me remembers her mother's kindness." and, laughing, he added: "that there is more of me every day." "and is that all?" "yes; that is all. is there any news?" "none of moment. oh, yes, i meant to tell you. the heathen imagine a vain thing--a fine republican mob collected in front of the harp and crown yesterday. there was a picture set up over the door in the war--a picture of the queen of france. a painter was made to paint a ring of blood around the neck and daub the clothes with red. if there is a fool devil, he must grin at that." "_canaille!_" said rené. "poor queen! we of the religion did not love her; but to insult the dead! ah, a week in paris now, and these cowards would fly in fear." "yes; it is a feeble sham." and so he left rené to his book and rode away with change of garments in his saddle-bags. xviii miss gainor being busy at her toilette, schmidt was received at the hill farm by the black page, in red plush for contrast, and shown up to his room. he usually wore clothes of simple character and left the changing fashions to others. but this time he dressed as he did rarely, and came down with powdered hair, in maroon-colored velvet with enameled buttons, ruffles at the wrists, and the full lace neck-gear still known as a steenkirk. miss gainor envied him the gold buckles of the broidered garters and shoes, and made her best courtesy to the stately figure which bent low before her. "they are late," she said. "go and speak to margaret in the garden." he found her alone under a great tulip-tree. "_ach!_" he cried, "you are looking better. you were pale." she rose with a glad welcome as he saw and wondered. "how fine we are, pearl!" "are we not? but aunt gainor would have it. i must courtesy, i suppose." the dress was a compromise. there were still the gray silks, the underskirt, open wider than common in front, a pale sea-green petticoat, and, alas! even powder--very becoming it seemed to the german gentleman. i am helpless to describe the prettiness of it. aunt gainor had an artist's eye, though she herself delighted in too gorgeous attire. he gave margaret the home news and his message from rené, and no; she was not yet to come to town. it was too hot, and not very healthy this summer. "why did not the vicomte write?" she said with some hesitation. "that would have been nicer." "_ach, guter himmel!_ young men do not write to young women." "but among friends we are more simple." "_ach_, friends--and in this gown! shall we be of two worlds? that might have its convenience." "thou art naughty, sir," she said, and they went in. there was colonel lennox and his wife, whom schmidt had not met, and josiah. "you know mrs. byrd, mr. schmidt? mrs. eager howard, may i present to you mr. schmidt?" this was the miss chew who won the heart of the victor of the cowpens battle; and last came jefferson, tall, meager, red-cheeked, and wearing no powder, a lean figure in black velvet, on a visit to the city. "there were only two good noses," said gainor next day to a woman with the nose of a pug dog--"mine and that man schmidt's--schmidt, with a nose like a hawk and a jaw most predacious." for mischief she must call mr. jefferson "excellency," for had he not been governor of his state? he bowed, laughing. "madame, i have no liking for titles. not even those which you confer." "oh, but when you die, sir," cried mrs. howard, "and you want to read your title clear to mansions in the skies?" "i shall want none of them; and there are no mansions in the skies." "and no skies, sir, i suppose," laughed mrs. byrd. "poor watts!" "in your sense none," he returned. "how is de courval?" "oh, better; much better." "he seems to get himself talked about," said mrs. howard. "a fine young fellow, too." "you should set your cap for him, tacy," said gainor to the blond beauty, mrs. lennox. "it was set long ago for my colonel," she cried. "i am much honored," said her husband, bowing. "she was dr. franklin's last love-affair," cried gainor. "how is that, tacy lennox?" "fie, madam! he was dying in those days, and, yes, i loved him. there are none like him nowadays." "i never thought much of his nose," said gainor, amid gay laughter; and they went to dinner, the pearl quietly attentive, liking it well, and still better when colonel howard turned to chat with her and found her merry and shyly curious concerning the great war she was too young to remember well, and in regard to the men who fought and won. josiah, next to mrs. lennox, contributed contradictions, and pickering was silent, liking better the company of men. at dusk, having had their madeira, they rode away, leaving only margaret and schmidt. the evening talk was quiet, and the girl, reluctant, was sent to bed early. "i have a pipe for you," said gainor. "come out under the trees. how warm it is!" "you had a queer party," said schmidt, who knew her well, and judged better than many her true character. "yes; was it not? but the women were to your liking, i am sure." "certainly; but why josiah, and what mischief are you two after?" "i? mischief, sir?" "yes; you do not like him. you never have him here to dine if you can help it." "no; but now i am trying to keep him out of mischief, and to-day he invited himself to dine." "well!" said schmidt, blowing great rings of smoke. "general washington was here yesterday. his horse cast a shoe, and he must needs pay me a visit. oh, he was honest about it. he looked tired and aged. i shall grow old; but aged, sir, never. he is deaf, too. i hope he may not live to lose his mind. i thought of johnson's lines about marlborough." "i do not know them. what are they?" "from marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow, and swift expires, a driv'ler and a show." "yes," said schmidt thoughtfully--"yes; that is the ending i most should fear." "he is clear-headed enough to-day; but the men around him think too much of their own interests, and he of his country alone." "it may be better with this new cabinet." "no; there will be less head." "and more heart, i hope," said schmidt. "i could cry when i think of that man's life." "yes, it is sad enough; but suppose," said schmidt, "we return to josiah." "well, if you must have it, josiah has one honest affection outside of a love-affair with josiah--margaret, of course." "yes; and what more?" "he thinks she should be married, and proposes to arrange the matter." the idea of uncle josiah as a matchmaker filled the german with comic delight. he broke into gargantuan laughter. "i should like to hear his plan of campaign." "oh, dear aunt gainor," cried a voice from an upper window, "what is the joke? tell me, or i shall come down and find out." "go to bed, minx!" shouted miss gainor. "mr. schmidt is going to be married, and i am to be bridesmaid. to bed with you!" "fie, for shame, aunt! he will tell me to-morrow." the white figure disappeared from the window. "oh, josiah is set on it--really set on it, and you know his possibilities of combining folly with obstinacy." "yes, i know. and who is the happy man?" "the vicomte de courval, please." schmidt whistled low. "i beg your pardon, mistress gainor. cannot you stop him? the fool! what does he propose to do?" "i do not know. he has an odd admiration for de courval, and that is strange, for he never contradicts him." "the admiration of a coward for a brave man--i have known that more than once. he will do heaven knows what, and end in making mischief enough." "i have scared him a little. he talked, the idiot, about his will, and what he would or would not do. as if that would help, or as if the dear child cares or would care. i said i had money to spare at need. he will say nothing for a while. i do not mean to be interfered with. i told him so." "did you, indeed?" "i did." "mistress gainor, you had better keep your own hands off and let things alone. josiah would be like an elephant in a rose garden." "and i like--" "a good, kindly woman about to make a sad mistake. you do not know the mother's deep-seated prejudices, nor yet of what trouble lies like a shadow on rené's life. i should not dare to interfere." "what is it?" she said, at once curious and anxious. "mistress gainor, you are to be trusted, else you would go your way. is not that so?" "yes; but i am reasonable and margaret is dear to me. i like the vicomte and, as for his mother, she thinks me a kind, rough old woman; and for her nonsense about rank and blood, stuff! the girl's blood is as good as hers." "no doubt; but let it alone. and now i think you ought to hear his story and i mean to tell it." and sitting in the darkness, he told her of avignon and carteaux and the real meaning of the duel and how the matter would go on again some day, but how soon fate alone could determine. she listened, appalled at the tragic story which had come thus fatefully from a far-away land into the life of a quiet quaker family. "it is terrible and sad," she said. "and he has spoken to no one but you of this tragedy? it must be known to many." "the death, yes. carteaux's share in it, no. he was an unknown young _avocat_ at the time." "how reticent young de courval must be! it is singular at his age." "he had no reason to talk of it; he is a man older than his years. he had in fact his own good reason for desiring not to drive this villain out of his reach. he is a very resolute person. if he loves this dear child, he will marry her, if a dozen mothers stand in the way." "there will be two. i see now why mary swanwick is always sending margaret to me or to darthea wynne. i think the maid cares for him." "ah, my dear miss gainor, if i could keep them apart for a year, i should like it. god knows where the end will be. suppose this fellow were to kill him! that they will meet again is sadly sure, if i know de courval." "you are right," she returned. "but if, mr. schmidt, this shadow did not lie across his path, would it please you? would you who have done so much for him--would you wish it?" "with all my heart. but let it rest here, and let time and fate have their way." "i will," she said, rising. "it is cool. i must go in. it is a sad tangle, and those two mothers! i am sometimes glad that i never married and have no child. good night. i fear that i shall dream of it." "i shall have another pipe before i follow you. we are three old cupids," he added, laughing. "we had better go out of business." "there is a good bit of cupidity about one of us, sir." "a not uncommon quality," laughed schmidt. pleased with her jest, she went away, saying, "tom will take care of you." to the well-concealed satisfaction of the vicomtesse, it was settled that margaret's health required her to remain all summer at the hill; but when june was over, de courval was able to ride, and why not to chestnut hill? and although gainor never left them alone, it was impossible to refuse permission for him to ride with them. they explored the country far and wide with aunt gainor on her great stallion, a rash rider despite her years. together they saw white marsh and the historic lines of valley forge, and heard of hugh wynne's ride, and, by good luck, met general wayne one day and were told the story of that dismal winter when snow was both foe and friend. aunt gainor rode in a riding-mask, and the quaker bonnet was worn no longer, wherefore, the code of lovers' signals being ingeniously good, there needed no cupids old or young. the spring of love had come and the summer would follow in nature's course. yet always rené felt that until his dark debt was paid he could not speak. therefore, sometimes he refrained from turning his horse toward the hill and went to see his mother, now again, to her pleasure, with darthea, or else he rode with schmidt through that bit of holland on the neck and saw sails over the dikes and the flour windmills turning in the breeze. schmidt, too, kept him busy, and he visited baltimore and new york, and fished or shot. "you are well enough now. let us fence again," said schmidt, and once more he was made welcome by the _émigrés_ late in the evening when no others came. he would rarely touch the foils, but "_mon dieu_, schmidt," said de malerive, "he has with the pistol skill." du vallon admitted it. but: "_mon ami_, it is no weapon for gentlemen. the jacobins like it. there is no tierce or quarte against a bullet." "do they practise with the pistol here?" "no. carteaux, thy lucky friend, ah, very good,--of the best with the foil,--but no shot." rené smiled, and schmidt understood. "can you hit that, rené?" he said, taking from his pocket the ace of clubs, for playing-cards were often used as visiting-cards, the backs being white, and other material not always to be had. rené hit the edge of the ace with a ball, and then the center. the gay crowd applauded, and du vallon pleased to make a little jest in english, wished it were a jacobin club, and, again merry, they liked the jest. xix the only man known to me who remembered schmidt is said to have heard alexander hamilton remark that all the german lacked of being great was interest in the noble game of politics. it was true of schmidt. the war of parties merely amused him, with their honest dread of a monarchy, their terror of a bonded debt, their disgust at the abominable imposition of a tax on freemen, and, above all, an excise tax on whisky. jefferson, with keen intellect, was trying to keep the name republican for the would-be democrats, and while in office had rebuked genêt and kept fauchet in order, so that, save for the smaller side of him and the blinding mind fog of personal and party prejudice, he would have been still more valuable in the distracted cabinet he had left. schmidt looked on it all with tranquillity, and while he heard of the horrors of the terror with regret for individual suffering, regarded that strange drama much as an historian looks back on the records of the past. seeing this and the man's interest in the people near to him, in flowers, nature, and books, his attitude of mind in regard to the vast world changes seemed singular to the more intense character of de courval. it had for him, however, its value in the midst of the turmoil of a new nation and the temptations an immense prosperity offered to a people who were not as yet acclimated to the air of freedom. in fact schmidt's indifference, or rather the neutrality of a mind not readily biased, seemed to set him apart, and to enable him to see with sagacity the meaning and the probable results of what appeared to some in america like the beginning of a fatal evolution of ruin. their companionship had now the qualities of one of those rare and useful friendships between middle age and youth, seen now and then between a father and son, with similar tastes. they were much together, and by the use of business errands and social engagements the elder man did his share in so occupying de courval as to limit his chances of seeing margaret swanwick; nor was she entirely or surely displeased. her instincts as a woman made her aware of what might happen at any time. she knew, too, what would then be the attitude of the repellent huguenot lady. her pride of caste was recognized by margaret with the distinctness of an equal but different pride, and with some resentment at an aloofness which, while it permitted the expression of gratitude, seemed to draw between mrs. swanwick and herself a line of impassable formality of intercourse. one of the lesser accidents of social life was about to bring for de courval unlooked-for changes and materially to affect his fortunes. he had seemed to schmidt of late less troubled, a fact due to a decision which left him more at ease. the summer of 1794 was over, and the city gay and amusing. he had seen carteaux more than once, and seeing him, he had been but little disturbed. on an evening in september, schmidt and he went as usual to the fencing-school. there were some new faces. du vallon said, "here, schmidt, is an old friend of mine, and vicomte, let me present monsieur brillat-savarin." the new-comer greeted de courval and his face expressed surprise as he bowed to the german. "i beg pardon," he said--"monsieur schmidt?" "yes, at your service." he seemed puzzled. "it seems to me that we have met before--in berne, i think." "berne. berne," said schmidt, coldly. "i was never in berne." "ah, i beg pardon. i must be mistaken." "are you here for a long stay?" "only for a few days. i am wandering in a land of lost opportunities." "of what?" asked schmidt. "oh, of the cook. think of it, these angelic reed-birds, the divine terrapin, the duck they call canvas, the archangelic wild turkey, unappreciated, crudely cooked; the madeira--ah, _mon dieu!_ i would talk of them, and, behold, the men talk politics! i have eaten of that dish at home, and it gave me the colic of disgust." "but the women?" said a young _émigré_. "ah, angels, angels. but can they make an omelet? the divine miss morris would sing to me when i would speak seriously of my search for truffles. oh, she would sing the 'yankee dudda'[1] and i must hear the 'lament of major andré.' who was he?" [1] he so writes it in his "physiologie du goût." de courval explained. "it is the truffle i lament. ah, to marry the truffle to the wild turkey." the little group laughed. "old gourmand," cried du vallon, "you are still the same." "gourmet," corrected savarin. "congratulate me. i have found here a cook--marino, a master, french of course, from san domingo. you will dine with me at four to-morrow; and you, monsieur schmidt, certainly you resemble--" "yes," broke in the german. "a likeness often remarked, not very flattering." "ah, pardon me. but my dinner--du vallon, you will come, and the vicomte, and you and you, and there will be messieurs bingham and rawle and mr. meredith, and one jacobin,--monsieur girard,--as i hear a lover of good diet--ah, he gave me the crab which is soft, the citizen crab. monsieur girard--i bless him. i have seen women, statesmen, kings, but the crab, ah! the crab 'which is soft.'" all of them accepted, the _émigrés_ gladly, being, alas! none too well fed. "and now, adieu. i must go and meditate on my dinner." the next day at four they met at marino's, the new restaurant in front street then becoming fashionable. "i have taken the liberty," said bingham, "to send half a dozen of madeira, 1745, and two decanters of grape juice, what we call the white. the rest--well, of our best, all of it." they sat down expectant. "the turkey i have not," said savarin; "but the soup--ah, you will see,--soup _a la reine_. will citizen girard decline?" the dinner went on with talk and laughter. savarin talking broken english, or more volubly french. "you are to have the crabs which are soft, monsieur girard, _en papillotte_, more becoming crabs than women, and at the close reed-birds. had there been these in france, and the crab which is soft, and the terrapin, there would have been no revolution. and the madeira--perfect, perfect, a revelation. your health, mr. bingham." bingham bowed over his glass, and regretted that canvasback ducks and terrapin were not yet in season. the _émigrés_ used well this rare chance, and with talk of the wine and jest and story (anything but politics), the dinner went on gaily. meanwhile girard, beside de courval, spoke of their sad experiences in the fever, and of what was going on in the murder-scourged west indian islands, and of the ruin of our commerce. marino in his white cap and long apron stood behind the host, quietly appreciative of the praise given to his dinner. presently savarin turned to him. "who," he asked, "dressed this salad. it is a marvel, and quite new to me." "i asked monsieur de beauvois to do me the honor." "indeed! many thanks, de beauvois," said the host to a gentleman at the farther end of the table. "your salad is past praise. your health. you must teach me this dressing." "a secret," laughed the guest, as he bowed over his glass, "and valuable." "that is droll," said de courval to bingham. "no; he comes to my house and to willing's to dress salad for our dinners. ten francs he gets, and lives on it, and saves money." "indeed! i am sorry for him," said rené. then mr. bingham, being next to girard, said to him: "at the state department yesterday, mr. secretary randolph asked me, knowing i was to see you to-day, if you knew of any french gentleman who could act as translating clerk. of course he must know english." "why not my neighbor de courval?" said the merchant. "but he is hardly of mr. randolph's politics." "and what are they?" laughed mr. bingham. "federal, i suppose; but as for de courval, he is of no party. besides, ever since freneau left on account of the fever, the secretaries are shy of any more clerks who will keep them in hot water with the president. for a poet he was a master of rancorous abuse." "and who," said girard, "have excelled the poets in malignancy? having your permission, i will ask our young friend." and turning to rené, he related what had passed between him and mr. bingham. somewhat surprised, rené said: "i might like it, but i must consult mr. schmidt. i am far from having political opinions, or, if any, they are with the federals. but that would be for the secretary to decide upon. an exile, mr. girard, should have no political opinions unless he means to become a citizen, as i do not." "that seems reasonable," said bingham, the senator for pennsylvania, overhearing him. "your health, de courval, i commend to you the white grape juice. and if the place please you, let it be a receipt in full for my early contribution of mud." and laughing, he told girard the story. "indeed, sir, it was a very personal introduction," returned rené. "i should like well to have that young man myself," said girard in an aside to bingham. "this is a poor bit of advancement you offer--all honor and little cash. i like the honor that attends to a draft." the senator laughed. "oh, schmidt has, i believe, adopted de courval or something like it. he will take the post for its interest. do you know," he added, "who this man schmidt may be?" "i--no; but all europe is sending us mysterious people. by and by the kings and queens will come. but schmidt is a man to trust, that i do know." "a good character," cried schmidt, coming behind them. "my thanks." "by george! it was lucky we did not abuse you," said bingham. "oh, madeira is a gentle critic, and a good dinner does fatten amiability. come, rené, we shall get on even terms of praise with them as we walk home." the party broke up, joyous at having dined well. as they went homeward, schmidt said: "our host, rené, is not a mere gourmet. he is a philosophic student of diet, living in general simply, and, i may add, a gentleman of courage and good sense, as he showed in france." "it seems difficult, sir, to judge men. he seemed to me foolish." "yes; and one is apt to think not well of a man who talks much of what he eats. he recognized me, but at once accepted my obvious desire not to be known. he will be sure to keep my secret." when having reached home, and it was not yet twilight--they sat down with their pipes, rené laid before his friend this matter of the secretaryship. schmidt said: "my work is small just now, and the hours of the state department would release you at three. you would be at the center of affairs, and learn much, and would find the secretary pleasant. but, remember, the work may bring you into relations with carteaux." "i have thought of that; but my mother will like this work for me. the business she disliked." "then take it, if it is offered, as i am sure it will be." "he is very quiet about carteaux," thought schmidt. "something will happen soon. i did say from the first that i would not desire to be inside of that jacobin's skin." the day after, a brief note called de courval to the department of state. the modest building which then housed the secretary and his affairs was a small dwelling-house on high street, no. 379, as the old numbers ran. no mark distinguished it as the vital center of a nation's foreign business. rené had to ask a passer-by for the direction. for a brief moment de courval stood on the outer step before the open door. a black servant was asleep on a chair within the sanded entry. the simplicity and poverty of a young nation, just of late having set up housekeeping, were plainly to be read in the office of the department of state. two or three persons went in or came out. beside the step an old black woman was selling peanuts. rené's thoughts wandered for a moment from his norman home to a clerk's place in the service of a new country. "how very strange!"--he had said so to schmidt, and now recalled his laughing reply: "we think we play the game of life, rené, but the banker fate always wins. his dice are loaded, his cards are marked." the german liked to puzzle him. "and yet," reflected de courval, "i can go in or go home." he said to himself: "surely i am free,--and, after all, how little it means for me! i am to translate letters." he roused the snoring negro, and asked, "where can i find mr. randolph?" as the drowsy slave was assembling his wits, a notably pleasant voice behind rené said: "i am mr. randolph, at your service. have i not the pleasure to see the vicomte de courval?" "yes, i am he." "come into my office." rené followed him, and they sat down to talk in the simply furnished front room. the secretary, then in young middle age, was a largely built man and portly, dark-eyed, with refined features and quick to express a certain conciliatory courtesy in his relations with others. he used gesture more freely than is common with men of our race, and both in voice and manner there was something which rené felt to be engaging and attractive. he liked him, and still more after a long talk in which the duties of the place were explained and his own indisposition to speak of his past life recognized with tactful courtesy. randolph said at last, "the office is yours if it please you to accept." "i do so, sir, most gladly." "very good. i ought to say that mr. freneau had but two hundred and fifty dollars a year. it is all we can afford." as rené was still the helper of schmidt, and well paid, he said it was enough. he added: "i am not of any party, sir. i have already said so, but i wish in regard to this to be definite." "that is of no moment, or, in fact, a good thing. your duties here pledge you to no party. i want a man of honor, and one with whom state secrets will be safe. well, then, you take it? we seem to be agreed." "yes; and i am much honored by the offer." "then come here at ten to-morrow. there is much to do for a time." madame was pleased. this at least was not commerce. but now there was little leisure, and no time for visits to the hill, at which the two conspiring cupids, out of business and anxious, smiled, doubtful as to what cards fate would hold in this game: and thus time ran on. the work was easy and interesting. the secretary, courteous and well-pleased, in that simpler day, came in person to the little room assigned to de courval and brought documents and letters which opened a wide world to a curious young man, who would stay at need until midnight, and who soon welcomed duties far beyond mere french letter-writing. by and by there were visits with papers to mr. wolcott at the treasury department, no. 119 chestnut street, and at last to fauchet at oeller's hotel. he was received with formal civility by le blanc, a secretary, and presently carteaux, entering, bowed. de courval did not return the salute, and, finishing his business without haste, went out. he felt the strain of self-control the situation had demanded, but, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, knew with satisfaction that the stern trials of the years had won for him the priceless power to be or to seem to be what he was not. "the _ci-devant_ has had his little lesson," said le blanc. "it will be long before he insults another good jacobin." carteaux, more intelligent, read otherwise the set jaw and grave face of the huguenot gentleman. he would be on his guard. the news of the death of robespierre, in july, 1794, had unsettled fauchet, and his subordinate, sharing his uneasiness, meant to return to france if the minister were recalled and the terror at an end, or to find a home in new york, and perhaps, like genêt, a wife. for the time he dismissed de courval from his mind, although not altogether self-assured concerning the future. xx "and now about this matter of dress," said miss gainor. "thou art very good, godmother, to come and consult me," said mrs. swanwick. "i have given it some thought, and i do not see the wisdom of going half-way. the good preacher white has been talking to margaret, and i see no reason why, if i changed, she also should not be free to do as seems best to her." "you are very moderate, mary, as you always are." "i try to be; but i wish that it were altogether a matter of conscience with margaret. it is not. friends were concerned in regard to that sad duel and considered me unwise to keep in my house one guilty of the wickedness of desiring to shed another's blood, margaret happened to be with me when friend howell opened the subject, and thou knowest how gentle he is." "yes. i know. what happened, mary?" "he said that friends were advised that to keep in my house a young man guilty of bloodshed was, as it did appear to them, undesirable. then, to my surprise, margaret said: 'but he was not guilty of bloodshed.' friend howell was rather amazed, as thou canst imagine; but before he could say a word more, miss impudence jumped up, very red in the face, and said: 'why not talk to him instead of troubling mother? i wish he had shed more blood than his own.'" "ah, the dear minx! i should like to have been there," said gainor. "he was very near to anger--as near as is possible for arthur howell; but out goes my young woman in a fine rage about what was none of her business." "and what did you say?" "what could i say except to excuse her, because the young man was our friend, and at last that i was very sorry not to do as they would have had me to do, but would hear no more. he was ill-pleased, i do assure thee." "were you very sorry, mary swanwick?" "i was not, although i could not approve the young man nor my child's impertinence." "well, my dear, i should have said worse things. i may have my way in the matter of dress, i suppose?" "yes," said the widow, resigned. "an episcopalian in friends' dress seems to me to lack propriety; but as to thy desire to buy her fine garments, there are trunks in my garret full of the world's things i gave up long ago." "were you sorry?" "a little, aunt gainor. wilt thou see them?" "oh, yes, margaret," she called, "come in." she entered with de courval, at home by good luck. "and may i come, too?" he asked. "why not?" said mistress gainor, and they went up-stairs, where nanny, delighted, opened the trunks and took out one by one the garments of a gayer world, long laid away unused. the maid in her red bandana head-gear was delighted, having, like her race, great pleasure in bright colors. the widow, standing apart, looked on, with memories which kept her silent, as the faint smell of lavender, which seems to me always to have an ancient fragrance, hung about the garments of her youth. margaret watched her mother with quick sense of this being for her something like the turning back to a record of a girlhood like her own. de courval had eyes for the pearl alone. gainor wynne, undisturbed by sentimental reflections, enjoyed the little business. "goodness, my dear, what brocade!" cried miss wynne. "how fine you were, mary! and a white satin, with lace and silver gimp." "it was my mother's wedding-gown," said the widow. "and for day wear this lutestring will fit you to a hair, margaret; but the sleeves must be loose. and lace--what is it?" she held up a filmy fabric. "i think i could tell." and there, a little curious, having heard her son's voice, was the vicomtesse, interested, and for her mildly excited, to rené's surprise. miss gainor greeted her in french i dare not venture upon, and this common interest in clothes seemed somehow to have the effect of suddenly bringing all these women into an intimacy of the minute, while the one man stood by, with the unending wonder of the ignorant male, now, as it were, behind the scenes. he fell back and the women left him unnoticed. "what is it, madame?" asked margaret. "oh, french point, child, and very beautiful." "and this other must be--" "it is new to me," cried miss wynne. "permit me," said the vicomtesse. "venetian point, i think--quite priceless, margaret, a wonder." she threw the fairy tissue about pearl's head, smiling as she considered the effect. "is this my mother?" thought her son, with increase of wonder. he had seen her only with restricted means, and knew little of the more luxurious days and tastes of her youth. "does you remember this, missus?" said nanny. "a doll," cried gainor, "and in quaker dress! it will do for your children, margaret." "no, it is not a child's doll," said mrs. swanwick. "friends in london sent it to marie wynne, hugh's mother, for a pattern of the last quaker fashions in london--a way they had. i had quite forgotten it." "and very pretty, quite charming," said the vicomtesse. "and stays, my dear, and a modesty fence," cried miss wynne, holding them up. "you will have to fatten, pearl." upon this the young man considered it as well to retire. he went down-stairs unmissed, thinking of the agreeable intimacy of stays with the fair figure he left bending over the trunk, a mass of black lace in her hand. [illustration: "she threw the fairy tissue about pearl's head, smiling as she considered the effect"] "spanish, my dear," said madame, with animation; "quite a wonder. oh, rare, very rare. not quite fit for a young woman--a head veil." "are they all mine, mother?" cried margaret. "yes, my child." "then, madame," she said, with rising color and engaging frankness, "may i not have the honor to offer thee the lace?" "why not?" said gainor, pleased at the pretty way of the girl. "oh, quite impossible, child," said the vicomtesse. "it is quite too valuable." "please!" said pearl. "it would so become thee." "i really cannot." "thy roquelaure," laughed mrs. swanwick, "was--well--i did remonstrate. why may not we too have the pleasure of extravagance?" "i am conquered," said madame, a trace of color in her wan cheeks as mrs. swanwick set the lace veil on her head, saying: "we are obliged, madame. and where is the vicomte? he should see thee." "gone," said miss gainor; "and just as well, too," for now nanny was holding up a variety of lavender-scented delicacies of raiment, fine linens, and openwork silk stockings. rené, still laughing, met schmidt in the hall. "you were merry up-stairs." "indeed we were." and he gaily described his mother's unwonted mood; but of the sacred future of the stays he said no word. "and so our gray moth has become a butterfly. i think mother eve would not have abided long without a milliner. i should like to have been of the party up-stairs." "you would have been much enlightened," said miss wynne on the stair. "i shall send for the boxes, mary." and with this she went away with margaret, as the doctor had declared was still needful. "why are you smiling, aunt?" said margaret. "oh, nothing." then to herself she said: "i think that if rené de courval had heard her talk to arthur howell, he would have been greatly enlightened. her mother must have understood; or else she is more of a fool than i take her to be." "and thou wilt not tell me?" asked the pearl. "never," said gainor, laughing--"never." meanwhile there was trouble in the western counties of pennsylvania over the excise tax on whisky, and more work than french translations for an able and interested young clerk, whom his mother spoke of as a secretary to the minister. "it is the first strain upon the new constitution," said schmidt; "but there is a man with bones to his back, this president." and by november the militia had put down the riots, and the first grave trial of the central government was well over; so that the president was free at last to turn to the question of the treaty with england, already signed in london. then once more the clamor of party strife broke out. had not jay kissed the hand of the queen? "he had prostrated at the feet of royalty the sovereignty of the people." fauchet was busy fostering opposition long before the treaty came back for decision by the senate. the foreign office was busy, and randolph ill pleased with the supposed terms of the coming document. to deal with the causes of opposition to the treaty in and out of the cabinet far into 1795 concerns this story but indirectly. no one was altogether satisfied, and least of all fauchet, who at every opportunity was sending despatches home by any french war-ship seeking refuge in our ports. a little before noon, on the 29th of november, of this year, 1794, a date de courval was never to forget, he was taking the time for his watch from the clock on the western wall of the state house. as he stood, he saw dr. chovet stop his chaise. "_bonjour_, citizen," cried the doctor. "your too intimate friend, monsieur carteaux, is off for france. he will trouble you no more." as usual, the doctor, safe in his chaise, was as impertinent as he dared to be. too disturbed to notice anything but this startling information in regard to his enemy, de courval said: "who told you that? it cannot be true. he was at the state department yesterday, and we were to meet this afternoon over the affair of a british ship captured by a french privateer." "oh, i met him on fifth street on horseback just now--a little while ago." "well, what then?" "'i am for new york,' he said. i asked: 'how can i send letters to france?' he said: 'i cannot wait for them. i am in a hurry. i must catch that corvette, the _jean bart_, in new york.' then i cried after him: 'are you for france?' and he: 'do you not wish you, too, were going? adieu. wish me _bon voyage_.'" "was he really going? we would have heard of it." "_le diable_, i think so; but he has a mocking tongue. i think he goes. my congratulations that you are rid of him. adieu!" "insolent!" muttered de courval. was it only insolence, or was it true that his enemy was about to escape him? the thought that he could not leave it in doubt put an instant end to his indecisions. "i shall not risk it," he said, and there was no time to be lost. his mother, margaret, the possible remonstrance from schmidt, each in turn had the thought of a moment and then were dismissed in turn as he hurried homeward. again he saw avignon and carteaux' dark face, and heard the echoing memory of his father's death-cry, "yvonne! yvonne!" he must tell schmidt if he were in; if not, so much the better, and he would go alone. he gave no thought to the unwisdom of such a course. his whole mind was on one purpose, and the need to give it swift and definite fulfilment. he was not sorry that schmidt was not at home. he sat down and wrote to him that carteaux was on his way to embark for france and that he meant to overtake him. would schmidt explain to his mother his absence on business? then he took schmidt's pistols from their place over the mantel, loaded and primed them, and put half a dozen bullets and a small powder-horn in his pocket. to carry the pistols, he took schmidt's saddle-holsters. what next? he wrote a note to the secretary that he was called out of town on business, but would return next day, and would schmidt send it as directed. he felt sure that he would return. as he stood at the door of schmidt's room, mrs. swanwick said from the foot of the stairs: "the dinner is ready." "then it must wait for me until to-morrow. i have to ride on a business matter to bristol." "thou hadst better bide for thy meal." "no, i cannot." as mrs. swanwick passed into the dining-room, margaret came from the withdrawing-room, and stood in the doorway opposite to him, a china bowl of the late autumnal flowers in her hands. seeing him cloaked and booted to ride, she said: "wilt thou not stay to dine? i heard thee tell mother thou wouldst not." "no; i have a matter on hand which requires haste." she had learned to read his face. "it must be a pleasant errand," she said. "i wish thee success." thinking as he stood how some ancestor going to war would have asked for a glove, a tress of hair, to carry on his helmet, he said: "give me a flower for luck." "no; they are faded." "ah, i shall think your wish a rose--a rose that will not fade." she colored a little and went by him, saying nothing, lest she might say too much. "good-by!" he added, and went out the hall door, and made haste to reach the stables of the bull and bear, where schmidt kept the horses de courval was free to use. he was about to do a rash and, as men would see it, a foolish thing. he laughed as he mounted. he knew that now he had no more power to stop or hesitate than the stone which has left the sling. he had made the journey to new york more than once, and as he rode north up the road to bristol in a heavy downfall of rain he reflected that carteaux would cross the delaware by the ferry at that town, or farther on at trenton. if the doctor had been correct as to the time, carteaux had started at least an hour and a half before him. it was still raining heavily as he rode out of the city, and as the gray storm-clouds would shorten the daylight, he pushed on at speed, sure of overtaking his enemy and intently on guard. he stayed a moment beside the road to note the distance, as read on a mile-stone, and knew he had come seven miles. that would answer. he smiled as he saw on the stone the three balls of the penn arms, popularly known as the three apple dumplings. a moment later his horse picked up a pebble. it took him some minutes to get it out, the animal being restless. glancing at his watch, he rode on again, annoyed at even so small a loss of time. when, being about three miles from bristol town, and looking ahead over a straight line of road, he suddenly pulled up and turned into the shelter of a wood. some two hundred yards away were two or three houses. a man stood at the roadside. it was carteaux. rené heard the clink of a hammer on the anvil. to be sure of his man, he fastened his horse and moved nearer with care, keeping within the edge of the wood. yes, it was carteaux. the doctor had not lied. if the secretary were going to france, or only on some errand to new york, was now to de courval of small moment. his horse must have cast a shoe. as carteaux rode away from the forge. de courval mounted, and rode on more rapidly. within two miles of bristol, as he remembered, the road turned at a sharp angle toward the river. a half mile away was an inn where the coaches for new york changed horses. it was now five o'clock, and nearing the dusk of a november day. the rain was over, the sky darkening, the air chilly, the leaves were fluttering slowly down, and a wild gale was roaring in the great forest which bounded the road. he thought of the gentler angelus of another evening, and, strange as it may seem, bowed his head, and like many a huguenot noble of his mother's race, prayed god that his enemy should be delivered into his hands. then he stopped his horse and for the first time recognized that it had been raining heavily and that it were well to renew the priming of his pistols. he attended to this with care, and then rode quickly around the turn of the road, and came upon carteaux walking his horse. "stop, monsieur!" he called, and in an instant he was beside him. carteaux turned at the call, and, puzzled for a moment, said: "what is it?"--and then at once knew the man at his side. he was himself unarmed, and for a moment alarmed as he saw de courval's hand on the pistol in his holster. he called out, "do you mean to murder me?" "not i. you will dismount, and will take one of my pistols--either; they are loaded. you will walk to that stump, turn, and yourself give the word, an advantage, as you may perceive." "and if i refuse?" "in that case i shall kill you with no more mercy than you showed my father. you have your choice. decide, and that quickly." having dismounted as he spoke, he stood with a grip on carteaux' bridle, a pistol in hand, and looking up at the face of his enemy. carteaux hesitated a moment, with a glance up and down the lonely highway. "monsieur," said de courval, "i am not here to wait on your decision. i purpose to give you the chance i should give a gentleman; but take care--at the least sign of treachery i shall kill you." carteaux looked down at the stern face of the huguenot and knew that he had no choice. "i accept," he said, and dismounted. de courval struck the horses lightly, and having seen them turn out of the road, faced carteaux, a pistol in each hand. "i have just now renewed the primings," he said. as he spoke, he held out the weapons. for an instant the jacobin hesitated, and then said quickly: "i take the right-hand pistol." "when you are at the stump, look at the priming," said de courval, intently on guard. "now, monsieur, walk to the stump beside the road. it is about twelve paces. you see it?" "yes, i see it." "very good. at the stump, cock your pistol, turn, and give the word, 'fire!' reserve your shot or fire at the word--an advantage, as you perceive." the jacobin turned and moved away, followed by the eye of a man distrustfully on the watch. rené stood still, not yet cocking his weapon. carteaux walked away. when he had gone not over half the distance rené heard the click of a cocked pistol and at the instant carteaux, turning, fired. rené threw himself to right and felt a sharp twinge of pain where the ball grazed the skin of his left shoulder. "dog of a jacobin!" he cried, and as carteaux extended his pistol hand in instinctive protest, de courval fired. the man's pistol fell, and with a cry of pain he reeled, and, as the smoke blew away, was seen to pitch forward on his face. at the moment of the shot, and while rené stood still, quickly reloading, he heard behind him a wild gallop, and, turning, saw schmidt breathless at his side, and in an instant out of the saddle. "_lieber himmel!_" cried the german, "have you killed him?" "i do not know; but if he is not dead. i shall kill him; not even you can stop me." "_ach!_ but i will, if i have to hold you." as he spoke he set himself between rené and the prostrate man. "i will not let you commit murder. give me that pistol." for a moment rené stared at his friend. then a quick remembrance of all this man had been to him, all he had done for him, rose in his mind. "have your way, sir!" he cried, throwing down his weapon; "but i will never forgive you, never!" "_ach!_ that is better," said schmidt. "to-morrow you will forgive and thank me. let us look at the rascal." together they moved forward, and while de courval stood by in silence, schmidt, kneeling beside carteaux, turned over his insensible body. "he is not dead," he said, looking up at rené. "i am sorry. your coming disturbed my aim. i am sorry he is alive." "and i am not; but not much, _der teufel!_ the ball has torn his arm, and is in the shoulder. if he does live, he is for life a maimed man. this is vengeance worse than death." as he spoke, he ripped open carteaux' sleeve. "_saprement!_ how the beast bleeds! he will fence no more." the man lay silent and senseless as the german drew from carteaux' pocket a handkerchief and tied it around his arm. "there is no big vessel hurt. _ach, der teufel!_ what errand was he about?" a packet of paper had fallen out with the removal of the handkerchief. "it is addressed to him. we must know. i shall open it." "oh, surely not!" said rené. schmidt laughed. "you would murder a man, but respect his letters." "yes, i should." "my conscience is at ease. this is war." as he spoke, he tore open the envelop. then he whistled low. "here is a devil of a business, rené!" "what is it, sir?" "a despatch from fauchet to the minister of foreign affairs in paris. here is trouble, indeed. you waylay and half-kill the secretary of an envoy--you, a clerk of the state department--" "_mon dieu!_ must he always bring me disaster?" cried rené. he saw with utter dismay the far-reaching consequences of his rash act. "it is to the care of the captain of the _jean bart_, new york harbor. the jacobin party will have a fine cry. the state department will have sent a man to rob a bearer of despatches. who will know or believe it was a private quarrel?" "how could i know his errand?" "that will not save you. your debt is paid with interest, but at bitter cost. and what now to do?" he stood in the road, silent for a moment, deep in thought. "if he dies, it must all be told." "i should tell it myself. i do not care." "but i very much care. if he lives, he will say you set upon him, an unarmed man, and stole his despatches." "then leave them." "that were as bad. i saw his treachery; but who will believe me? i must stay by him, and see what i can do." meanwhile the man lay speechless. rené looked down at him and then at schmidt. he, too, was thinking. in a moment he said: "this at least is clear. i am bound in honor to go on this hound's errand, and to see that these papers reach the _jean bart_." "you are right," said schmidt; "entirely right. but you must not be seen here. find your way through the woods, and when it is dark--in an hour it will be night--ride through bristol to trenton, cross the river there at the ferry. no one will be out of doors in trenton or bristol on a night like this. listen to the wind! now go. when you are in new york, see mr. nicholas gouverneur in beaver street. at need, tell him the whole story; but not if you can help it. here is money, but not enough. he will provide what you require. come back through the jerseys, and cross at camden. i shall secure help here, go to town, get a doctor, and return. i must talk to this man if he lives, else he will lie about you." "you will excuse me to the secretary?" "yes; yes, of course. now go. these people at the inn must not see you." he watched him ride away into the wood. "it is a sorry business," he said as he knelt down to give the fallen man brandy from the flask he found in his saddle-bag. within an hour carteaux, still insensible, was at bisanet's inn, a neighboring doctor found, and that good samaritan schmidt, after a fine tale of highwaymen, was in the saddle and away to town, leaving carteaux delirious. he went at once to the house of chovet and found him at home. it was essential to have some one who could talk french. "at your service," said the doctor. "why the devil did you send de courval after carteaux this morning?" "i never meant to." "but you did. you have made no end of mischief. now listen. i need you because you speak french. can you hold your tongue, if to hold it means money? oh, a good deal. if you breathe a word of what you hear or see, i will half-kill you." "oh, monsieur, i am the soul of honor." "indeed. why, then, does it trouble you? owing to your damned mischief-making, de courval has shot carteaux. you are to go to the inn, bisanet's, near bristol, to-night, and as often afterward as is needed. i shall pay, and generously, if he does not--but, remember, no one is to know. a highwayman shot him. do you understand? i found him on the road, wounded." "yes; but it is late." "you go at once." "i go, monsieur." then schmidt went home, and ingeniously accounted to madame, and in a note to randolph, for rené's absence in new york. as he sat alone that night he again carefully considered the matter. yes, if carteaux died not having spoken, the story would have to be told. the despatch would never be heard of, or if its singular fortune in going on its way were ever known and discussed, that was far in the future, and schmidt had a strong belief in many things happening or not happening. and if, too, despite his presumed power to close carteaux' lips, the injured man should sooner or later charge rené with his wound and the theft of the despatch, schmidt, too, would have a story to tell. finally--and this troubled his decisions--suppose that at once he frankly told fauchet and the secretary of state what had happened. would he be believed by fauchet in the face of what carteaux would say, or would rené be believed or that he had honorably gone on his enemy's errand? the _jean bart_ would have sailed. months must pass before the news of the reception of the despatch could in the ordinary state of things be heard of, and now the sea swarmed with british cruisers, and the french frigates were sadly unsafe. to-morrow he must see carteaux, and at once let fauchet learn the condition of his secretary. he returned to his trust in the many things that may happen, and, lighting a pipe, fell upon his favorite montaigne. he might have been less at ease could he have dreamed what mischief that despatch was about to make or what more remote trouble it was to create for the harassed president and his cabinet. xxi at noon next day a tired rider left his horse at an inn in perth amboy and boarded the sloop which was to take him to new york, if tide and wind served. both at this time were less good to him than usual, and he drifted the rest of the afternoon and all night on the bay. at length, set ashore on the battery, he was presently with a merchant, in those days of leisurely ventures altogether a large personage, merchant and ship-master, capable, accurate, enterprising, something of the great gentleman, quick to perceive a slight and at need to avenge it, a lost type to-day--a dutch cross on huguenot french. mr. nicholas gouverneur was glad to see once more the vicomte de courval. his own people, too, had suffered in other days for their religion, and if rené's ancestors had paid in the far past unpleasant penalties for the respectable crime of treason to the king, had not one of mr. gouverneur's ancestors had a similar distinction, having been hanged for high treason? "ah, of course he told you the story, rené," said schmidt when he heard of this interview. mr. gouverneur, having offered the inevitable hospitality of his sideboard, was in no hurry. rené, although in hot haste to be done with his strange errand, knew better than to disturb the formalities of welcome. he must inquire after mrs. gouverneur, and must answer for his mother. at last his host said: "you do small justice to my rum, vicomte. it is as unused to neglect as any young woman. but, pardon me, you look tired, and as if you had made a hard journey. i see that you are anxious and too polite to interrupt a garrulous man. what can i do for you or our friend schmidt!" "i have this packet of papers which should go at once to the corvette _jean bart_. one françois-guillaume need is the captain." "and i have been delaying you. pray pardon me. despatches, i suppose, for my cousin gouverneur morris." rené did not contradict him. "we will see to it at once, at once. the _jean bart_ sails to-night, i hear. she has waited, we knew not why." "for these despatches, sir. can i not be set aboard of her at once?" "surely," said gouverneur; "come with me." as they walked toward the water mr. gouverneur said: "you have, i think you told me, a despatch for the captain of the corvette. let me urgently advise you not to board that vessel. my boat shall take you to the ship,--deliver your despatch,--but let nothing tempt you to set foot on her deck. we are not on very good terms with france; you are still a french citizen. several of the corvette's officers have been in philadelphia. if you are recognized as a french noble, you will never see america again. you know what fate awaits an émigré in paris; not even your position in the department of state would save you." de courval returned: "you are no doubt right, sir. i had already thought of the risk--" "there need be none if you are prudent." "but i ought to receive a receipt for the papers i deliver." "that is hardly needed--unusual, i should say; mr. randolph will scarcely expect that." de courval was not inclined to set the merchant right in regard to the character of the despatches, for it might then be necessary to tell the whole story. he made no direct reply, but said merely: "i am most grateful--i shall have the honor to take your advice. ah, here is the boat." "it is my own barge," said gouverneur. "be careful. yonder is the corvette, a short pull. i shall wait for you here." in a few minutes de courval was beside the gangway of the corvette. he called to a sailor on the deck that he wished to see an officer. presently a young lieutenant came down the steps. de courval said in french, as he handed the officer the packet of papers: "this is a despatch, citizen, from citizen minister fauchet, addressed to the care of your captain. have the kindness to give it to him and ask for a receipt." the lieutenant went on deck and very soon returned. "the receipt, please," said de courval. "captain need desires me to say that, although it is unusual to give a receipt for such papers, he will do so if you will come to the cabin. he wishes to ask questions about the british cruisers, and may desire to send a letter to citizen minister fauchet." "i cannot wait. i am in haste to return," said de courval. "_le diable_, citizen! he will be furious. we sail at once--at once; you will not be delayed." rené thought otherwise. "very well; i can but give your reply. it seems to me strange. you will hear of it some day, citizen." as soon as the officer disappeared, rené said to his boatman: "quick! get away--get me ashore as soon as you can!" pursuit from a man-of-war boat was possible, if one lay ready on the farther side of the corvette. he had, however, only a ten minutes' row before he stood beside mr. gouverneur on the battery slip. "i am a little relieved," said the older man. "did you get the acknowledgment of receipt you wanted?" "no, sir. it was conditioned upon my going aboard to the captain's cabin." "ah, well, i do not suppose that mr. randolph will care." "probably not." rené had desired some evidence of his singular mission, but the immense importance of it as proof of his good faith was not at the time fully apprehended. the despatch had gone on its way, and he had done honorably his enemy's errand. "and now," said the merchant, "let us go to my house and see mrs. gouverneur, and above all have dinner." rené had thought that flight might be needed if he carried out his fatal purpose, and he had therefore put in his saddle-bags enough garments to replace the muddy dress of a hard ride. he had said that he must leave at dawn, and having laid aside the cares of the last days, he gave himself up joyously to the charm of the refined hospitality of his hosts. as they turned away, the corvette was setting her sails and the cries of the sailors and the creak of the windlass showed the anchor was being raised. before they had reached gouverneur's house she was under way, with papers destined to make trouble for many. as rené lay at rest that night within the curtained bed, no man on manhattan island could have been more agreeably at ease with his world. the worry of indecision was over. he felt with honest conviction that his prayer for the downfall of his enemy had been answered, and in this cooler hour he knew with gratitude that his brute will to kill had been wisely denied its desire. it had seemed to him at the time that to act on his instinct was only to do swift justice on a criminal; but he had been given a day to reflect and acknowledged the saner wisdom of the morrow. further thought should have left him less well pleased at what the future might hold for him. but the despatch had gone, his errand was done. an image of margaret in the splendor of brocade and lace haunted the dreamy interval between the waking state and the wholesome sleep of tired youth. moreover, the good merchant's madeira had its power of somnolent charm, and, thus soothed, de courval passed into a world of visionless slumber. he rode back through the jerseys to avoid bristol and the scene of his encounter, and, finding at camden a flat barge returning to philadelphia, was able, as the river was open and free of ice, to get his horse aboard and thus to return with some renewal of anxiety to mrs. swanwick's house. no one was at home; but nanny told him that mr. schmidt, who had been absent, had returned two days before, but was out. miss margaret was at the hill, and june, the cat, off for two days on love-affairs or predatory business. he went up-stairs to see his mother. should he tell her? on the whole, it was better not to speak until he had seen schmidt. he amused her with an account of having been sent to new york on business and then spoke of the gouverneur family and their huguenot descent. he went away satisfied that he had left her at ease, which was not quite the case. "something has happened," she said to herself. "by and by he will tell me. is it the girl? i trust not. or that man? hardly." the supper passed in quiet, with light talk of familiar things, the vicomtesse, always a taciturn woman, saying but little. as de courval sat down, her black dress, the silvery quiet of mrs. swanwick's garb, her notably gentle voice, the simple room without colors, the sanded floor, the spotless cleanliness of the table furniture, of a sudden struck him as he thought of the violence and anger of the scene on the bristol road. what would this gentle friend say, and the pearl? what, indeed! supper was just over when, to rené's relief, schmidt appeared. he nodded coolly to rené and said, laughing: "ah, frau swanwick, i have not had a chance to growl; but when i go again to the country, i shall take nanny. i survive; but the diet!" he gave an amusing account of it. "pork--it is because of the unanimous pig. pies--ach!--cabbage, a sour woman and sour bread, chicken rigged with hemp and with bosoms which need not stays." even the vicomtesse smiled. "i have dined at mr. morris's, to my relief. come, rené, let us smoke." when once at ease in his room, he exclaimed: "_potstausend_, rené, i am out of debt. the years i used to count to be paid are settled. two days' watching that delirious swine and bottling up the gossiping little demon chovet! a pipe, a pipe, and then i shall tell you." "indeed, i have waited long." "chovet told fauchet at my request of this regrettable affair. he is uneasy, and he well may be, concerning all there is left of his secretary." "then he is alive," said rené; "and will he live?" "alive? yes, very much alive, raving at times like a madman haunted by hell fiends. i had to stay. after a day he was clear of head, but as weak as a man can be with the two maladies of a ball in a palsied shoulder and a doctor looking for it. yes, he will live; and alive or dead will make mischief." "did he talk to you?" "yes. he has no memory of my coming at the time he was shot. i think he did not see me at all." "well, what else?" "i told him the whole story, and what i had seen him do. i was plain, too, and said that i had found his despatch, and you, being a gentleman, must needs see that it went. he saw, i suspect, what other motive you had--if he believed me at all." "but did he believe you? does he?" "no, he does not. i said, 'you are scamp enough to swear that we set on you to steal your papers, a fine tale for our jacobin mobocrats.' a fellow can't lie with his whole face. i saw his eyes narrow, but i told him to try it if he dared, and out comes my tale of his treachery. we made a compact at last, and he will swear he was set upon and robbed. i left him to invent his story. but it is plainly his interest to keep faith, and not accuse you." "he will not keep faith. sometime he will lie about me. the despatch has gone by the _jean bart_, but that part of our defense is far to reach." "well, chovet is gold dumb, and as for the jacobin, no man can tell. if he be wise, he will stick to his tale of highwaymen. of course i asked chovet to let the minister learn of this sad accident, but he did not arrive until after i had the fellow well scared." "is that all?" "no. the man is in torment. damn! if i were in pain like that, i should kill myself. except that fever, i never had anything worse than a stomachache in all my life. the man is on the rack, and chovet declares that he will never use the arm again, and will have some daily reminder of you so long as he lives. now, rené, a man on the rack may come to say things of the gentleman who turned on the torture." "then some day he will lie, and i, _mon dieu_, will be ruined. who will believe me? the state department will get the credit of it, and i shall be thrown over--sacrificed to the wolves of party slander." "not if i am here." "if you are here?" "yes. at any time i may have to go home." "then let us tell the whole story." "yes, if we must; but wait. why go in search of trouble? for a time, perhaps always, he will be silent. did you get a receipt for the despatch?" "no. the captain would not give one unless i went to his cabin and that i dared not do." "i, as the older man, should have pointed out to you the need of using every possible means to get an acknowledgment from the captain; but you were right. had you gone on board the ship, you would never have left her. well, then there is more need to play a silent, waiting game until we know, as we shall, of the papers having reached their destination. in fact, there is nothing else to do. there will be a nice fuss over the papers, and then it will all be forgotten." "yes, unless he speaks." "if he does, there are other cards in my hand. meanwhile, being a good samaritan, i have again seen carteaux. he will, i think, be silent for a while. be at ease, my son; and now i must go to bed. i am tired." this was one of many talks; none of them left rené at ease. how could he as yet involve a woman he loved in his still uncertain fate! he was by no means sure that she loved him; that she might come to do so he felt to be merely possible, for the modesty of love made him undervalue himself and see her as far beyond his deserts. his mother's prejudices troubled him less. love consults no peerage and he had long ago ceased to think as his mother did of a title which had no legal existence. it was natural enough that an event as grave as this encounter with carteaux should leave on a young man's mind a deep impression; nor had his talk with schmidt, the night before, enabled him, as next day he walked to the state department, to feel entirely satisfied. the news of the highway robbery had been for two days the city gossip, and already the gazettes were considering it in a leisurely fashion; but as no journals reached the widow's house unless brought thither by schmidt, the amenities of the press in regard to the assault and the administration were as yet unseen by de courval. on the steps of the department of state he met the marquis de noailles, who greeted him cheerfully, asking if he had read what mr. bache and the "aurora" said of the attack on carteaux. rené felt the cold chill of too conscious knowledge as he replied: "not yet, marquis. i am but yesterday come from new york." "well, it should interest mr. randolph. it does appear to mr. bache that no one except the english party and the federals could profit by the theft. how they could be the better by the gossip of this _sacré_ jacobin actor in the rôle of a minister the _bon dieu_ alone knows." rené laughed. "you are descriptive, marquis." "who would not be? but, my dear de courval, you must regret that you were not the remarkable highwayman who stole fauchet's eloquence and left a gold watch and seals; but here comes mr. randolph. he may explain it; at all events, if he confides to you the name of that robber, send the man to me. i will pay five dollars apiece for jacobin scalps. _adieu._ my regrets that you are not the man." mr. randolph was cool as they went in together, and made it plain that absence without leave on the part of a clerk was an embarrassment to the public service of the state department, in which were only three or four clerks. de courval could only say that imperative private business had taken him out of town. it would not occur again. upon this mr. randolph began to discuss the amazing assault and robbery with which town gossip was so busy. mr. fauchet had been insolent, and, asking aid in discovering the thief, had plainly implied that more than he and his government would suffer if the despatch were not soon restored to the minister. mr. randolph had been much amused, a little angry and also puzzled. "it had proved," he said, "a fine weapon in the hands of the democrats." the young man was glad to shift the talk, but wherever he went for a few days, people, knowing of his duel, were sure to talk to him of this mysterious business. later the "aurora" and mr. bache, who had taken up the rôle in which mr. freneau had acted with skill and ill temper, made wild use of the story and of the value of the stolen papers to a criminal cabinet. over their classic signatures cato and aristides challenged democratic socrates or cicero to say how general washington would be the better for knowledge of the rant of the strolling player fauchet. very soon, however, people ceased to talk of it. it was an unsolved mystery. but for one man torment of body and distress of mind kept ever present the will and wish to be without risk revenged. he was already, as he knew, _persona non grata_, and to have schmidt's story told and believed was for the secretary to be sent home in disgrace. he waited, seeing no way as yet to acquit himself of this growing debt. january of 1795 came in with the cabinet changes already long expected. carteaux was still very ill in bed, with doctors searching for the bullet. as yet he told only of being robbed of his despatches and that he had lost neither watch nor purse, which was conclusive. whereupon fauchet talked and insulted randolph, and the democratic clubs raved with dark hints and insinuations, while the despatch went on its way, not to be heard of for months to come. rené, who was for a time uneasy and disliked the secrecy thrown about an action of which he was far from ashamed, began at last to feel relieved, and thus the midwinter was over and the days began noticeably to lengthen. xxii "let us skate to-night. i have tried the ice," said schmidt, one afternoon in february. "pearl learned, as you know, long ago." she was in town for a week, the conspirators feeling assured of rené's resolution to wait on this, as on another matter, while he was busy with his double work. her mother had grown rebellious over her long absence, and determined that she should remain in town, as there seemed to be no longer cause for fear and the girl was in perfect health. aunt gainor, also, was eager for town and piquet and well pleased with the excuse to return, having remained at the hill long after her usual time. "the moon is a fair, full matron," said schmidt. "the ice is perfect. look out for air-holes, rené," he added, as he buckled on his skates. "not ready yet?" rené was kneeling and fastening the pearl's skates. it took long. "oh, hurry!" she cried. "i cannot wait." she was joyous, excited, and he somehow awkward. then they were away over the shining, moonlighted ice of the broad delaware with that exhilaration which is caused by swift movement, the easy product of perfect physical capacity. for a time they skated quietly side by side, schmidt, as usual, enjoying an exercise in which, says graydon in his memoirs, the gentlemen of philadelphia were unrivaled. nearer the city front, on the great ice plain, were many bonfires, about which phantom figures flitted now an instant black in profile, and then lost in the unillumined spaces, while far away, opposite to the town, hundreds of skaters carrying lanterns were seen or lost to view in the quick turns of the moving figures. "like great fireflies," said schmidt. a few dim lights in houses and frost-caught ships and faint, moonlit outlines alone revealed the place of the city. the cries and laughter were soon lost to the three skaters, and a vast solitude received them as they passed down the river. "ah, the gray moonlight and the gray ice!" said schmidt, "a quaker night, pearl." "and the moon a great pearl," she cried. "how one feels the night!" said the german. "it is as on the sahara. only in the loneliness of great spaces am i able to feel eternity; for space is time." he had his quick bits of talk to himself. both young people, more vaguely aware of some sense of awe in the dim unpeopled plain, were under the charm of immense physical joy in the magic of easily won motion. "surely there is nothing like it," said rené, happy and breathless, having only of late learned to skate, whereas pearl had long since been well taught by the german friend. "no," said schmidt; "there is nothing like it, except the quick sweep of a canoe down a rapid. a false turn of the paddle, and there is death. oh, but there is joy in the added peril! the blood of the angels finds the marge of danger sweet." "not for me," said pearl; "but we are safe here." "i have not found your delaware a constant friend. how is that, rené?" "what dost thou mean?" said pearl. "thou art fond of teasing my curiosity, and i am curious, too. tell me, please. oh, but thou must!" "ask the vicomte," cried schmidt. "he will tell you." "oh, will he, indeed?" said rené, laughing. "ah, i am quite out of breath." "then rest a little." as they halted, a swift skater, seeking the loneliness of the river below the town, approaching, spoke to margaret, and then said: "ah, mr. schmidt, what luck to find you! you were to give me a lesson. why not now?" "come, then," returned schmidt. "i brought you hither, rené, because it is safer away from clumsy learners, and where we are the ice is safe. i was over it yesterday, but do not go far. i shall be back in a few minutes. if margaret is tired, move up the river. i shall find you." "please not to be long," said margaret. "make him tell you when your wicked delaware was not my friend, and another was. make him tell." as he spoke, he was away behind young mr. morris, singing in his lusty bass snatches of german song and thinking of the ripe mischief of the trap he had baited with a nice little cupid. "i want it to come soon," he said, "before i go. she will be curious and venture in, and it will be as good as the apple with knowledge of good and--no, there is evil in neither." she was uneasy, she scarce knew why. still at rest on the ice, she turned to de courval. "thou wilt tell me?" she said. "i had rather not." "but if i ask thee?" "why should i not?" he thought. it was against his habit to speak of himself, but she would perhaps like him the better for the story. "then, miss margaret, not because he asked and is willing, but because you ask, i shall tell you." "oh, i knew thou wouldst. he thought thou wouldst not and i should be left puzzled. sometimes he is just like a boy for mischief." "oh, it was nothing. the first day i was here i saved him from drowning. a boat struck his head while we were swimming, and i had the luck to be near. there, that is all." he was a trifle ashamed to tell of it. she put out her hand as they stood. "thank thee. twice i thank thee, for a dear life saved and because thou didst tell, not liking to tell me. i could see that. thank thee." "ah, pearl," he exclaimed, and what more he would have said i do not know, nor had he a chance, for she cried: "i shall thank thee always, friend de courval. we are losing time." the peril that gives a keener joy to sport was for a time far too near, but in other form than in bodily risk. "come, canst thou catch me?" she was off and away, now near, now far, circling about him with easy grace, merrily laughing as he sped after her in vain. then of a sudden she cried out and came to a standstill. "a strap broke, and i have turned my ankle. oh, i cannot move a step! what shall i do?" "sit down on the ice." as she sat, he undid her skates and then his own and tied them to his belt. "can you walk?" he said. "i will try. ah!" she was in pain. "call mr. schmidt," she said. "call him at once." "i do not see him. we were to meet him opposite the swedes' church." "then go and find him." "what, leave you? not i. let me carry you." "oh, no, no; thou must not." but in a moment he had the slight figure in his arms. "let me down! i will never, never forgive thee!" but he only said in a voice of resolute command, "keep still, pearl, or i shall fall." she was silent. did she like it, the strong arms about her, the head on his shoulder, the heart throbbing as never before? he spoke no more, but moved carefully on. they had not gone a hundred yards when he heard schmidt calling. at once he set her down, saying, "am i forgiven?" "no--yes," she said faintly. "pearl, dear pearl, i love you. i meant not to speak, oh, for a time, but it has been too much for me. say just a word." but she was silent as schmidt stopped beside them and rené in a few words explained. "was it here?" asked schmidt. "no; a little while ago." "but how did you come so far, my poor child?" "oh, i managed," she said. "indeed. i shall carry you." "if thou wilt, please. i am in much pain." he took off his skates, and with easy strength walked away over the ice, the girl in his arms, so that before long she was at home and in her mother's care, to be at rest for some days. "come in, rené," said schmidt, as later they settled themselves for the usual smoke and chat. the german said presently: "it was not a very bad sprain. did you carry her, rené?" "i--" "yes. do you think, man, that i cannot see!" "yes, i carried her. what else could i do?" "humph! what else? nothing. was she heavy, herr de courval?" "please not to tease me, sir. you must know that, god willing, i shall marry her." "will you, indeed! and your mother, rené, will she like it?" "no; but soon or late she will have to like it. for her i am still a child, but now i shall go my way." "and pearl?" "i mean to know, to hear. i can wait no longer. would it please you, sir?" "mightily, my son; and when it comes to the mother, i must say a word or two." "she will not like that. she likes no one to come between us." "well, we shall see. i should be more easy if only that jacobin hound were dead, or past barking. he is in a bad way, i hear. i could have wished that you had been of a mind to have waited a little longer before you spoke to her." rené smiled. "why did you leave us alone to-night? it is you, sir, who are responsible." "_potstausend! donnerwetter!_ you saucy boy! go to bed and repent. there are only two languages in which a man can find good, fat, mouth-filling oaths, and the english oaths are too naughty for a good quaker house." "you seem to have found one, sir. it sounds like thunder. we can do it pretty well in french." "child's talk, prattle. go to bed. what will the mother say? oh, not yours. madame swanwick has her own share of pride. can't you wait a while?" "no. i must know." "well, mr. obstinate man, we shall see." the wisdom of waiting he saw, and yet he had deliberately been false to the advice he had more than once given. rené left him, and schmidt turned, as he loved to do, to the counselor montaigne, just now his busy-minded comrade, and, lighting upon the chapter on reading, saw what pleased him. "that is good advice, in life and for books. to have a 'skipping wit.' we must skip a little time. i was foolish. how many threads there are in this tangle men call life!" and with this he read over the letters just come that morning from germany. then he considered carteaux again. "if that fellow is tormented into taking his revenge, and i should be away, as i may be, there will be the deuce to pay. "perhaps i might have given rené wiser advice; but with no proof concerning the fate of the despatch, there was no course which was entirely satisfactory. best to let the sleeping dog lie. but why did i leave them on the ice? _sapristi!_ i am as bad as mistress gainor. but she is not caught yet, master rené." xxiii in few days margaret was able to be afoot, although still lame; but rené had no chance to see her. she was not to be caught alone, and would go on a long-promised visit to merion. thus february passed, and march, and april came, when personal and political matters abruptly broke up for a time their peaceful household. margaret had been long at home again, but still with a woman's wit she avoided her lover. aunt gainor, ever busy, came and went, always with a dozen things to do. her attentions to madame de courval lessened when that lady no longer needed her kindness and, as soon happened, ceased to be interesting. she would not gamble, and the two women had little in common. miss gainor's regard for rené was more lasting. he was well-built and handsome, and all her life she had had a fancy for good looks in men. he had, too, the virile qualities she liked and a certain steadiness of purpose which took small account of obstacles and reminded her of her nephew hugh wynne. above all, he had been successful, and she despised people who failed and too often regarded success as a proof of the right to succeed, even when the means employed were less creditable than those by which rené had made his way. moreover, had he not told her once that her french was wonderful? miss gainor changed her favorites often, but rené kept in her good graces and was blamed only because he did not give her as much of his time as she desired; for after she heard his history from schmidt, he won a place in her esteem which few men had ever held. she had set her heart at last on his winning margaret, and the lifelong game of gambling with other folks' fortunes and an honest idolatry for the heroic, inclined her to forgive a lack of attention due in a measure to his increasing occupations. to keep her eager hands off this promising bit of match-making had been rather a trial, but schmidt was one of the few people of whom she had any fear, and she had promised not to meddle. at present she had begun to think that the two human pawns in the game she loved were becoming indifferent, and to let things alone was something to which she had never been inclined. had she become aware of the german's mild treachery that night on the ice, she would in all likelihood have been angry at first and then pleased or annoyed not to have had a hand in the matter. mistress wynne, even in the great war, rarely allowed her violent politics to interfere with piquet, and now mr. dallas had asked leave to bring fauchet, the new french minister, to call upon her. he was gay, amusing, talked no politics, played piquet nearly as well as she, and was enchanted, as he assured her, to hear french spoken without accent. if to de la forêt, the consul-general, he made merry concerning his travels in china, as he called her drawing-room, saying it was perilously over-populous with strange gods, she did not hear it, nor would she have cared so long as she won the money of the french republic. one evening in early april, after a long series of games, he said: "i wish i could have brought here my secretary carteaux. he did play to perfection, but now, poor devil, the wound he received has palsied his right arm, and he will never hold cards again--or, what he thinks worse, a foil. it was a strange attack." "does he suffer? i have heard about him." "horribly. he is soon going home to see if our surgeons can find the bullet; but he is plainly failing." "oh, he is going home?" "yes; very soon." "how did it all happen? it has been much talked about, but one never knows what to believe." "i sent him to new york with despatches for our foreign office, but the _jean bart_ must have sailed without them; for he was waylaid, shot, and robbed of the papers, but lost no valuables." "then it was not highwaymen?" "no; i can only conjecture who were concerned. it was plainly a robbery in the interest of the federalists. i do not think mr. randolph could have these despatches, or if he has, they will never be heard of." upon this he smiled. "then they are lost?" "yes. at least to our foreign office. i think mr. wolcott of the treasury would have liked to see them." "but why? why mr. wolcott?" she showed her curiosity quite too plainly. "ah, that is politics, and madame forbids them." "yes--usually; but this affair of monsieur carteaux cannot be political. it seems to me an incredible explanation." "certainly a most unfortunate business," said the minister. he had said too much and was on his guard. he had, however, set the spinster to thinking, and remembering what schmidt had told her of de courval, her reflections were fertile. "shall we have another game?" a month before the day on which they played, the _jean bart_, since november of 1794 at sea, after seizing an english merchantman was overhauled in the channel by the british frigate _cerberus_ and compelled to surrender. the captain threw overboard his lead-weighted signal-book and the packet of fauchet's despatches. a sailor of the merchant ship, seeing it float, jumped overboard from a boat and rescued it. upon discovering its value, captain drew of the _cerberus_ forwarded the despatches to lord grenville in london, who in turn sent them as valuable weapons to mr. hammond, the english minister in philadelphia. there was that in them which might discredit one earnest enemy of the english treaty, but months went by before the papers reached america. miss gainor, suspecting her favorite's share in this much-talked-of affair, made haste to tell schmidt of the intention of carteaux to sail, to the relief of the german gentleman, who frankly confided to her the whole story. he spoke also once more of de courval and urged her for every reason to leave the young people to settle their own affairs. meanwhile josiah was in bed with well-earned gout. on the afternoon of the 14th of april, rené came home from the state office and said to schmidt: "i have had paid me a great compliment, but whether i entirely like it or not, i do not know. as usual, i turn to you for advice." "well, what is it!" "the president wants some one he can trust to go to the western counties of this state and report on the continued disturbance about the excise tax. i thought the thing was at an end. mr. hamilton, who seems to have the ear of the president, advised him that as a thoroughly neutral man i could be trusted. mr. randolph thinks it a needless errand." "no. it is by no means needless. i have lands near pittsburg, as you know, and i hear of much disaffection. the old fox, jefferson, at monticello talks about the excise tax as 'infernal,' and what with the new treaty and congress and other things the democrats are making trouble enough for a weak cabinet and a strong president. i advise you to accept. you can serve me, too. take it. you are fretting here for more reasons than one. i hear that carteaux is out of bed, a crippled wreck, and fauchet says is soon to go to france. in august the minister himself will leave and one adet take his place. i think you may go with an easy mind. we are to be rid of the whole pestilent lot." "then i shall accept and go as soon as i receive my instructions. but i do dread to leave town. i shall go, but am at ease only since you will be here." "but i shall not be, rené. i have hesitated to tell you. i am called home to germany, and shall sail from new york for england on to-day a week. i shall return, i think; but i am not sure, nor if then i can remain. it is an imperative call. i am, it seems, pardoned, and my father is urgent, and my elder brother is dead. if you have learned to know me, you will feel for me the pain with which i leave this simpler life for one which has never held for me any charm. since carteaux is soon to sail, and i hear it is certain, i feel less troubled. i hope to be here again in august or later. you may, i think, count on my return." "have you told mrs. swanwick, sir?" "yes, and the pearl. ah, my son, the one thing in life i have craved is affection; and now--" "no one will miss you as i shall--no one--" he could say no more. "you will of course have charge of my affairs, and mr. wilson has my power of attorney, and there is hamilton at need. ah, but i have had a scene with these most dear people!" the time passed quickly for de courval. he himself was to be gone at least two months. there was a week to go, as he must, on horseback, and as much to return. there were wide spaces of country to cover and much business to settle for schmidt. his stay was uncertain and not without risks. over three weeks went by before he could be spared from the thinly officered department. schmidt had long since gone, and rené sat alone in the library at night and missed the large mind and a temperament gayer than his own. his mother had asked no questions concerning carteaux, and as long as there was doubt in regard to his course, he had been unwilling to mention him; but now he felt that he should speak freely and set his mother's mind at rest before he went away. neither, despite what he was sure would be the stern opposition he would have to encounter from his mother, could he go without a word to margaret--a word that would settle his fate and hers. the carteaux business was at an end. he felt free to act. fortune for once favored him. since he had spoken to his mother of his journey and the lessened household knew of it, pearl had even more sedulously avoided the pleasant talks in the garden and the rides, now rare, with aunt gainor and himself. the mother, more and more uneasy, had spoken to her daughter very decidedly, and madame grew less familiarly kind to the girl; while she herself, with a mind as yet in doubt, had also her share of pride and believed that the young vicomte had ceased to care for her, else would he not have created an opportunity to say what long ago that night on the ice seemed to make a matter of honor? she was puzzled by his silence, a little vexed and not quite sure of herself. he put off to the last moment his talk with his mother and watched in vain for a chance to speak to margaret. his instructions were ready, his last visits made. he had had an unforgettable half-hour with the president and a talk with hamilton, now on a visit from new york. the ex-secretary asked him why he did not cast in his lot frankly with the new land, as he himself had done. he would have to give notice in court and renounce his allegiance to his sovereign, so ran the new law. "i have no sovereign," he replied, "and worthless as it now seems, i will not renounce my title, as your law requires." "nor would i," said hamilton. "you will go home some day. the chaos in france will find a master. the people are weary of change and will accept any permanent rule." "yes, i hope to return. such is my intention," and they fell into talk of schmidt. de courval's last day in the city had come. schmidt had left him the free use of his horses, and he would try one lately bought to see how it would answer for his long journey. about eleven of a sunny june morning he mounted and rode westward up chestnut street. at fifth and chestnut streets, congress having just adjourned, the members were coming out of the brick building which still stands at the corner. he knew many, and bowed to gallatin and fisher ames. mr. madison stopped him to say a word about the distasteful english treaty. then at a walk he rode on toward the schuylkill, deep in thought. beyond seventh there was as yet open country, with few houses. it was two years since, a stranger, he had fallen among friends in the red city, made for himself a sufficient income and an honorable name and won the esteem of men. schmidt, margaret, the wynnes; his encounters with carteaux, the yellow plague, passed through his mind. god had indeed dealt kindly with the exiles. as he came near to the river and rode into the thinned forest known as the governor's woods, he saw nanny seated at the roadside. "what are you doing here, nanny?" he asked. "the missus sent me with miss margaret to carry a basket of stuff to help some no-account colored people lives up that road. i has to wait." "ah!" he exclaimed, and, dismounting, tied his horse. "at last," he said, and went away up the wood road. far in the open forest he saw her coming, her quaker bonnet swinging on her arm. "oh, miss margaret!" he cried. "i am glad to have found you. you know i am going away to-morrow for two months at least. it is a hard journey, not without some risk, and i cannot go without a word with you. why have you avoided me as you have done?" "have i?" she replied. "yes; and you know it." "i thought--i thought--oh, let me go home!" "no; not till you hear me. can you let me leave in this way without a word? i do not mean that it shall be. sit down here on this log and listen to me." he caught her hand. "please, i must go." "no; not yet. sit down here. i shall not keep you long--a woman who wants none of me. but i have much to say--explanations, ah, much to say." she sat down. "i will hear thee, but--" "oh, you will hear me? yes, because you must? go, if you will. it will be my answer." "i think the time and the place ill chosen,"--she spoke with simple dignity,--"but i will hear thee." "i have had no chance but this. you must pardon me." she looked down and listened. "it is a simple matter. i have loved you long. no other love has ever troubled my life. save my mother, i have no one. what might have been the loves for brothers and sisters are all yours, a love beyond all other loves, the love of a lonely man. whether or not you permit me to be something more, i shall still owe you a debt the years can never make me forget--the remembrance of what my life beside you in your home has given me." the intent face, the hands clasped in her lap, might have shown him how deeply she was moved; for now at last that she had heard him she knew surely that she loved him. the long discipline of friends in controlling at least the outward expression of emotion came to her aid as often before. she felt how easy it would have been to give him the answer he longed for; but there were others to think about, and from her childhood she had been taught the lesson of consideration for her elders. she set herself to reply to him with stern repression of feeling not very readily governed. "how can i answer thee? what would thy mother say?" he knew then what her answer might have been. she, too, had her pride, and he liked her the more for that. "thou art a french noble. i am a plain quaker girl without means. there would be reason in the opposition thy mother would make." "a french noble!" he laughed. "a banished exile, landless and poor--a pretty match i am. but, pearl, the future is mine. i have succeeded here, where my countrymen starve. i have won honor, respect, and trust. i would add love." "i know, i know; but--" "it is vain to put me off with talk of others. i think you do care for me. my mother will summon all her prejudices and in the end will yield. it is very simple, pearl. i ask only a word. if you say yes, whatever may then come, we will meet with courage and respect. do you love me, pearl?" she said faintly, "yes." he sat silent a moment, and then said, "i thank god!" and, lifting her hand, kissed it. "oh, rené," she cried, "what have i done?" and she burst into tears. "i did not mean to." "is it so hard, dear pearl? i have made you cry." "no, it is not hard; but it is that i am ashamed to think that i loved thee long--long before thou didst care for me. love thee, rené! thou dost not dream how--how i love thee." [illustration: "'i know, i know, but--'"] her reticence, her trained reserve, were lost in this passion of long-restrained love. ah, here was schmidt's quaker juliet! he drew her to him and kissed her wet cheek. "you will never, never regret," he said. "all else is of no moment. we love each other. that is all now. i have so far never failed in anything, and i shall not now." he had waited long, he said, and for good reasons. some day, but not now in an hour of joy, he would tell her the story of his life, a sad one, and of why he had been what men call brutal to carteaux and why their friend schmidt, who knew of his love, had urged him to wait. she must trust him yet a little while longer. "and have i not trusted thee?" "yes, pearl." "we knew, mother and i, knowing thee as we did, that there must be more cause for that dreadful duel than we could see." "more? yes, dear, and more beyond it; but it is all over now. the man i would have killed is going to france." "oh, rené--killed!" "yes, and gladly. the man goes back to france and my skies are clear for love to grow." he would kill! a strange sense of surprise arose in her mind, and the thought of how little even now she knew of the man she loved and trusted. "i can wait, rené," she said, "and oh, i am so glad; but mother--i have never had a secret from her, never." "tell her," he said; "but then let it rest between us until i come back." "that would be best, and now i must go." "yes, but a moment, pearl. long ago, the day after we landed, a sad and friendless man, i walked out to the river and washed away my cares in the blessed waters. on my return, i sat on this very log, and talked to some woodmen, and asked the name of a modest flower. they said, 'we call it the quaker lady.' and to think that just here i should find again, my quaker lady." "but i am not a quaker lady. i am a naughty 'separatist,' as friends call it. come, i must go, rené. i shall say good-by to thee to-night. thou wilt be off early, i do suppose. and oh, it will be a weary time while thou art away!" "i shall be gone by six in the morning." "and i sound asleep," she returned, smiling. he left her at the roadside with nanny, and, mounting, rode away. xxiv the widow allowed no one to care for schmidt's library except her daughter or herself. it contained little of value except books, but even those indian arrow-heads he found on tinicum island and the strange bones from near valley forge were dusted with care and regarded with the more curiosity because, even to the german, they spoke no language the world as yet could read. as she turned from her task and margaret entered, she saw in her face the signal of something to be told. it needed not the words, "oh, mother," as she closed the door behind her--"oh, mother, i am afraid i have done a wrong thing; but i met rené de courval,--i mean, he met me,--and--and he asked me to marry him--and i will; no one shall stop me." there was a note of anticipative defiance in the young voice as she spoke. "sit down, dear child." the girl sunk on a cushion at her feet, her head in the mother's lap. "i could not help it," she murmured, sobbing. "i saw this would come to thee, long ago," said the mother. "i had hoped thou wouldst be so guided as not to let thy heart get the better of thy head." "it is my head has got me into this--this sweet trouble. thou knowest that i have had others, and some who had thy favor; but, mother, here for two years i have lived day by day in the house with rené, and have seen him so living as to win esteem and honor, a tender son to his mother, and so respectful to thee, who, for her, art only the keeper of a boarding-house. thou knowest what friend schmidt says of him. i heard him tell friend hamilton. he said--he said he was a gallant gentleman, and he wished he were his son. you see, mother, it was first respect and then--love. oh, mother, that duel! i knew as i saw him carried in that i loved him." she spoke rapidly, with little breaks in her voice, and now was silent. "it is bad, very bad, my child. i see no end of trouble--oh, it is bad, bad, for thee and for him!" "it is good, good, mother, for me and for him. he has waited long. there has been something, i do not know what, kept him from speaking sooner. it is over now." "i do not see what there could have been, unless it were his mother. it may well be that. does she know?" "when he comes back he will tell her." "i do not like it, and i dislike needless mysteries. from a worldly point of view,--and i at least, who have drunk deep of poverty, must somewhat think for thee. here are two people without competent means--" "but i love him." "and his mother?" "but i love him." she had no other logic. "oh, i wish mr. schmidt were here! rené says he will like it." "that, at least, is a good thing." both were silent a little while. mrs. swanwick had been long used to defer to the german's opinions, but looking far past love's limited horizon, the widow thought of the certain anger of the mother, of the trap she in her pride would think set for her son by designing people, her prejudices intensified by the mere fact of the poverty which left her nothing but exaggerated estimates of her son and what he was entitled to demand of the woman he should some day marry. and too, rené had often spoken of a return to france. she said at last: "we will leave the matter now, and speak of it to no one; but i should say to thee, my dear, that apart from what for thy sake i should consider, and the one sad thing of his willingness to avenge a hasty word by possibly killing a fellow-man,--how terrible!--apart from these things, there is no one i had been more willing to give thee to than rené de courval." "thank thee, mother." the evil hour when the vicomtesse must hear was at least remote, and something akin to anger rose in the widow's mind as she thought of it. rené came in to supper. mrs. swanwick was as usual quiet, asking questions in regard to margaret's errand of charity, but of a mind to win time for reflection, and unwilling as yet to open the subject with rené. when, late in the evening, he came out of the study where he had been busy with the instructions left by schmidt, he was annoyed to learn that margaret had gone up-stairs. there was still before him the task of speaking to his mother of what he was sure was often in her mind, carteaux. she had learned from the gossip of guests that a frenchman had been set upon near bristol and had been robbed and wounded. incurious and self-centered, the affairs of the outer world had for her but little real interest. now she must have her mind set at ease, for rené well knew that she had not expected him to rest contented or to be satisfied with the result of his unfortunate duel. her puritan creed was powerless here as against her social training, and her sense of what so hideous a wrong as her husband's murder should exact from his son. "i have something to tell you, _maman_," he said; "and before i go, it is well that i should tell you." "well, what is it?" she said coldly, and then, as before, uneasily anxious. "on the twenty-ninth of november i learned that carteaux had started for new york an hour before i heard of it, on his way to france. i had waited long--undecided, fearing that again some evil chance might leave you alone in a strange land." "you did wrong, rené. there are duties which ought to permit of no such indecision. you should not have considered me for a moment. go on." "how could i help it, thinking of you, mother? i followed, and overtook this man near bristol. i meant no chance with the sword this time. he was unarmed. i gave him the choice of my pistols, bade him pace the distance, and give the word. he walked away some six feet, half the distance, and, turning suddenly, fired, grazing my shoulder. i shot him--ah, a terrible wound in arm and shoulder. schmidt had found a note i left for him, and, missing his pistols, inquired at the french legation, and came up in time to see it all and to prevent me from killing the man." "pre--vent you! how did he dare!" "yes, mother; and it was well. schmidt found, when binding up his wound, that he was carrying despatches from the republican minister fauchet to go by the corvette _jean bart_, waiting in new york harbor." "what difference did that make?" "why, mother, i am in the state department. to have killed a member of the french legation, or stopped his journey, would have been ruin to me and a weapon in the hands of these mock jacobins." "but you did stop him." "yes; but i delivered the despatch myself to the corvette." "yes, you were right; but what next? he must have spoken." "no. the threat from schmidt that he would tell the whole story of avignon and his treachery to me has made him lie and say he had been set upon by unknown persons and robbed of his papers. he has wisely held his tongue. he is crippled for life and has suffered horribly. now he goes to france a broken, miserable man, punished as death's release could not punish." "i do not know that. i have faith in the vengeance of god. you should have killed him. you did not. and so i suppose there is an end of it for a time. is that all, rené?" "yes, that is all. the loss of the despatch remains a mystery, and the democrats are foolish enough to believe we have it in the foreign office. no one of them but carteaux knows and he dare not speak. the despatch will never come back here, or if it does, carteaux will have gone. people have ceased to talk about it, and now, mother, i am going away with an easy mind. do not worry over this matter. good night." "worry?" she cried. "ah, i would have killed the jacobin dog!" "i meant to," he said, and left her. at dawn he was up and had his breakfast and there was pearl in the hall and her hands on his two shoulders. "kiss me," she said. "god bless and guard thee, rené!" xxv while schmidt was far on his homeward way, de courval rode through the german settlements of pennsylvania and into the thinly settled scotch-irish clearings beyond the alleghanies, a long and tedious journey, with much need to spare his horse. his letters to government officers in the village of pittsburg greatly aided him in his more remote rides. he settled some of schmidt's land business, and rode with a young soldier's interest over braddock's fatal field, thinking of the great career of the youthful colonel who was one of the few who kept either his head or his scalp on that day of disaster. he found time also to prepare for his superiors a reassuring report, and on july 18 set out on his return. he had heard nothing from his mother or from any one else. the mails were irregular and slow,--perhaps one a week,--and very often a flood or an overturned coach accounted for letters never heard of again. there would be much to hear at home. on july fourth of 1795, while the bells were ringing in memory of the nation's birthday, fauchet sat in his office at oeller's hotel. he had been recalled and was for various reasons greatly troubled. the reaction in france against the jacobins had set in, and they, in turn were suffering from the violence of the returning royalists and the outbreaks of the catholic peasantry in the south. marat's bust had been thrown into the gutter and the jacobin clubs closed. the minister had been able to do nothing of value to stop the jay treaty. the despatch on which he had relied to give such information as might enable his superiors to direct him and assure them of his efforts to stop the treaty had disappeared eight months ago, as he believed by a bold robbery in the interest of the english party, possibly favored by the cabinet, which, as he had to confess, was less likely. he was angry as he thought of it and uneasy as concerned his future in distracted france. he had questioned carteaux again and again but had never been quite satisfied. the theft of the despatch had for a time served his purpose, but had been of no practical value. the treaty with england would go to the senate and he return home, a discredited diplomatic failure. meanwhile, in the trying heat of summer, as during all the long winter months, carteaux lay for the most part abed, in such misery as might have moved to pity even the man whose bullet had punished him so savagely. at last he was able to sit up for a time every day and to arrange with the captain of a french frigate, then in port, for his return to france. late in june he had dismissed chovet with only a promise to pay what was in fact hard-earned money. dr. glentworth, washington's surgeon, had replaced him, and talked of an amputation, upon which, cursing doctors in general, carteaux swore that he would prefer to die. chovet, who dosed his sick folk with gossip when other means failed, left with this ungrateful patient one piece of news which excited carteaux's interest. schmidt, he was told, had gone to europe, and then, inaccurate as usual, chovet declared that it was like enough he would never return, a fact which acquired interest for the doctor himself as soon as it became improbable that carteaux would pay his bill. when a few days later carteaux learned from de la forêt that his enemy de courval was to be absent for several weeks, and perhaps beyond the time set for his own departure, he began with vengeful hope to reconsider a situation which had so far seemed without resource. resolved at last to make for de courval all the mischief possible before his own departure, with such thought as his sad state allowed he had slowly matured in his mind a statement which seemed to him satisfactorily malignant. accordingly on this fourth of july he sent his black servant to ask the minister to come to his chamber. fauchet, somewhat curious, sat down by the bedside and parting the chintz curtains, said, "i trust you are better." the voice which came from the shadowed space within was weak and hoarse. "i am not better--i never shall be, and i have little hope of reaching home alive." "i hoped it not as bad as that." "and still it is as i say. i do not want to die without confessing to you the truth about that affair in which i was shot and my despatch stolen." men who had lived through the years of the french revolution were not readily astonished, but at this statement the minister sat up and exclaimed: "_mon dieu!_ what is this?" "i am in damnable pain; i must be brief. i was waylaid near bristol by schmidt and de courval, and when i would not stop, was shot by de courval. they stole the despatch, and made me swear on threat of death that i had been attacked by men i did not know." fauchet was silent for a while, and then said: "that is a singular story--and that you kept the promise, still more singular." "i did keep it. i had good reason to keep it." he realized, as he told the tale, how improbable it sounded, how entirely fauchet disbelieved him. if he had not been dulled by opiates and racked past power of critical thought, he was far too able a man to have put forth so childish a tale. he knew at once that he was not believed. "you do not believe me, citizen." "i do not. why did you not tell me the truth at first?" "it was not the threat to kill me which stopped me. i was of the tribunal at avignon which condemned the _ci-devant_ vicomte, the young man's father. to have had it known here would have been a serious thing to our party and for me ruin. i was ill, feeble, in their hands, and i promised schmidt that i would put it all on some unknown person." fauchet listened. he entirely distrusted him. "is that all? do you expect any reasonable man to believe such a story?" "yes, i do. if i had told you at the time, you would have used my statement at once and i should have suffered. now that both these cursed villains are gone, i can speak." "indeed," said fauchet, very desirous of a look at the face secure from observation within the curtained bed, "but why do you speak now! it is late. why speak at all?" "for revenge, monsieur. i am in hell." fauchet hesitated. "that is a good reason; but there is more in this matter than you are willing to tell." "that is my business. i have told you enough to satisfy my purpose and yours." "rather late for mine. but let us understand each other. this man, then, this de courval, had a double motive--to avenge his father's death and to serve his masters, the federalists. that is your opinion?" "yes, his desire for revenge made him an easy tool. i cannot talk any more. what shall you do about it?" "i must think. i do not know. you are either a great fool or a coward or both. i only half trust you." "ah, were i well, monsieur, no man should talk to me as you are doing." "luckily for me you are not well; but will you swear to this, to a written statement?" "i will." whether it was to be a truthful statement or not concerned the minister but little if he could make use of it. upon this, the consul-general and a secretary, le blanc, being called in, to their amazement carteaux dictated a plain statement and signed it with his left hand, the two officials acting as witnesses. the minister read it aloud: oeller's hotel, july 4, 1795. i, george carteaux, being _in extremis_, declare that on the 29th of november, about 5 p.m., near bristol, i was set upon and shot and a despatch taken from me by one schmidt and a frenchman by name de courval. no valuables were taken. by whom they were set on or paid i do not know. george carteaux. _witnesses_: louis le blanc, jean de la forêt. the two members of the legation silently followed the minister out of the room. "that is a belated story," said de la forêt. "do you credit it?" "it is not all, you may be sure; a rather lean tale," replied le blanc, whose career in the police of paris had taught him to distrust men. "he lied both times, but this time it is a serviceable lie." "a little late, as you say," remarked fauchet. "once it might have helped us." "ah, if," said the consul-general, "he could tell who has your despatch!" "not mr. randolph," said le blanc. "no," returned fauchet; "or if he has, it will never be seen by any one else." "why?" asked le blanc. the minister, smiling, shook his head. "if ever it turns up in other hands, you will know why, and mr. randolph, too." the minister later in the day assured carteaux that he would make such use of the deposition as would force the administration to rid itself of a guilty clerk. he was in no haste to fulfil his pledge. two or three months earlier, when the general opposition to the english treaty promised to delay or prevent it, this damaging paper would have had some value. apart, however, from any small practical utility the confession might still possess, it promised fauchet another form of satisfaction. being a man of great vanity, he felt injured and insulted by the coolness of his diplomatic reception and by the complete absence of pleasant social recognition in the homes of the great federalist merchants. he would give carteaux's statement to the secretary of state and demand that de courval be dismissed and punished. he felt that he could thus annoy and embarrass the administration; but still, distrusting carteaux, he waited. his delay was ended by the gossip which began to be rumored about in regard to the attack on carteaux, and concerning the mysterious loss of despatch no. 10. chovet had been abruptly dismissed, unpaid, and the german having gone away in some haste with no thought of his promise to pay, none knew when he would return. the little doctor was furious. his habit of imprudent gossip had been controlled by schmidt's threats and still more surely by his pledge of payment. by and by, in his exasperation, he let drop hints, and soon the matter grew. he had been cheated by carteaux, and if people only knew the truth of that story, and so on, while he won self-importance from holding what he half believed to be a state secret. at last, increasingly uneasy about his fee, it occurred to him to ask miss wynne if it were certain that schmidt would not return. if not--ah, there was the young man who must pay, or the whole story should be told. that miss gainor kept him waiting for half an hour he felt as a slight and regarded it as an addition to the many wrongs he had suffered at the hands of a woman who had learned from time and experience no lessons in prudence. increasingly vexed at her delay, when she came in he was walking about with reckless disregard of the priceless china with which she delighted to crowd her drawing-room. as she entered he looked at his watch, but mistress gainor was to-day in high good humor, having won at piquet of mrs. bingham the night before enough to make her feel comfortably pleased with gainor wynne. "bonjour, monsieur," she said in her fluent anglicized french. "i beg pardon for keeping you waiting; i was dressing." chovet had rarely been able to sacrifice his liking to annoy to the practical interests of the moment, and now, disbelieving her, he said, "if you will speak english, i may be able to understand you." this was a little worse than usual. "sir," she said, with dignity, "your manners are bad. never do i permit such things to be said to me. i might say something such as you have said to me in regard to your english and there would be an end of our conversation," upon which she laughed outright. "what makes you so cross, doctor, and to what do i owe the honor of a visit?" then he broke out. "i have been cheated by mr. carteaux. he has not paid me a cent. he has got another doctor." "wise man, mr. carteaux; but what on earth have i to do with that jacobin?" in his anger the doctor had quite lost sight for the moment of the object of his visit, which was to know if schmidt had gone never to return, as was freely reported. now he remembered. "i desire to know if mr. schmidt will come back. he promised to pay if carteaux did not. oh, it is a fine story--of him and de courval. a despatch has been stolen--every one knows that. i am not to be trifled with, madame. i can tell a nice tale." "can you, indeed? i advise you to be careful what you say. mr. schmidt will return and then you will get some unusual interest on your money. have you no sense of honor that you must talk as you have done?" "i do never talk," he said, becoming uneasy. miss gainor rose, having heard all she wished to hear. "lord! man, talk! you do nothing else. you have been chattering about this matter to mrs. byrd. if i were you, i should be a bit afraid. how much money is owing you?" "three hundred dollars, and--i have lost patients, too. i have--" "sit down," she said. "don't behave like a child." she went to her desk, wrote a check and gave it to him. "may i trouble you for a receipt?" he gave it, surprised and pleased. "and now do hold your tongue if you can, or if mr. schmidt does not beat you when he comes home, i will. you have no more decency than you have hair." this set him off again. "ah you think it is only money, money. you, a woman, can say things. i am insult," he cried. "i will have revenge of schmidt, if he do come. i will have blood." "blood, i would," she said. "get your lancet ready." she broke into laughter at the idea of a contest with the german. "i will hear no more. these are my friends." when in one of her fits of wrath, now rare, she was not choice of her words. both were now standing. "a flea and a bear, you and schmidt! lord, but he will be scared--poor man!" he too was in a fine rage, such as he never allowed himself with men. "oh, i am paid, am i? that will not be all of it." he rose on tiptoe, gesticulating wildly, and threw his hands out, shaking them. there was a sudden clatter of broken china. "great heavens!" cried gainor. "two of my gods gone, and my blue mandarin!" for a moment he stood appalled amid the wreck of precious porcelain, looking now at miss wynne and now at the broken deities. the owner of the gods towered over the little doctor. wrath and an overwhelming sense of the comic contended for expression. "two gods, man! where now do you expect to go when you die--" "nowhere," he said. "i agree with you. neither place would have you. you are not good enough for one and not bad enough for the other." she began to enjoy the situation. "i have half a mind to take away that check. it would not pay, but still--" "i regret--i apologize." he began to fear lest this terrible old woman might have a whole mind in regard to the check. "oh," she laughed, "keep it. but i swear to you by all my other gods that if you lie any more about my friends, i shall tell the story dr. abernethy told me. in your greed and distrust of men whose simple word is as sure as their bond, you threaten to tell a tale. well, i will exchange stories with you. i shall improve mine, too." "ah," he cried, "you do promise, and keep no word. you have told already schmidt of me." "i did--and one other; but now the whole town shall hear. you were ingenious, but the poor highwayman was too well hanged." chovet grew pale. "oh, madame, you would not. i should be ruined." "then be careful and--go away. i sometimes lose my temper, but never my memory. remember." he looked up at the big woman as she stood flushed with anger, and exclaiming under his breath, "_quelle diablesse!_" went out scared and uneasy. looking from the window, she saw him walk away. his hands hung limp at his sides, his head was dropped on his breast; not even ça ira looked more dejected. "good heavens! the man ought to have a bearing-rein. i much fear the mischief is done. the little brute! he is both mean and treacherous." she turned to look down at the wreckage of her household lares and rang the bell. cæsar appeared. "sweep up my gods, and take them away. good heavens! i ought to have flattered the man. i promised the blue mandarin to darthea wynne because he always nodded yes to her when she wanted advice to her liking. well, well, i am a blundering old idiot." she had indeed made mischief, and repentance, as usual with her, came late. she had, however, only added to the mischief. chovet had already said enough, and the loss of the despatch and the attack on carteaux by a clerk of the department of state aroused anew the democrats and fed the gossip of the card-tables, while rené rode on his homeward way with a mind at ease. nothing had so disturbed the social life of the city for many a day. before long the matter came to the ear of the secretary of state, who saw at once its bearing upon his department and the weapon it would be in the hands of party. it was, however, he said to mr. bingham, too wild a story for ready credence, and de courval would soon be at home. a day later, fauchet presented to the amazed and angry secretary of state carteaux's formal statement, but made no explanation of its delay except the illness of his attaché. the man was near to death. he himself believed his statement, the words of a man about to die. randolph stood still in thought. "your charge, sir," he said, and he spoke french well, "is that my clerk, the vicomte de courval, has stolen your despatch and perhaps fatally wounded the gentleman commissioned to deliver it." "you state it correctly. i am not surprised." the tone was so insolent that randolph said sharply: "you are not surprised? am i to presume that you consider me a party to the matter?" "i have not said so, but subordinates are sometimes too zealous and--" "and what, sir?" "it is idle to suppose that the theft had no motive. there was some motive, but what it was perhaps the english party may be able to explain. my despatch is lost. your secretary took it with the help of one schmidt. the loss is irreparable and of great moment. i insist, sir, that the one man who has not fled be dealt with by you, and by the law." "i shall wait, sir, until i hear the vicomte's story. he is a gentleman of irreproachable character, a man of honor who has served us here most faithfully. i shall wait to hear from him. your secretary seems to have lied at first and waited long to tell this amazing story." the minister did not explain, but said sharply: "it will be well if that despatch can be found. it was meant only for the ministry of foreign affairs." "i do not understand you." fauchet laughed. "i trust that you may never have occasion to understand me better." he was angry, and lost both his prudence and what little manners he ever possessed. "it is desirable, or at least it is to be hoped that the thief destroyed it." "the gentleman you condemn, sir, is not yet on trial, and this has gone far enough and too far. i shall lay the matter in due time before the president." upon which he bowed out the republican envoy. greatly annoyed, mr. randolph put the matter before the members of the cabinet, who agreed that in justice they must wait for de courval's return. meanwhile chovet's gossip had done its work, and there were a dozen versions which amused many, made others angry, and fed the strife of parties; for now fauchet spoke of it everywhere with the utmost freedom. "it is incredible," said governor penn; and the women, too, were all on the side of de courval, while mr. wynne, in great anxiety, thought fit to call at mrs. swanwick's for news of the vicomte. he saw in a moment that the widow had heard some of the stories so freely talked about. she had found to her relief some one to whom she could speak. "what is all this," she asked, "i hear about friend de courval? my uncle josiah has been to tell me and i could make nothing of it?" "i know, mary, only the wildest tales. but when de courval returns, i desire to see him at once." "his mother heard from him to-day and we look for him possibly to-morrow. gainor wynne has been here, in a fine rage. the young man has very warm friends, hugh. i cannot believe a word of it." "nor i, what i hear. but let him see me at once." the widow was distressed. "something there must have been. alas, my poor margaret!" her life had been for many years a constant struggle with poverty, made harder by remembrance of early days of ease and luxury. she bore it all with high-hearted courage and the pride which for some inexplicable reason will accept any gift except money. it became an easier life when schmidt took of her his two rooms and became by degrees their friend, while the fact that the daughter, inheriting her beauty, was like herself of friends, did in a measure keep their lives simple and free from the need for many luxuries she saw in the homes of their cousins. mrs. swanwick thought, too, of these strangers whom she had nursed, of the vicomtesse, at times a little trying with her sense of what was due to her; of her son, kindly, grave, thoughtful of others, religious,--that was singular,--and twice, as it was said, engaged in bloody quarrels. how could one understand that? she knew what her bountiful nature had given these exiles. now she was again to be a reproach among friends and to feel that these people had brought into her quiet home for her child only misfortune and sorrow. if schmidt were but here! margaret was at home, busy and joyful, knowing nothing of what lay before her or of this sinister story of attempted murder and robbery. resolutely setting it all aside, mrs. swanwick went out to provide for the wants of the day. a half hour later de courval crossed the city, riding along high street a pleasant comrade--joy--went with him as he turned down front street, past widely separated houses and gardens gay with flowers. once they had been country homes, but now the city was slowly crowding in on them with need for docks. he left his horse at the stable and walked swiftly homeward. mrs. swanwick's house was still remote enough to be secure from the greed of commerce. the dusty, gray road before him, dry with the intense heat of august, ran southward. no one was in sight. there was something mysteriously depressing in the long highway without sign of life, a reminder of that terrible summer when day by day he had come out of the house and seen no one. as he drew near mrs. swanwick's door, he met captain biddle. "oh, by george!" said the sailor, "so you are come at last, and none too soon. i have been here thrice." "what is the matter, captain? is any one ill?" "no; but there is a lot of lies about you. there is neither decency nor charity ashore. have you been at the state department or seen any one?" "no. i am this moment come back. but, for god's sake, captain, tell me what it is." "a fellow named carteaux has charged you with half killing him and stealing his despatches. that is all i know." "is that all? _diable!_ i am sorry i did not wholly kill him. i knew this would come out soon or late. of course he is lying; but i did shoot him." "there is a malignant article in the 'aurora' to-day--there, i marked it." rené looked it over as he stood. "so i am the thief, i am the agent of the cabinet or the federal party, and _mon dieu_, schmidt--" "it is serious," said the captain. "a horsewhip is the weapon needed here, but i am at your service in every way." "thank you; but first of all, i must see mr. randolph; and, oh, worst of all, schmidt is absent!" he felt that he could not meet margaret until he had put an end to this slander. he foresaw also that to meet with success would, in schmidt's absence, be difficult. thanking his sailor friend, he made haste to see his official superior. "ah," said randolph, "i am both glad and sorry to see you. sit down. have you heard of the charges against you made by mr. fauchet for his secretary, carteaux?" "nothing very clear, sir; but enough to bring me here instantly to have the thing explained to me." "pray read this statement." de courval read carteaux's deposition and, flushing with sudden anger he threw the paper on the table. "so it seems i deliberately waylaid and shot the secretary of an envoy in order to steal his despatches." "that is the charge, made by a man who i am assured is dying. you can have no objection to my asking you a few questions." "none. i shall like it." "did you shoot this man?" "i did. he was of the mock court which murdered my father at avignon. any french gentleman here can tell you--du vallon for one, and de noailles. of the direct personal part this man took in causing my father's death i have not talked. twice he has had the equal chance i would have given a gentleman. yes, i meant to kill him." "but, vicomte--" "pardon me." and he told briefly the story of carteaux's treacherous shot and of why for a while it seemed well to schmidt to silence the man. "it was unwise. a strange and sad affair," said the secretary, "but, monsieur, it is only this recent matter which concerns me, and the fact, the unfortunate fact, that your enemy was a bearer of despatches. who can substantiate your statement as against that of a man said to be dying? who can i call upon?" "no one. mr. schmidt saw it. he is in europe. the man lies. it is his word or mine. he says here nothing of its being only a personal quarrel; and why did he wait? ah, clearly until schmidt, who saw it all, had gone to europe and i was absent." "why he waited i cannot say. the rest concerns me greatly. did you destroy his despatches?" "_mon dieu!_ i? no. mr. schmidt, in cutting open his clothes to get at his wound, found those papers, and then seeing what i had done, and how the department might be credited with it, or at least the english party, i myself carried the despatch to its address, the captain of the _jean bart_." "did you get a receipt?" "i asked for it. it was refused. the captain was angry at what he said had been dangerous delay, and refused unless i would come on board and talk to him. i of course declined to do so. i would certainly have been carried to france." "she has sailed, the _jean bart?_" "yes, sir." "then what proof have you as against the deposition of a man _in extremis?_" "none but my word, that i gave to an officer of the corvette a package of papers." "the minister was insolent enough to hint that this was a robbery in the interest of my service and a plot of the federalist english sympathizers. in fact, he implied even more. i am asked to dismiss you as proof that we at least are in no way a party to the matter." "one moment, mr. secretary--would that be proof?" "no, sir. pardon me. this affair has been twice before the cabinet, where, to be frank, some difference of opinion existed. the president--but no matter. you admit the fact of the assault and, well, the taking of the paper. you do not deny either. you have no evidence in favor of your explanation,--none." "pardon me; i have said de noailles could assure you that i had cause for a personal quarrel." "admit the personal motive, it does not help you. the republicans are using this scandal freely, and we have quite enough complications, as you know. if these people urge it, the law may be appealed to. to conclude, this is not a cabinet matter, and it was so decided. it affects the honor of my own department." "sir, the honor!" de courval rose as he spoke. "you have said what i could permit no one but my official superior to say." "i regret to have been so unpleasant, but having duly considered the matter, i must reluctantly ask you not to return to the office until you can clear yourself by other evidence than your own. i deeply regret it." "you are plain enough, sir, and i most unfortunate. it does seem to me that my life here might at least give my word value as against that of this lying jacobin." the secretary made no reply. randolph, although a kindly man and courteous, had nothing more to say to the young clerk. he was but one of many _émigré_ nobles cast on our shores, and his relations with the secretary had been simply official, although, as the latter would have admitted, the service rendered had been of the best. still standing, rené waited a moment after his personal appeal for justice, but, as i have said, the secretary did not see fit to answer. to have bluntly refused fauchet's demand would have been his desire and decision; but as a matter of policy he must do something to disarm party criticism. with this in mind he had offered the young man a compromise; and not quite sure that he should not have dismissed him, he seemed to himself, considering all things, to have acted with moderation. [illustration: "'then i beg to resign my position'"] de courval, who had waited on the secretary's silence, said at last, "i judge, sir, that you have no more to say." "no. i am sorry that nothing you have told me changes this very painful situation." "then i beg to resign my position. i have many friends and time will do me justice." the secretary would have preferred the young vicomte to have accepted his offer. he was not assured that carteaux's story was correct; but what else could he do? "are you not hasty?" he said. "no. you believe me to have lied, and my sole witness, mr. schmidt, is in germany. it is he who is slandered as well as i. i shall come here no more. here is my report on the condition of the frontier counties." "no, vicomte. i did not doubt your word, but only your power to prove your truth for others who do not know you." "it amounts to the same thing," said de courval, coldly. "good morning." he went to his own office, and stood a moment in the small, whitewashed room, reflecting with indignant anger on the sudden ending of a career he had enjoyed. then he gathered his personal belongings and calling the old negro caretaker, bade him carry them to mrs. swanwick's. as for the last time he went down the steps, he said to himself: "so i am thrown to the wolves of party! i knew i should be, and i said so," which was hardly just to the man he left, who would have been pleased if his compromise had been accepted. little could randolph have imagined that the remote agency of the man he had thus thrown over would result for himself in a situation not unlike that which he had created for his subordinate. "i am ruined," murmured de courval. "who will believe me? and margaret! my god! that is at an end! and my mother!" he walked slowly homeward, avoiding people and choosing the alley by-ways so numerous in penn's city. the hall door was usually open in the afternoon to let the breeze pass through. he went into schmidt's room, and then into the garden, seeing only nanny and black cicero, with whom he was a favorite. no one was in but madame, his mother. mr. girard had been to ask for him and mr. bingham and mr. wynne, and others. so it was to be the mother first. he was used to the quiet, unemotional welcome. he kissed her hand and her forehead, saying, "you look well, mother, despite the heat." "yes, i am well. tell me of your journey. ah, but i am glad to see you! i have had but one letter. you should have written more often." the charm of his mother's voice, always her most gracious quality, just now affected him almost to tears. "i did write, mother, several times. the journey may wait. i have bad news for you." "none is possible for me while you live, my son." "yes, yes," he said. "the man carteaux, having heard of schmidt's absence and mine, has formally charged me with shooting him without warning in order to steal his despatches." "ah, you should have killed him. i said so." "yes, perhaps. the charge is clearly made on paper, attested by witnesses. he is said to be dying." "thank god." "i have only my word." he told quietly of the weakness of his position, of the political aspect of the affair, of his interview and his resignation. "did you ask mr. randolph to apologize, rené?" "oh, mother, one cannot do that with a cabinet minister." "why not? and is this all? you resign a little clerkship. i am surprised that it troubles you." "mother, it is ruin." "nonsense! what is there to make you talk of ruin?" "the good word of men lost; the belief in my honor. oh, mother, do you not see it? and it is a case where there is nothing to be done, nothing. if randolph, after my long service, does not believe me, who will?" she was very little moved by anything he said. she lived outside of the world of men, one of those island lives on which the ocean waves of exterior existence beat in vain. the want of sympathy painfully affected him. she had said it was of no moment, and had no helpful advice to give. the constantly recurring thought of margaret came and went as they talked, and added to his pain. he tried to make her see both the shame and even the legal peril of his position. it was quite useless. he was for her the vicomte de courval, and these only common people whom a revolution had set in high places. never before had he fully realized the quality of his mother's unassailable pride. it was a foretaste of what he might have to expect when she should learn of his engagement to margaret; but now that, too, must end. he went away, exhausted as from a bodily struggle. in the hall he met margaret just come in, the joy of time-nurtured love on her face. "oh, rené!" she cried. "how i have longed for thee! come out into the garden. the servants hear everything in the house." they went out and sat down under the trees, she talking gaily, he silent. "what is the matter?" she inquired at last, of a sudden anxious. "pearl," he said, "i am a disgraced and ruined man." "rené, what dost thou mean? disgraced, ruined!" he poured out this oft-repeated story of avignon, the scene on the bristol road, the despatch, and last, his talk with randolph and his resignation. "and this," she said, "was what some day i was to hear. it is terrible, but--ruined--oh, that thou art not. think of the many who love thee! and disgraced? thou art rené de courval." "yes; but, pearl, dear pearl, this ends my joy. how can i ask you to marry a man in my position?" for a moment she said no word. then she kissed him. "there is my answer, rené." "no, no. it is over. i cannot. as a gentleman, i cannot." again the wholesome discipline of friends came to her assistance. it was a serious young face she saw. he it was who was weak, and she strong. "trouble comes to all of us in life, rené. i could not expect always to escape. it has come to us in the morning of our love. let us meet it together. it is a terrible story, this. how can i, an inexperienced girl, know how to regard it? i am sure thou hast done what was right in thine own eyes. my mother will say thou shouldst have left it to god's justice. i do not know. i am not sure. i suppose it is because i so love thee that i do not know. we shall never speak of it again, never. it is the consequences we--yes, we--have to deal with." "there is no way to deal with them." he was in resourceless despair. "no, no. friend schmidt will return. he is sure to come, and this will all be set right. dost thou remember how the blessed waters washed away thy care? is not love as surely good?" "oh, yes; but this is different. that was a trifle." "no; it is the waiting here for friend schmidt that troubles me. what is there but to wait? thou art eager to do something; that is the man's way, and the other is the woman's way. take thy daily swim, ride, sail; the body will help the soul. it will all come right; but not marry me! then, rené de courval, i shall marry thee." a divine hopefulness was in her words, and for the first time he knew what a firm and noble nature had been given the woman at his side, what power to trust, what tenderness, what common sense, and, too, what insight; for he knew she was right. the contrast to his mother was strange, and in a way distressing. "i must think it over," he said. "thou wilt do no such thing. thou, indeed! as if it were thy business alone! i am a partner thou wilt please to remember. thou must see thy friends, and, above all, write to mr. hamilton at once, and do as i have said. i shall speak to my mother. hast thou--of course thou hast seen thy mother?" "i have; and she takes it all as a matter of no moment, really of not the least importance." "indeed, and so must we. now, i am to be kissed--oh, once, for the good of thy soul--i said once. mr. bingham has been here. see him and mr. wynne, and swim to-night, rené, and be careful, too, of my property, thy--dear self." even in this hour of mortification, and with the memory of randolph's doubt in mind, rené had some delightful sense of being taken in hand and disciplined. he had not said again that the tie which bound them together must be broken. he had tacitly accepted the joy of defeat, a little ashamed, perhaps. every minute of this talk had been a revelation to the man who had lived near margaret for years. an older man could have told him that no length of life will reveal to the most observant love all the possibilities of thought or action in the woman who may for years have been his wife. there will always remain surprises of word and deed. although rené listened and said that he could do none of the things she urged, the woman knew that he would do all of them. at last she started up, saying: "why, rené, thou hast not had thy dinner, and now, as we did not look for thee, it is long over. come in at once." "dear pearl," he said, "i am better let alone. i do not need anything." he wished to be left by himself to brood over the cruel wrong of the morning, and with any one but pearl he would have shown some sense of irritation at her persistence. the wild creatures are tamed by starvation, the animal man by good feeding. this fact is the sure possession of every kindly woman; and so it was that de courval went meekly to the house and was fed,--as was indeed needed,--and having been fed, with the girl watching him, was better in body and happier in mind. he went at once into schmidt's study and wrote to hamilton, while margaret, sitting in her room at the eastward window, cried a little and smiled between the tears and wondered at the ways of men. what she said to her mother may be easily guessed. the vicomtesse was as usual at the evening meal, where rené exerted himself to talk of his journey to mrs. swanwick, less interested than was her way. the day drew to a close. the shadows came with coolness in the air. the endless embroidery went on, the knitting needles clicked, and a little later in the dusk, margaret smiled as rené went down the garden to the river, a towel on his arm. "i did him good," she murmured proudly. later in the evening they were of one mind that it was well to keep their engagement secret, above all, not to confide it to their relatives or to miss wynne until there was some satisfactory outcome of the serious charge which had caused randolph to act as he had done. xxvi mr. hamilton's reply came in five days. he would come at once. de courval's friends, bingham and wynne, had heard his story, and thought he did well to resign, while wynne advised him to come to merion for a week or two. his other adviser would not have even the appearance of flight. "above all," said margaret, "go about as usual. thou must not avoid people, and after mr. hamilton comes and is gone, think of merion if it so please thee, or i can let thee go. aunt gainor was here in one of her fine tempers yesterday. i am jealous of her, monsieur de courval. and she has her suspicions." he took her advice, and saw too easily that he was the observed of many; for in the city he had long been a familiar personality, with his clean-shaven, handsome face and the erect figure, which showed the soldier's training. he was, moreover, a favorite, especially with the older men and women, so that not all the looks he met were either from hostile, cockaded jacobins or from the merely curious. mr. thomas cadwalader stopped him, and said that at need he was at his service, if he desired to call out the minister or the secretary. mrs. byrd, both curious and kind, would have him to come and tell her all about it, which he was little inclined to do. he took margaret's wholesome advice, and swam and rode, and was in a calmer state of mind, and even happy at the greetings of those in the fencing school, where were some whom, out of his slender means, he had helped. they told him gleefully how de malerive had given up the ice-cream business for a morning to quiet for a few weeks an irish democrat who had said of the vicomte unpleasant things; and would he not fence! "yes, now," he said smiling, and would use the pistol no more. mr. hamilton came as he had promised. "i must return to new york," he said, "to-morrow. i have heard from schmidt. he may not come very soon; but i wrote him fully, on hearing from you. he will be sure to come soon or late, but meanwhile i have asked general washington to see you with me. it may, indeed, be of small present use, but i want him to hear you--your own account of this affair. so far he has had only what mr. randolph has been pleased to tell him. i made it a personal favor. let us go. the cabinet meeting will be over." rené thanked him and not altogether assured that any good would result from this visit, walked away with hamilton, the two men attracting some attention. the president at this time lived on high street, in the former house of robert morris, near to sixth street. they were shown into the office room on the right, which de courval knew well, and where genêt, the jacobin minister, had been insulted by the medallions of the hapless king and queen. in a few minutes the president entered. he bowed formally, and said, "pray be seated, vicomte. i have been asked, sir, by mr. hamilton to hear you. as you are not now in the service, i am pleased to allow myself the pleasure to do so, although i have thought it well to advise mr. randolph of my intention. your case has been before the cabinet, but as yours was a position solely in the gift of the secretary of state, i--or we, have felt that his appointments should lie wholly within his control." "and of disappointments, also, i suppose," said hamilton, smiling, a privileged person. little open to appreciation of humor, no smile came upon the worn face of the president. he turned to hamilton as he spoke, and then went on addressing de courval, and speaking, as was his way, with deliberate slowness. "i have given this matter some personal consideration because, although mr. secretary randolph has acted as to him seemed best, you have friends who, to be frank with you, feel desirous that i should be informed by you in person of what took place. i am willing to oblige them. you are, it seems, unfortunate. there are two serious charges, an assault and--pardon me--the seizure of a despatch. may i be allowed to ask you certain questions?" "i shall be highly honored, sir." "this, i am given to understand, was a personal quarrel." "yes, your excellency." "what the law may say of the matter, i do not know. what concerns us most is the despatch. in what i say i desire, sir, to be considered open to correction. when, as i am told, you followed mr. carteaux, intending a very irregular duel, did you know that he carried a despatch?" "i did not until mr. schmidt found it. then the man was cared for, and i delivered his papers to their destination." "i regret, sir, to hear that of this you have no proof. here your word suffices. outside of these walls it has been questioned." "i have no proof,--none of any value,--nor can i ever hope to prove that i did what my own honor and my duty to the administration required." hamilton listened intently while the aging, tired face of the president for a moment seemed lost in reflection. then the large, blue eyes were lifted as he said, "at present this matter seems hopeless, sir, but time answers many questions." upon this he turned to hamilton. "there are two persons involved. who, sir, is this mr. schmidt? i am told that he has left the country; in fact, has fled." for a moment hamilton was embarrassed. "i can vouch for him as my friend. he was called to germany on a matter of moment. at present i am not at liberty to reply to you more fully. he is sure to return, and then i may,--indeed, i am sure, will be more free to answer you frankly. "but if so, what value will his evidence have? none, i conceive, as affecting the loss of the despatch. if that charge were disproved, the political aspect of the matter would become unimportant. the affair, so far as the duel is concerned, would become less serious." "it seems so to me," said hamilton. "the democrats are making the most of it, and the english federalists are doing harm by praising my young friend for what he did not do and never would have done. they were mad enough in new york to propose a dinner to the vicomte." the president rose. "i do not think it advisable, mr. hamilton, to pursue this matter further at present; nor, sir, do i apprehend that any good can result for this gentleman from my willingness to gratify your wish that i should see him." "we shall detain your excellency no longer." the president was never fully at ease when speaking, and owing to a certain deliberateness in speech, was thought to be dull when in company and, perhaps through consciousness of a difficulty in expression, was given to silence, a disposition fostered, no doubt, by the statesman's long disciplined need for reticence. after hamilton had accepted the president's rising as a signal of their audience being over, rené, seeing that the general did not at once move toward the door, waited for hamilton. the ex-secretary, however, knew well the ways of his friend and stood still, aware that the president was slowly considering what further he desired to say. the pause was strange to de courval as he stood intently watching the tall figure in black velvet, and the large features on which years of war and uneasy peace had left their mark. then with more than his usual animation, the president came nearer to de courval: "i have myself, sir, often had to bide on time for full justification of my actions. while you are in pursuit of means to deal with the suspicions arising, permit me to say, from your own imprudence you will have to bear in silence what men say of you. i regret, to conclude, that i cannot interfere in this matter. i discover it to be more agreeable to say to you that personally i entirely believe you. but this you must consider as spoken 'under the rose'"--a favorite expression. de courval flushed with joy, and could say no more than: "i thank you. you have helped me to wait." the general bowed, and at the door, as they were passing out, said: "i shall hope to see you again in the service, and you must not think of retiring permanently from the work which you have done so well. i remind myself that i have not yet thanked you for your report. it has greatly relieved my mind." on this he put out his hand, over which rené bowed in silent gratitude, and with a last look at the weary face of the man whose life had been one long sacrifice to duty, he went away, feeling the strengthening influence of a great example. as they reached the street, rené said, "how just he is, and how clear!" "yes. a slowly acting mind, but sure--and in battle, in danger, swift, decisive, and reckless of peril. are you satisfied?" "yes, i am. i shall be, even though this matter is never cleared up." "it will be. he said so, and i have long since learned to trust his foresight. in all my long experience of the man, i have scarcely ever heard him speak at such length. you may live to see many men in high places; you will never see a greater than george washington. i know him as few know him." he was silent for a moment, and then added, "when i was young and hasty, and thought more of alexander hamilton than i do to-day, he forgave me an outburst of youthful impertinence which would have made a vainer man desire to see no more of me." de courval, a less quick-tempered character, wondered that any one should have taken a liberty with the man they had just left. "but now i must leave you," said hamilton. "if schmidt returns, he will land in new york, and i shall come hither with him. have you seen the new paper, the 'aurora'? mr. bache has taken up the task freneau dropped--of abusing the president." "no, i have not seen it. i suppose now it is the english treaty. it will interest me no longer." "oh, for a time, for a time. between us, the president has sent it to the senate. it will leak out. he will sign it with a reservation as concerns the english claim to seize provisions meant for french ports. do not speak of it. randolph is striving to strengthen the president's scruples with regard to a not altogether satisfactory treaty, but, on the whole, the best we can get. it will be signed and will be of great service. keep this to yourself, and good-by. randolph is too french for me. i may have said to you once that if we had a navy, it is not peace that the president would desire." de courval hastened home to pour into the ear of margaret so much of his interview as he felt free to speak of. "my mother," she said, "would speak to thee of me, rené." but he asked that she would wait, and his sense of satisfaction soon gave place, as was natural, to a return of depression, which for a time left him only when in the company of margaret. her mother, usually so calm, did most uneasily wait while the days went by, but made no effort to interfere with the lovers. on the 9th of august, at evening, margaret and rené were seated in the garden when of a sudden rené leaped up with a cry of joyous welcome, as he saw schmidt, large, bronzed and laughing, on the porch. "_du guter himmel!_" he cried, "but i am content to be here. i have good news for you. _ach_, let me sit down. now listen. but first, is it all right, children!" "may i tell him in my way, rené?" "yes, of course; but what is your way?" "this is my way," said margaret, and bending over, as the german sat on the grass at her feet, she kissed him, saying, "as yet no one knows." "i am answered, pearl, and now listen. this morning i met mr. randolph and mr. hamilton with the president. that was best before seeing you. mr. randolph was silent while i told the general plainly the story of your duel. _ach_, but he has the trick of silence! a good one, too. when i had ended, he said, 'i am to be pardoned, sir, if i ask who in turn will vouch for you as a witness?'" "then i said, 'with my apologies to these gentlemen, may i be allowed a brief interview alone with your excellency, or, rather, may i ask also for mr. hamilton to be present?' 'with your permission, mr. randolph,' the president said, and showed us into a small side room. there i told him." "told him what?" asked margaret. "your husband may tell you, my dear, when you are married. i may as well permit it, whether i like it or not. you would get it out of him." "i should," she said; "but--it is dreadful to have to wait." "on our return, his excellency said, 'mr. randolph, i am satisfied as regards the correctness of the vicomte de courval's account of mr. carteaux's treachery and of the vicomte's ignorance of his errand. mr. gouverneur sends me by mr. schmidt a letter concerning the despatch.' "then randolph asked quietly: 'did he see it, sir?' "'he knows that the vicomte delivered a packet of papers to the _jean bart_.' "'and without receipt for them or other evidence?' "'yes. it so seems.' "'then i regret to say that all we have heard appears to me, sir, to leave the matter where it was.' "'not quite. mr. fauchet is out of office and about to go home. carteaux, as mr. hamilton can tell you, refused to be questioned, and has sailed for france. adet, the new minister, will not urge the matter. you must pardon me, but, as it appears to me, an injustice has been done.' "randolph said testily: 'it is by no means clear to me, and until we hear of that despatch, it never will be.' "this smileless old man said, 'i am not free to speak of what mr. schmidt has confided to me, but it satisfies me fully.' then he waited to hear what randolph would say." "and he?" said rené, impatient. "oh, naturally enough he was puzzled and i thought annoyed, but said, 'i presume, mr. president, it is meant that i ought to offer this young man the position he forfeited?' "'that, sir,' said the president, 'is for you to decide.' "then mr. hamilton, who can be as foxy as jefferson, said in a careless way, 'i think i should wait a little.' "the moment he said that, i knew what would happen. randolph said, 'pardon me, mr. hamilton, i prefer to conduct the affairs of my department without aid.' they love not one another, these two. 'i am of the president's opinion. i shall write to the vicomte de courval.' "mr. hamilton did seem to me to amuse himself. he smiled a little and said: 'a pity to be in such a hurry. time will make it all clearer.' randolph made no reply. you will hear from him to-morrow." "i shall not accept," said rené. "yes, you must. it is a full answer to all criticism, and after what the president has said, you cannot refuse." "mr. schmidt is right, rené," said margaret. "thou must take the place." "good, wise little counselor!" said the german. "he will write you a courteous note, rené. he has had, as hamilton says, enough differences with the chief to make him willing to oblige him in a minor matter. you must take it." at last, it being so agreed, schmidt went in to see mrs. swanwick and to relieve her as concerned a part, at least, of her troubles. the rest he would talk about later. even the vicomtesse was so good as to be pleased, and the evening meal was more gay than usual. the next morning rené received the following note: dear sir: my opinion in regard to the matter under discussion of late having been modified somewhat, and the president favoring my action, it gives me pleasure to offer you the chance to return to the office. i have the honor to be, your obedient friend and servant, edmund randolph. schmidt laughed as he read it. "he does not like it. the dose is bitter. he thinks you will say no. but you will write simply, and accept with pleasure." "yes, i see. i shall do as you say." he sent a simple note of acceptance. a visit to the office of state settled the matter, and on the day but one after receipt of the letter, rené was well pleased to be once more at his desk and busy. meanwhile schmidt had been occupied with long letters to germany and his affairs in the city, but in the evening of the 12th of august, they found time for one of their old talks. "this matter of yours, and in fact of mine, rené, does not fully satisfy me. i still hear much about it, and always of that infernal despatch." "it does not satisfy me, sir." "well, it seems to me that it will have to. long ago that despatch must be in paris; but mr. monroe, our minister, could learn nothing about it. and so you two young folks have arranged your affairs. i can tell you that miss gainor will be sorry to have had no hand in this business, and uncle josiah, too." "that is droll enough. i am glad to have pleased somebody. we have thought it better not as yet to speak of it." "have you told your mother, rené? you may be sure that she will know, or guess at the truth, and resent being left in the dark." "that is true; but you may very well imagine that i dread what she will say of margaret. we have never had a serious difference, and now it is to come. i shall talk to her to-morrow." "no, now. get it over, sir. get it over. i must go home again soon, and i want to see you married. go now at once and get it over." "i suppose that will be as well." he went slowly up the winding staircase which was so remarkable a feature of the finer georgian houses. suddenly he was aware in the darkness of margaret on the landing above him. "don't stop me," she said. "what is wrong!" he asked. "everything. i told thee thy mother would know. she sent for me. i went. she was cruel--cruel--hard." "what, dear, did she say?" "i shall not tell thee. she insulted me and my mother. ah, but she said--no, i shall not tell thee, nor mother. she sent for me, and i went. i had to tell her. oh, i said that--that--i told her--i do not know what i told her." she was on the edge of her first almost uncontrollable loss of self-government. it alarmed her pride, and at once becoming calm, she added, "i told her that it was useless to talk to me, to say that it must end, that thou wouldst obey her. i--i just laughed; yes, i did. and i told her she did not yet know her own son--and--that some day she would regret what she had said to me, and, rené, of my mother. i do not care--" "but i care, margaret. i was this moment on my way to tell her." "let me pass. i hope thou art worth what i have endured for thy sake. let me pass." he went by her, troubled and aware that he too needed to keep himself in hand. when he entered his mother's room he found her seated by the feeble candle-light, a rose of the never-finished embroidery growing under her thin, skilful fingers. for her a disagreeable matter had been decisively dealt with and put aside; no trace of emotion betrayed her self-satisfaction at having finally settled an unpleasant but necessary business. in the sweet, low voice which seemed so out of relation to her severity of aspect, she said: "sit down. i have been left to learn from the young woman of this entanglement. i should have heard it from you, or never have had to hear it at all." "mother, i have been in very great trouble of late. that my disaster did trouble you so little has been painful to me. but this is far worse. i waited to feel at ease about the other affair before i spoke to you of my intention to marry miss swanwick. i was on my way just now when i met her on the stair. i desire to say, mother--" she broke in: "it is useless to discuss this absurd business. it is over. i have said so to the young woman. that ends it. now kiss me. i wish to go to bed." "no," he said; "this does not end it." "indeed, we shall see--a quite ordinary quaker girl and a designing mother. it is all clear enough. neither of you with any means, not a louis of dot--a nice wife to take home. oh, i have expressed myself fully, and it was needed. she presumed to contradict me. _ciel!_ i had to be plain." "so it seems; but as i count for something, i beg leave to say, _maman_, that i mean to marry margaret swanwick." "you, the vicomte de courval!" he laughed bitterly. "what are titles here, or in france, to-day? there are a dozen starving nobles in this city, exiles and homeless. as to money, i have charge of mr. schmidt's affairs, and shall have. i am not without business capacity." "business!" she exclaimed. "well, no matter, mother. i pray you to be reasonable, and to remember what these people have done for us: in health no end of kindness; in sickness--mother, i owe to them my life." "they were paid, i presume." "_mon dieu_, mother! how can you say such things? it is incredible." "rené, do you really mean to disobey me?" "i hope not to have to do so." "if you persist, you will have to. i shall never consent, never." "then, mother,--and you force me to say it,--whether you agree to it or not, i marry margaret. you were hard to her and cruel." "no; i was only just and wise." "i do not see it; but rest assured that neither man nor woman shall part us. oh, i have too much of you in me to be controlled in a matter where both love and honor are concerned." "then you mean to make this _mésalliance_ against my will." "i mean, and that soon, to marry the woman i think worthy of any man's love and respect." "she is as bad as you--two obstinate fools! i am sorry for your children." "mother!" "well, and what now?" "it is useless to resist. it will do no good. it only hurts me. did your people want you to marry jean de courval, my father?" "no." "you did. was it a _mésalliance?_" "they said so." "you set me a good example. i shall do as you did, if, after this, her pride does not come in the way." "her pride, indeed! will it be to-morrow, the marriage?" "ah, dear mother, why will you hurt me so?" "i know you as if it were myself. i take the lesser of two evils." and to his amazement, she said, "send the girl up to me." "if she will come." "come? of course she will come." he shook his head and left her, but before he was out of the room, her busy hands were again on the embroidery-frame. "no, i will not go," said margaret when he delivered his message. "for my sake, dear," said rené, and at last, reluctant and still angry, margaret went up-stairs. "come in," said madame; "you have kept me waiting." the girl stood still at the open door. "do not stand there, child. come here and sit down." "no," said margaret, "i shall stand." "as you please, mademoiselle. my son has made up his mind to an act of folly. i yield because i must. he is obstinate, as you will some day discover to your cost. i cannot say i am satisfied, but as you are to be my daughter, i shall say no more. you may kiss me. i shall feel better about it in a few years, perhaps." never, i suppose, was margaret's power of self-command more sorely tried. she bent over, lifted the hand of the vicomtesse from the embroidery, and kissed it, saying, "thou art rené's mother, madame," and, turning, left the room. rené was impatiently walking in the hall when margaret came down the stair from this brief interview. she was flushed and still had in her eyes the light of battle. "i have done as you desired. i cannot talk any more. i have had all i can stand. no, i shall not kiss thee. my kisses are spoilt for to-night." then she laughed as she went up the broad stairway, and, leaning over the rail, cried: "there will be two for to-morrow. they will keep. good night." the vicomtesse she left was no better pleased, and knew that she had had the worst of the skirmish. "i hate it. i hate it," she said, "but that was well done of the maid. where did she get her fine ways?" she was aware, as rené had said in some wrath, that she could not insult these kind people and continue to eat their bread. the dark lady with the wan, ascetic face, as of a saint of many fasts, could abide poverty and accept bad diet, but nevertheless did like very well the things which make life pleasant, and had been more than comfortable amid the good fare and faultless cleanliness of the quaker house. she quite well understood that the matter could not remain in the position in which she had left it. she had given up too easily; but now she must take the consequences. therefore it was that the next day after breakfast she said to margaret, "i desire to talk to you a little." "certainly, madame. will the withdrawing-room answer?" "yes, here or there." margaret closed the door as she followed the vicomtesse, and after the manner of her day stood while the elder woman sat very upright in the high-backed chair prophetically designed for her figure and the occasion. "pray be seated," she said. "i have had a white night, mademoiselle, if you know what that is. i have been sleepless." if this filled margaret with pity, i much doubt. "i have had to elect whether i quarrel with my son or with myself. i choose the latter, and shall say no more than this--i am too straightforward to avoid meeting face to face the hardships of life." "bless me, am i the hardship?" thought margaret, her attitude of defiant pride somewhat modified by assistant sense of the comic. "i shall say only this: i have always liked you. whether i shall ever love you or not, i do not know. i have never had room in my heart for more than one love. god has so made me," which the young woman thought did comfortably and oddly shift responsibility, and thus further aided to restore her good humor. "we shall be friends, margaret." she rose as she spoke, and setting her hands on margaret's shoulders as she too stood, said: "you are beautiful, child, and you have very good manners. there are things to be desired, the want of which i much regret; otherwise--" she felt as if she had gone far enough. "were these otherwise, i should have been satisfied." then she kissed her coldly on the forehead. margaret said, "i shall try, madame, to be a good daughter," and, falling back, courtesied, and left the tall woman to her meditations. madame de courval and mary swanwick knew that soon or late what their children had settled they too must discuss. neither woman desired it, the vicomtesse aware that she might say more than she meant to say, the quaker matron in equal dread lest things might be said which would make the future difficult. mary swanwick usually went with high courage to meet the calamities of life, and just at present it is to be feared that she thus classified the stern puritan dame. but now she would wait no longer, and having so decided on saturday, she chose sunday morning, when--and she smiled--the vicomtesse having been to gloria dei and she herself to friends' meeting, both should be in a frame of mind for what she felt might prove a trial of good temper. accordingly, having heard the gentle friend howell discourse, and bent in silent prayer for patience and charity, she came home and waited until from the window of schmidt's room she saw the tall, black figure approach. she went out to the hall and let in madame de courval, saying: "i have waited for thee. wilt thou come into the withdrawing-room? i have that to say which may no longer be delayed." "i myself had meant to talk with you of this unfortunate matter. it is as well to have it over." so saying she followed her hostess. both women sat upright in the high-backed chairs, the neat, gray-clad quaker lady, tranquil and rosy; the black figure of the huguenot dame, sallow, with grave, unmoved features, a strange contrast. "i shall be pleased to hear you, madame swanwick." "it is simple. i have long seen that there was a growth of attachment between our children. i did not--i do not approve it." "indeed," said madame de courval, haughtily. what was this woman to sit in judgment on the vicomte de courval? "i have done my best to keep them apart. i spoke to margaret, and sent her away again and again as thou knowest. it has been in vain, and now having learned that thou hast accepted a condition of things we do neither of us like, i have thought it well to have speech of thee." "i do not like it, and i never shall. i have, however, yielded a reluctant consent. i cannot quarrel with my only child; but i shall never like it--never." "never is a long day." "i am not of those who change. there is no fitness in it, none. my son is of a class far above her. they are both poor." a sharp reply to the reference to social distinctions was on mary swanwick's tongue. she resisted the temptation, and said quietly: "margaret will not always be without means; my uncle will give her, on his death, all he has; and as to class, madame, the good master to whom we prayed this morning, must--" "it is not a matter for discussion," broke in the elder woman. "no; i agree with thee. it is not, but--were it not as well that two christian gentlewomen should accept the inevitable without reserve and not make their children unhappy?" "gentlewomen!" mary swanwick reddened. "i said so. we, too, are not without the pride of race you value. a poor business, but,"--and she looked straight at the vicomtesse, unable to resist the temptation to retort--"we are not given to making much of it in speech." madame de courval had at times entertained margaret with some of the grim annals of her father's people. now, feeling the thrust, and not liking it, or that she had lost her temper, she shifted her ground, and being at heart what her hostess described as a gentlewoman, said stiffly: "i beg pardon; i spoke without thought." at this moment margaret entered, and seeing the signals of discomposure on both faces, said: "oh, you two dear people whom i love and want to love more and more, you are talking of me and of rené. shall i give him up, madame, and send him about his business." "do, dear," laughed her mother, relieved. there was no mirth to be had out of it for yvonne de courval. "it is not a matter for jesting," she said. "he is quite too like me to be other than obstinate, and this, like what else of the trials god has seen fit to send, is to be endured. he is too like me to change." "then," said margaret, gaily, "thou must be like him." "i suppose so," said the vicomtesse, with a note of melancholy in her tones. "then if thou art like him, thou wilt have to love me," cried margaret. the mother smiled at this pretty logic, but the huguenot dame sat up on her chair, resentful of the affectionate familiarity of the girl's gaiety. "your mother and i have talked, and what use is it? i shall try to care for you, and love may come. but i could have wished--" "oh, no!" cried margaret. "please to say no more. thou will only hurt me." "i remain of the same opinion; i am not of a nature which allows me to change without reason." "and as for me," said mrs. swanwick, smiling as she rose, "i yield when i must." "i, too," said the dark lady; "but to yield outwardly is not to give up my opinions, nor is it easy or agreeable to do so. we will speak of it another time, madame swanwick." but they never did, and so this interview ended with no very good result, except to make both women feel that further talk would be of no use, and that the matter was settled. as the two mothers rose, miss gainor entered, large, smiling, fresh from christ church. quick to observe, she saw that something unusual had occurred, and hesitated between curiosity and the reserve which good manners exacted. "good morning," she said. "i heard that mr. schmidt had come back, and so i came at once from church to get all the news from europe for the penns, where i go to dine." "europe is unimportant," cried margaret, disregarding a warning look from her mother. "i am engaged to be married to monsieur de courval--and--everybody--is pleased. dear aunt gainor, i like it myself." "i at least am to be excepted," said the vicomtesse, "as mademoiselle knows. i beg at present to be saved further discussion. may i be excused--" "it seems, madame," returned miss wynne, smiling, "to have got past the need for discussion. i congratulate you with all my heart." "_mon dieu!_" exclaimed the vicomtesse, forgetful of her huguenot training, and swept by miss gainor's most formal courtesy and was gone. "dear child," cried mistress wynne, as she caught margaret in her arms, "i am glad as never before. the vicomte has gone back to the service and--you are to marry--oh, the man of my choice. the poor vicomtesse, alas! where is the vicomte?" "he is out just now. we did mean to tell thee this evening." "ah! i am glad it came earlier, this good news. may i tell them at the governor's?" "i may as well say yes," cried margaret. "thou wouldst be sure to tell." "i should," said gainor. xxvii both mothers had accepted a situation which neither entirely liked; but the atmosphere was cleared, and the people most concerned were well satisfied and happy. miss gainor joyously distributed the news. gay cousins called, and again the late summer afternoons saw in the garden many friends who had sturdily stood by de courval in his day of discredit. if randolph was cool to him, others were not, and the office work and the treaty were interesting, while in france affairs were better, and the reign of blood had passed and gone. the warm days of august went by, and de courval's boat drifted on the river at evening, where he lay and talked to margaret, or listened, a well-contented man. there were parties in the country, dinners with the peters at belmont, or at historic cliveden. schmidt, more grave than usual, avoided these festivities, and gave himself to lonely rides, or to long evenings on the river when de courval was absent or otherwise occupied, as was commonly the case. when late one afternoon he said to rené, "i want you to lend me margaret for an hour," she cried, laughing, "indeed, i lend myself; and i make my lord vicomte obey, as is fitting before marriage. i have not yet promised to obey after it, and i am at thy service, friend schmidt." rené laughed and said, "i am not left much choice," whereupon schmidt and margaret went down to the shore, and soon their boat lay quiet far out on the river. "they are talking," said the young lover. "i wonder what about." in fact they had not exchanged even the small current coin of conventional talk; both were silent until schmidt laid down his oars, and the boat silently drifted upward with the tide. it was the woman who spoke first. "ah, what a true friend thou hast been!" "yes, i have that way a talent. why did you bring me out here to flatter me?" "i did think it was thou proposed it; but i do wish to talk with thee. my mother is not well pleased because the other mother is ill pleased. i do want every one i love to feel that all is well with rené and me, and that the love i give is good for him." "it is well for you and for him, my child, and as for that grim fortress of a woman, she will live to be jealous of your mother and of rené. an east wind of a woman. she will come at last to love you, pearl." "ah, dost thou really think so?" "yes." "and thou art pleased. we thought thou wert grave of late and less--less gay." "i am more than pleased, margaret. i am not sad, but only grieved over the coming loss out of my life of simple days and those i love, because soon, very soon, i go away to a life of courts and idle ceremonies, and perhaps of strife and war." for a moment or two neither spoke. the fading light seemed somehow to the girl to fit her sense of the gravity of this announcement of a vast loss out of life. her eyes filled as she looked up. "oh, why dost thou go? is not love and reverence and hearts that thank thee--oh, are not these enough? why dost thou go?" "you, dear, who know me will understand when i answer with one word--duty." "i am answered," she said, but the tears ran down her cheeks. "rené will some day tell you more, indeed, all; and you will know why i must leave you." then, saying no more, he took up the oars and pulled into the shore. rené drew up the boat. "will you go out with me now, margaret?" "not this evening, rené," she said, and went slowly up to the house. on one of these later august days, mr. hammond, the english minister, at his house in the country was pleased, being about to return home, to ask the company of mr. wolcott of the treasury. there were no other guests, and after dinner the minister, to add zest to his dessert, handed to wolcott the now famous intercepted despatch no. 10, sent back by lord grenville after its capture, to make still further mischief. having been told the story of the wanderings of this fateful document, the secretary read it with amazement, and understood at once that it was meant by hammond to injure randolph, whose dislike of the jay treaty and what it yielded to england was well known in london. much disturbed by what he gathered, wolcott took away the long document, agreeing to give a certified copy to hammond, who, having been recalled, was well pleased to wing this parthian arrow. the next day wolcott showed it to his colleagues, pickering and the attorney-general. as it seemed to them serious, they sent an urgent message to the president, which brought back the weary man from his rest at mount vernon. on his return, the president, despite randolph's desire for further delay, called a cabinet meeting, and with a strong remonstrance against the provision clause which yielded the hated rights of search, decided to ratify the treaty with england. the next day he was shown the long-lost, intercepted despatch no. 10. greatly disturbed, he waited for several days, and then again called together his advisers, naming for randolph a half-hour later. on this, the 19th of august, de courval, being at his desk, was asked to see an express rider who had come with a report of indian outrages on the frontier. the secretary of state having gone, as he learned, to a cabinet meeting, de courval made haste to find him, being well aware of the grave import of the news thus brought. arriving at the house of the president, he was shown as usual into the drawing-room, and sat down to wait among a gay party of little ones who were practising the minuet with the young custis children under the tuition of a sad-looking, old _émigré_ gentleman. the small ladies courtesied to the new-comer, the marquis bowed. the violin began again, and rené sat still, amused. meanwhile in the room on the farther side of the hall, washington discussed with pickering and oliver wolcott the fateful, intercepted despatch. a little later randolph entered the hall, and desiring de courval to wait with his papers, joined the cabinet meeting. as he entered, the president rose and said, "mr. randolph, a matter has been brought to my knowledge in which you are deeply concerned." he spoke with great formality, and handing him fauchet's despatch, added, "here is a letter which i desire you to read and make such explanation in regard to it as you choose." randolph, amazed, ran his eye over the long report of fauchet to his home office, the other secretaries watching him in silence. he flushed with sudden anger as he read on, while no one spoke, and the president walked up and down the room. this is what the secretary of state saw in fauchet's despatch: mr. randolph came to see me with an air of great eagerness just before the proclamation was made in regard to the excise insurrection, and made to me overtures of which i have given you an account in my despatches no. 6 and no. 3. thus with some thousands of dollars the french republic could have decided on war or peace. thus the consciences of the pretended patriots of america have already their prices [_tarif_]. then followed abuse of hamilton and warm praise of jefferson and madison. "the despatches no. 6 and no. 3 are not here," said the secretary. again he read on. then at last, looking up, he said, "if i may be permitted to retain this letter a short time, i shall be able to answer everything in it in a satisfactory manner." he made no denial of its charges. the president said: "very well. you may wish at present, sir, to step into the back room and further consider the matter." he desired to do so, the president saying that he himself wished meanwhile to talk of it with his other advisers. mr. randolph, assenting, retired, and in half an hour returned. what passed in this interval between the chief and his secretaries no one knows, nor what went on in the mind of washington. mr. randolph finally left the meeting, saying, "your excellency will hear from me." as he was passing the door of the parlor de courval came forward to meet him and said, "these papers are of moment, sir. they have just come." the violin ceased, the marquis bowed. the secretary saluted the small dames and said hastily: "i cannot consider these papers at present. i must go. give them to the president." upon this he went away, leaving de courval surprised at the agitation of his manner. in a few moments mr. wolcott also came out, leaving the office door open. meanwhile de courval waited, as he had been desired to do, until the president should be disengaged. the violin went on, the small figures, as he watched them, moved in the slow measures of the dance. then during a pause one little dame courtesied to him, and the old violinist asked would monsieur le vicomte walk a minuet with miss langdon. de courval, rising, bowed to the anticipative partner, and said, "no; the president may want me." and again the low notes of the violin set the small puppets in motion. of a sudden, heard through the open door across the hall, came a voice resonant with anger. it was washington who spoke. "why, colonel pickering, did he say nothing of moment? he was my friend peyton randolph's nephew and adopted son, my aide, my secretary. i made him attorney-general, secretary of state. i would have listened, sir. never before have i allowed friendship to influence me in an appointment." the voice fell; he heard no more, but through it all the notes of the violin went on, a strange accompaniment, while the children moved in the ceremonious measures of the minuet, and rené crossed the room to escape from what he was not meant to hear. a full half hour went by while de courval sat amazed at the words he had overheard. at last the secretary of war, entering the hall, passed out of the house. then de courval asked a servant in the gray and red of the washington livery to take the papers to the president. hearing him, washington, coming to the door, said: "come in, sir. i will see you." the face de courval saw had regained its usual serenity. "pray be seated." he took the papers and deliberately considered them. "yes, they are of importance. you did well to wait. i thank you." then smiling kindly he said, "here has been a matter which concerns you. the despatch you were charged with taking was captured at sea by an english frigate and sent to us by mr. hammond, the british minister. it has been nine months on the way. i never, sir, had the least doubt of your honor, and permit me now to express my pleasure. at present this affair of the despatch must remain a secret. it will not be so very long. permit me also to congratulate you on your new tie to this country. mistress wynne has told mrs. washington of it. will you do me the honor to dine with us at four to-morrow? at four." coming out of the room with de courval, he paused in the hall, having said his gracious words. the violin ceased. the little ladies in brocades and slippers came to the drawing-room door, a pretty dozen or so, miss langdon, miss biddle, miss morris, and the custis children. they courtesied low, waiting expectant. like most shy men, washington was most at ease with children, loving what fate had denied him. he was now and then pleased, as they knew, to walk with one of them the slow measure of the minuet, and then to lift up and kiss his small partner in the dance. now looking down on them from his great height he said: "no," with a sad smile at their respectful appeal--"no, not to-day, children. not to-day. good-by, vicomte." as the servant held the door open, rené looked back and saw the tall figure, the wreck of former vigor, go wearily up the broad staircase. [illustration: "'not to-day, children, not to-day'"] "what has so troubled him?" thought de courval. "what is this that edmund randolph has done?" standing on the outer step and taking off his hat, he murmured, "my god, i thank thee!" he heard faintly through the open window as he walked away the final notes of the violin and the laughter of childhood as the lesson ended. it was only a little way, some three blocks, from the house of the president to the state department, where, at 287 high street, half a dozen clerks now made up the slender staff. de courval walked slowly to the office, and setting his business in order, got leave from his immediate superior to be absent the rest of the day. as he went out, mr. randolph passed in. de courval raised his hat, and said, "good morning, sir." the secretary turned back. in his hour of humiliation and evident distress his natural courtesy did not desert him. "monsieur," he said in ready french, "the despatch which you sent on its way has returned. i desire to ask you to forget the injustice i did you." he was about to add, "my time to suffer has come." he refrained. "i thank you," said de courval; "you could hardly have done otherwise than you did." the two men bowed, and parted to meet no more. "what does it all mean?" thought the young man. thus set free, he would at once have gone home to tell of the end of the troubles this wandering paper had made for him. but margaret was at merion for the day, and others might wait. he wished for an hour to be alone, and felt as he walked eastward the exaltation which was natural to a man sensitive as to the slightest reflection on his honor. thus surely set at ease, with the slow pace of the thoughtful, he moved along what we now call market street. already at this time it had its country carts and wide market sheds, where schmidt liked to come, pleased with the colors of the fruit and vegetables. rené heard again with a smile the street-cries, "calamus! sweet calamus!" and "peaches ripe! ripe!" as on his first sad day in the city. aimlessly wandering, he turned northward into mulberry street, with its doric portals, and seeing the many friends coming out of their meeting-house, was reminded that it was wednesday. "i should like," he thought, "to have said my thanks with them." moving westward at delaware fifth street, he entered the burial-ground of christ church, and for a while in serious mood read what the living had said of the dead. "well, rené," said schmidt, behind him, "which are to be preferred, those underneath or those above ground?" "i do not know. you startled me. to-day, for me, those above ground." "when a man has had both experiences he may be able to answer--or not. i once told you i liked to come here. this is my last call upon these dead, some of whom i loved. what fetched you hither?" "oh, i was lightly wandering with good news," and he told him of the lost despatch no. 10, and that it was to be for the time a secret. "at last!" said schmidt. "i knew it would come. the world may congratulate you. i am not altogether grieved that you have been through this trial. i, too, have my news. edmund randolph has resigned within an hour or so. mr. wolcott has just heard it from the president. oh, the wild confusion of things! if you had not sent that despatch on its way, randolph would not have fallen. a fatal paper. let us go home, rené." "but how, sir, does it concern mr. randolph?" "pickering has talked of it to bingham, whom i have seen just now, and i am under the impression that fauchet's despatch charged randolph with asking for money. it was rather vague, as i heard it." "i do not believe it," said rené. "a queer story," said schmidt. "a wild jacobin's despatch ruins his secretary for life, disgraces for a time an _émigré_ noble, turns out a cabinet minister--what fancy could have invented a stranger tale? come, let us leave these untroubled dead." not until december of that year, 1795, did randolph's pamphlet, known as his "vindication," appear. this miserable business concerns us here solely as it affected the lives of my characters. it has excited much controversy, and even to this day, despite fauchet's explanations to randolph and the knowledge we now have of the papers mentioned as no. 3 and no. 6, it remains in a condition to puzzle the most astute historian. certainly few things in diplomatic annals are more interesting than the adventures of despatch no. 10. the verdict of "not proven" has been the conclusion reached by some writers, while despite randolph's failure to deny the charges at once, as he did later, it is possible that fauchet misunderstood him or lied, although why he should have done so is difficult to comprehend. the despatch, as we have seen, affected more persons than the unfortunate secretary. dr. chovet left the city in haste when he heard of schmidt's return, and aunt gainor lamented as among the not minor consequences the demise of her two gods and the blue china mandarin. she was in some degree comforted by the difficult business of margaret's marriage outfit, for schmidt, overjoyed at the complete justification of de courval, insisted that there must be no delay, since he himself was obliged to return to germany in october. mrs. swanwick would as usual accept no money help, and the preparations should be simple, she said, nor was it a day of vulgar extravagance in bridal presents. margaret, willing enough to delay, and happy in the present, was slowly making her way to what heart there was in the huguenot dame. margaret at her joyous best was hard to resist, and now made love to the vicomtesse, and, ingenuously ready to serve, wooed her well and wisely in the interest of peace. what madame de courval most liked about margaret was a voice as low and as melodious in its changes as her own, so that, as schmidt said, "it is music, and what it says is of the lesser moment." thus one day at evening as they sat on the porch, margaret murmured in the ear of the dark lady: "i am to be married in a few days; wilt not thou make me a little wedding gift?" "my dear margaret," cried rené, laughing, "the jewels all went in england, and except a son of small value, what can my mother give you?" "but, him i have already," cried margaret. "what i want, madame has--oh, and to spare." "well, and what is it i am to give?" said madame, coldly. "a little love," she whispered. "ah, do you say such things to rené?" "no, never. it is he who says them to me. oh, i am waiting. a lapful i want of thee," and she held up her skirts to receive the gift. "how saucy thou art," said mrs. swanwick. "it is no affair of thine, friend swanwick," cried the pearl. "i wait, madame." "i must borrow of my son," said the vicomtesse. "it shall be ready at thy wedding. thou wilt have to wait." "ah," said rené, "we can wait. come, let us gather some peaches, margaret," and as they went down the garden, he added: "my mother said 'thou' to you. did you hear?" "yes, i heard. she was giving me what i asked, and would not say so." "yes, it was not like her," said the vicomte, well pleased. the september days went by, and to all outward appearance madame de courval accepted with no further protest what it was out of her power to control. uncle josiah insisted on settling upon margaret a modest income, and found it the harder to do so because, except mistress gainor wynne, no one was disposed to differ with him. that lady told him it was shabby. to which he replied that there would be the more when he died. "get a permanent ground-rent on your grave," said gainor, "or never will you lie at rest." "it is our last ride," said schmidt, on october the first, of this, the last year of my story. they rode out through the busy red city and up the ridge road, along which general green led the left wing of the army to the fight at germantown, and so to the wissahickon creek, where, leaving their horses at an inn, they walked up the stream. "_ach, lieber himmel_, this is well," said schmidt as they sat down on a bed of moss above the water. "tell me," he said, "more about the president. oh, more; you were too brief." he insisted eagerly. "i like him with the little ones. and, ah, that tragedy of fallen ambition and all the while the violin music and the dance. it is said that sometimes he is pleased to walk a minuet with one of these small maids, and then will kiss the fortunate little partner." "he did not that day; he told them he could not. he was sad about randolph." "when they are old, they will tell of it, rené." and, indeed, two of these children lived to be great-grandmothers, and kissing their grandchildren's children, two of whom live to-day in the red city, bade them remember that the lips which kissed them had often been kissed by washington. "it is a good sign of a man to love these little ones," said schmidt. "what think you, rené? was randolph guilty?" "i do not think so, sir. fauchet was a quite irresponsible person; but what that silent old man, washington, finally believed, i should like to know. i fear that he thought randolph had been anything but loyal to his chief." for a little while the german seemed lost in thought. then he said: "you will have my horses and books and the pistols and my rapier. my life will, i hope, need them no more. i mean the weapons; but who can be sure of that? your own life will find a use for them, if i be not mistaken. when i am gone, mr. justice wilson will call on you, and do not let the pearl refuse what i shall leave for her. i have lived two lives. one of my lives ends here in this free land. mr. wilson has, as it were, my will. in germany i shall have far more than i shall ever need. keep my secret. there are, there were, good reasons for it." "it is safe with me." "ah, the dear life i have had here, the freedom of the wilderness, the loves, the simple joys!" as he spoke, he gathered and let fall the autumn leaves strewn thickly on the forest floor. "we shall meet no more on earth, rené, and i have loved you as few men love." again he was long silent. "i go from these wonder woods to the autumn of a life with duties and, alas! naught else. sometimes i shall write to you; and, rené, you will speak of me to your children." the younger man said little in reply. he, too, was deeply moved, and sorrowful as never before. as they sat, schmidt put his hand on rené's shoulder. "may the good god bless and keep you and yours through length of honorable days! let us go. never before did the autumn woodlands seem to me sad. let us go." he cast down as he rose the last handful of the red and gold leaves of the maple. they walked down the creek, still beautiful to-day, and rode home in silence amid the slow down-drift of the early days of the fall. in the house margaret met them joyous. "oh, rené, a letter of congratulation to me! think of it--to me, sir, from general washington! and one to thee!" these letters were to decide in far-away after days a famous french law-suit. * * * * * the sun shone bright on the little party which passed among the graves into the modest gloria dei, the church of the swedes. here were the many kinsfolk; and washington's secretary, colonel lear, alexander hamilton and gouverneur morris, with binghams and morrises; whartons and biddles, the forefathers of many lines of men since famous in our annals, whether of war or peace. women there were also. mistress gainor in the front pew with mrs. swanwick and lady washington, as many called her, and the gay federalist dames, who smiled approval of margaret in her radiant loveliness. schmidt, grave and stately in dark velvet, gave away the bride, and the good swedish rector, the reverend nicholas cullin, read the service of the church. then at last they passed into the vestry, and, as margaret decreed, all must sign the marriage-certificate after the manner of friends. de courval wrote his name, and the pearl, "margaret swanwick," whereat arose merriment and an erasure when, blushing, she wrote, "de courval." next came schmidt. he hesitated a moment, and then wrote "johan graf von ehrenstein," to the surprise of the curious many who followed, signing with laughter and chatter of young tongues. meanwhile the german gentleman, unnoticed, passed out of the vestry, and thus out of my story. "what with all these signatures, it does look, vicomte," said young mr. morris, "like the famous declaration of independence." "humph!" growled josiah langstroth, "if thee thinks, young man, that it is a declaration of independence, thee is very much mistaken." "not i," said rené, laughing; and they went out to where mistress gainor's landau was waiting, and so home to the mother's house. here was a note from schmidt. dear children, to say good-by is more than i will to bear. god bless you both! i go at once. johan graf von ehrenstein. there were tears in the pearl's eyes. "he told me he would not say good-by. and is that his real name, rené? no, it is not; i know that much." rené smiled. "some day," he said, "i shall tell you." in a few minutes came his honor, mr. justice wilson, saying: "i feared to be late. madame," to margaret, "here is a remembrance for you from our friend." "oh, open it!" she cried. "ah, if only he were here!" there was a card. it said, "within is my kiss of parting," and as she stood in her bridal dress, rené fastened the necklace of great pearls about her neck, while madame de courval looked on in wonder at the princely gift. then the judge, taking them aside into schmidt's room, said: "i am to give you, vicomte, these papers which make you for your wife the trustee of our friend's estate, a large one, as you may know. my congratulations, vicomtesse." "he told me!" said margaret. "he told me, rené." she was too moved to say more. in an hour, for this was not a time of wedding breakfasts, they were on their way to cliveden, which chief-justice chew had lent for their honeymoon. * * * * * so ends my story, and thus i part with these, the children of my mind. many of them lived, and have left their names in our history; others, perhaps even more real to me, i dismiss with regret, to become for me, as time runs on, but remembered phantoms of the shadow world of fiction. _l'envoi_ before de courval and his wife returned to france, the directory had come and gone, the greatest of soldiers had taken on the rule, and the grave huguenot mother had gone to her grave in christ church yard. mrs. swanwick firmly refused to leave her country. "better, far better," she said, "margaret, that thou shouldst be without me. i shall live to see thee again and the children." in after years in penn's city men read of napoleon's soldier, general the comte de courval and of the american beauty at the emperor's court, while over their madeira the older men talked of the german gentleman who had been so long among them, and passed so mysteriously out of the knowledge of all. * * * * * transcriber's note: 1. all punctuation inconsistencies between the "list of illustrations" and the "illustrations" themselves have been retained as printed. 2. footnotes have been moved to the end of the paragraph where the footnote anchor appears. 3, punctuation corrections: p. 72, removed leading double quote (in the hall dr. chovet....) p. 121, changed comma to period (of what was to come.) p. 145, changed period to comma (will laugh, and soon it will be) p. 345, added closing quote ("...waiting in new york harbor.") p. 375, changed comma to period (i do not need anything.) p. 394, removed ending double quote (figure and the occasion.) p. 415, changed period to comma (i want of thee,) 4. spelling corrections: (number in parentheses) indicate the number of times the word was spelled correctly in the original text. p. 22, "mon dieu!" to "mon dieu!" (26) (translated: my god!) p. 73, "himslf" to "himself" (86) (he could avenge himself) p. 169, "mon dieu" to "mon dieu" (26) p. 275, "mon dieu!" to "mon dieu!" (26) p. 320, "angles" to "angels" (the angels find the marge) 5. word variations used in this text which have been retained: "ach" (unitalicized p. 1-95) and "ach" (always italicized thereafter) "a-foot" (1) and "afoot" (2) "appal" (1), "appalled" (4), "appalling" (2) "bed-room" (1) and "bedroom" (1) "candle-light" (1) and "candlelight" (2) "match-making" (1) and "matchmaking" (1) "practice" (2) and "practise(ed)" (2) "shakspere" (1) and "shakespeare" (2) "ship-master" (1) and "shipmaster" (1) "vandoo" (1) and "vendue" (1) (in w.e.d. "auction") "vendue-master" (1) and "vendue master" (1) 6. words using the [oe] ligature in the original text are: [oe]il de b[oe]uf, c[oe]ur, and man[oe]uvered. this ligature has been replaced with "oe". 7. general notes: all punctuation inconsistencies between the "list of illustrations" and the "illustrations" themselves have been retained as printed. p. 120, in the phrase (..., who will shew us) the capitalization of "who" after a comma has been retained as printed. used as a noun. the printer inconsistently italicized phrases and names. all have been retained as printed in the original text. arthur mervyn; or, memoirs of the year 1793. by charles brockden brown. "fielding, richardson, and scott occupied pedestals. in a niche was deposited the bust of our countryman, the author of 'arthur mervyn.'" nathaniel hawthorne. philadelphia: david mckay, publisher, 23 south ninth street. 1889. preface. the evils of pestilence by which this city has lately been afflicted will probably form an era in its history. the schemes of reformation and improvement to which they will give birth, or, if no efforts of human wisdom can avail to avert the periodical visitations of this calamity, the change in manners and population which they will produce, will be, in the highest degree, memorable. they have already supplied new and copious materials for reflection to the physician and the political economist. they have not been less fertile of instruction to the moral observer, to whom they have furnished new displays of the influence of human passions and motives. amidst the medical and political discussions which are now afloat in the community relative to this topic, the author of these remarks has ventured to methodize his own reflections, and to weave into an humble narrative such incidents as appeared to him most instructive and remarkable among those which came within the sphere of his own observation. it is every one's duty to profit by all opportunities of inculcating on mankind the lessons of justice and humanity. the influences of hope and fear, the trials of fortitude and constancy, which took place in this city in the autumn of 1793, have, perhaps, never been exceeded in any age. it is but just to snatch some of these from oblivion, and to deliver to posterity a brief but faithful sketch of the condition of this metropolis during that calamitous period. men only require to be made acquainted with distress for their compassion and their charity to be awakened. he that depicts, in lively colours, the evils of disease and poverty, performs an eminent service to the sufferers, by calling forth benevolence in those who are able to afford relief; and he who portrays examples of disinterestedness and intrepidity confers on virtue the notoriety and homage that are due to it, and rouses in the spectators the spirit of salutary emulation. in the following tale a particular series of adventures is brought to a close; but these are necessarily connected with the events which happened subsequent to the period here described. these events are not less memorable than those which form the subject of the present volume, and may hereafter be published, either separately or in addition to this. c.b.b. arthur mervyn. chapter i. i was resident in this city during the year 1793. many motives contributed to detain me, though departure was easy and commodious, and my friends were generally solicitous for me to go. it is not my purpose to enumerate these motives, or to dwell on my present concerns and transactions, but merely to compose a narrative of some incidents with which my situation made me acquainted. returning one evening, somewhat later than usual, to my own house, my attention was attracted, just as i entered the porch, by the figure of a man reclining against the wall at a few paces distant. my sight was imperfectly assisted by a far-off lamp; but the posture in which he sat, the hour, and the place, immediately suggested the idea of one disabled by sickness. it was obvious to conclude that his disease was pestilential. this did not deter me from approaching and examining him more closely. he leaned his head against the wall; his eyes were shut, his hands clasped in each other, and his body seemed to be sustained in an upright position merely by the cellar-door against which he rested his left shoulder. the lethargy into which he was sunk seemed scarcely interrupted by my feeling his hand and his forehead. his throbbing temples and burning skin indicated a fever, and his form, already emaciated, seemed to prove that it had not been of short duration. there was only one circumstance that hindered me from forming an immediate determination in what manner this person should be treated. my family consisted of my wife and a young child. our servant-maid had been seized, three days before, by the reigning malady, and, at her own request, had been conveyed to the hospital. we ourselves enjoyed good health, and were hopeful of escaping with our lives. our measures for this end had been cautiously taken and carefully adhered to. they did not consist in avoiding the receptacles of infection, for my office required me to go daily into the midst of them; nor in filling the house with the exhalations of gunpowder, vinegar, or tar. they consisted in cleanliness, reasonable exercise, and wholesome diet. custom had likewise blunted the edge of our apprehensions. to take this person into my house, and bestow upon him the requisite attendance, was the scheme that first occurred to me. in this, however, the advice of my wife was to govern me. i mentioned the incident to her. i pointed out the danger which was to be dreaded from such an inmate. i desired her to decide with caution, and mentioned my resolution to conform myself implicitly to her decision. should we refuse to harbour him, we must not forget that there was a hospital to which he would, perhaps, consent to be carried, and where he would be accommodated in the best manner the times would admit. "nay," said she, "talk not of hospitals. at least, let him have his choice. i have no fear about me, for my part, in a case where the injunctions of duty are so obvious. let us take the poor, unfortunate wretch into our protection and care, and leave the consequences to heaven." i expected and was pleased with this proposal. i returned to the sick man, and, on rousing him from his stupor, found him still in possession of his reason. with a candle near, i had an opportunity of viewing him more accurately. his garb was plain, careless, and denoted rusticity. his aspect was simple and ingenuous, and his decayed visage still retained traces of uncommon but manlike beauty. he had all the appearances of mere youth, unspoiled by luxury and uninured to misfortune. i scarcely ever beheld an object which laid so powerful and sudden a claim to my affection and succour. "you are sick," said i, in as cheerful a tone as i could assume. "cold bricks and night-airs are comfortless attendants for one in your condition. rise, i pray you, and come into the house. we will try to supply you with accommodations a little more suitable." at this address he fixed his languid eyes upon me. "what would you have?" said he. "i am very well as i am. while i breathe, which will not be long, i shall breathe with more freedom here than elsewhere. let me alone--i am very well as i am." "nay," said i, "this situation is unsuitable to a sick man. i only ask you to come into my house, and receive all the kindness that it is in our power to bestow. pluck up courage, and i will answer for your recovery, provided you submit to directions, and do as we would have you. rise, and come along with me. we will find you a physician and a nurse, and all we ask in return is good spirits and compliance." "do you not know," he replied, "what my disease is? why should you risk your safety for the sake of one whom your kindness cannot benefit, and who has nothing to give in return?" there was something in the style of this remark, that heightened my prepossession in his favour, and made me pursue my purpose with more zeal. "let us try what we can do for you," i answered. "if we save your life, we shall have done you some service, and, as for recompense, we will look to that." it was with considerable difficulty that he was persuaded to accept our invitation. he was conducted to a chamber, and, the criticalness of his case requiring unusual attention, i spent the night at his bedside. my wife was encumbered with the care both of her infant and her family. the charming babe was in perfect health, but her mother's constitution was frail and delicate. we simplified the household duties as much as possible, but still these duties were considerably burdensome to one not used to the performance, and luxuriously educated. the addition of a sick man was likely to be productive of much fatigue. my engagements would not allow me to be always at home, and the state of my patient, and the remedies necessary to be prescribed, were attended with many noxious and disgustful circumstances. my fortune would not allow me to hire assistance. my wife, with a feeble frame and a mind shrinking, on ordinary occasions, from such offices, with fastidious scrupulousness, was to be his only or principal nurse. my neighbours were fervent in their well-meant zeal, and loud in their remonstrances on the imprudence and rashness of my conduct. they called me presumptuous and cruel in exposing my wife and child, as well as myself, to such imminent hazard, for the sake of one, too, who most probably was worthless, and whose disease had doubtless been, by negligence or mistreatment, rendered incurable. i did not turn a deaf ear to these censurers. i was aware of all the inconveniences and perils to which i thus spontaneously exposed myself. no one knew better the value of that woman whom i called mine, or set a higher price upon her life, her health, and her ease. the virulence and activity of this contagion, the dangerous condition of my patient, and the dubiousness of his character, were not forgotten by me; but still my conduct in this affair received my own entire approbation. all objections on the score of my friends were removed by her own willingness and even solicitude to undertake the province. i had more confidence than others in the vincibility of this disease, and in the success of those measures which we had used for our defence against it. but, whatever were the evils to accrue to us, we were sure of one thing: namely, that the consciousness of having neglected this unfortunate person would be a source of more unhappiness than could possibly redound from the attendance and care that he would claim. the more we saw of him, indeed, the more did we congratulate ourselves on our proceeding. his torments were acute and tedious; but, in the midst even of delirium, his heart seemed to overflow with gratitude, and to be actuated by no wish but to alleviate our toil and our danger. he made prodigious exertions to perform necessary offices for himself. he suppressed his feelings and struggled to maintain a cheerful tone and countenance, that he might prevent that anxiety which the sight of his sufferings produced in us. he was perpetually furnishing reasons why his nurse should leave him alone, and betrayed dissatisfaction whenever she entered his apartment. in a few days, there were reasons to conclude him out of danger; and, in a fortnight, nothing but exercise and nourishment were wanting to complete his restoration. meanwhile nothing was obtained from him but general information, that his place of abode was chester county, and that some momentous engagement induced him to hazard his safety by coming to the city in the height of the epidemic. he was far from being talkative. his silence seemed to be the joint result of modesty and unpleasing remembrances. his features were characterized by pathetic seriousness, and his deportment by a gravity very unusual at his age. according to his own representation, he was no more than eighteen years old, but the depth of his remarks indicated a much greater advance. his name was arthur mervyn. he described himself as having passed his life at the plough-tail and the threshing-floor; as being destitute of all scholastic instruction; and as being long since bereft of the affectionate regards of parents and kinsmen. when questioned as to the course of life which he meant to pursue upon his recovery, he professed himself without any precise object. he was willing to be guided by the advice of others, and by the lights which experience should furnish. the country was open to him, and he supposed that there was no part of it in which food could not be purchased by his labour. he was unqualified, by his education, for any liberal profession. his poverty was likewise an insuperable impediment. he could afford to spend no time in the acquisition of a trade. he must labour, not for future emolument, but for immediate subsistence. the only pursuit which his present circumstances would allow him to adopt was that which, he was inclined to believe, was likewise the most eligible. without doubt his experience was slender, and it seemed absurd to pronounce concerning that of which he had no direct knowledge; but so it was, he could not outroot from his mind the persuasion that to plough, to sow, and to reap, were employments most befitting a reasonable creature, and from which the truest pleasure and the least pollution would flow. he contemplated no other scheme than to return, as soon as his health should permit, into the country, seek employment where it was to be had, and acquit himself in his engagements with fidelity and diligence. i pointed out to him various ways in which the city might furnish employment to one with his qualifications. he had said that he was somewhat accustomed to the pen. there were stations in which the possession of a legible hand was all that was requisite. he might add to this a knowledge of accounts, and thereby procure himself a post in some mercantile or public office. to this he objected, that experience had shown him unfit for the life of a penman. this had been his chief occupation for a little while, and he found it wholly incompatible with his health. he must not sacrifice the end for the means. starving was a disease preferable to consumption. besides, he laboured merely for the sake of living, and he lived merely for the sake of pleasure. if his tasks should enable him to live, but, at the same time, bereave him of all satisfaction, they inflicted injury, and were to be shunned as worse evils than death. i asked to what species of pleasure he alluded, with which the business of a clerk was inconsistent. he answered that he scarcely knew how to describe it. he read books when they came in his way. he had lighted upon few, and, perhaps, the pleasure they afforded him was owing to their fewness; yet he confessed that a mode of life which entirely forbade him to read was by no means to his taste. but this was trivial. he knew how to value the thoughts of other people, but he could not part with the privilege of observing and thinking for himself. he wanted business which would suffer at least nine-tenths of his attention to go free. if it afforded agreeable employment to that part of his attention which it applied to its own use, so much the better; but, if it did not, he should not repine. he should be content with a life whose pleasures were to its pains as nine are to one. he had tried the trade of a copyist, and in circumstances more favourable than it was likely he should ever again have an opportunity of trying it, and he had found that it did not fulfil the requisite conditions. whereas the trade of ploughman was friendly to health, liberty, and pleasure. the pestilence, if it may so be called, was now declining. the health of my young friend allowed him to breathe the fresh air and to walk. a friend of mine, by name wortley, who had spent two months from the city, and to whom, in the course of a familiar correspondence, i had mentioned the foregoing particulars, returned from his rural excursion. he was posting, on the evening of the day of his arrival, with a friendly expedition, to my house, when he overtook mervyn going in the same direction. he was surprised to find him go before him into my dwelling, and to discover, which he speedily did, that this was the youth whom i had so frequently mentioned to him. i was present at their meeting. there was a strange mixture in the countenance of wortley when they were presented to each other. his satisfaction was mingled with surprise, and his surprise with anger. mervyn, in his turn, betrayed considerable embarrassment. wortley's thoughts were too earnest on some topic to allow him to converse. he shortly made some excuse for taking leave, and, rising, addressed himself to the youth with a request that he would walk home with him. this invitation, delivered in a tone which left it doubtful whether a compliment or menace were meant, augmented mervyn's confusion. he complied without speaking, and they went out together;--my wife and i were left to comment upon the scene. it could not fail to excite uneasiness. they were evidently no strangers to each other. the indignation that flashed from the eyes of wortley, and the trembling consciousness of mervyn, were unwelcome tokens. the former was my dearest friend, and venerable for his discernment and integrity. the latter appeared to have drawn upon himself the anger and disdain of this man. we already anticipated the shock which the discovery of his unworthiness would produce. in a half-hour mervyn returned. his embarrassment had given place to dejection. he was always serious, but his features were now overcast by the deepest gloom. the anxiety which i felt would not allow me to hesitate long. "arthur," said i, "something is the matter with you. will you not disclose it to us? perhaps you have brought yourself into some dilemma out of which we may help you to escape. has any thing of an unpleasant nature passed between you and wortley?" the youth did not readily answer. he seemed at a loss for a suitable reply. at length he said that something disagreeable had indeed passed between him and wortley. he had had the misfortune to be connected with a man by whom wortley conceived himself to be injured. he had borne no part in inflicting this injury, but had nevertheless been threatened with ill treatment if he did not make disclosures which, indeed, it was in his power to make, but which he was bound, by every sanction, to withhold. this disclosure would be of no benefit to wortley. it would rather operate injuriously than otherwise; yet it was endeavoured to be wrested from him by the heaviest menaces. there he paused. we were naturally inquisitive as to the scope of these menaces; but mervyn entreated us to forbear any further discussion of this topic. he foresaw the difficulties to which his silence would subject him. one of its most fearful consequences would be the loss of our good opinion. he knew not what he had to dread from the enmity of wortley. mr. wortley's violence was not without excuse. it was his mishap to be exposed to suspicions which could only be obviated by breaking his faith. but, indeed, he knew not whether any degree of explicitness would confute the charges that were made against him; whether, by trampling on his sacred promise, he should not multiply his perils instead of lessening their number. a difficult part had been assigned to him; by much too difficult for one young, improvident, and inexperienced as he was. sincerity, perhaps, was the best course. perhaps, after having had an opportunity for deliberation, he should conclude to adopt it; meanwhile he entreated permission to retire to his chamber. he was unable to exclude from his mind ideas which yet could, with no propriety, at least at present, be made the theme of conversation. these words were accompanied with simplicity and pathos, and with tokens of unaffected distress. "arthur," said i, "you are master of your actions and time in this house. retire when you please; but you will naturally suppose us anxious to dispel this mystery. whatever shall tend to obscure or malign your character will of course excite our solicitude. wortley is not short-sighted or hasty to condemn. so great is my confidence in his integrity that i will not promise my esteem to one who has irrecoverably lost that of wortley. i am not acquainted with your motives to concealment, or what it is you conceal; but take the word of one who possesses that experience which you complain of wanting, that sincerity is always safest." as soon as he had retired, my curiosity prompted me to pay an immediate visit to wortley. i found him at home. he was no less desirous of an interview, and answered my inquiries with as much eagerness as they were made. "you know," said he, "my disastrous connection with thomas welbeck. you recollect his sudden disappearance last july, by which i was reduced to the brink of ruin. nay, i am, even now, far from certain that i shall survive that event. i spoke to you about the youth who lived with him, and by what means that youth was discovered to have crossed the river in his company on the night of his departure. this is that very youth. "this will account for my emotion at meeting him at your house; i brought him out with me. his confusion sufficiently indicated his knowledge of transactions between welbeck and me. i questioned him as to the fate of that man. to own the truth, i expected some well-digested lie; but he merely said that he had promised secrecy on that subject, and must therefore be excused from giving me any information. i asked him if he knew that his master, or accomplice, or whatever was his relation to him, absconded in my debt? he answered that he knew it well; but still pleaded a promise of inviolable secrecy as to his hiding-place. this conduct justly exasperated me, and i treated him with the severity which he deserved. i am half ashamed to confess the excesses of my passion; i even went so far as to strike him. he bore my insults with the utmost patience. no doubt the young villain is well instructed in his lesson. he knows that he may safely defy my power. from threats i descended to entreaties. i even endeavoured to wind the truth from him by artifice. i promised him a part of the debt if he would enable me to recover the whole. i offered him a considerable reward if he would merely afford me a clue by which i might trace him to his retreat; but all was insufficient. he merely put on an air of perplexity and shook his head in token of non-compliance." such was my friend's account of this interview. his suspicions were unquestionably plausible; but i was disposed to put a more favourable construction on mervyn's behaviour. i recollected the desolate and penniless condition in which i found him, and the uniform complacency and rectitude of his deportment for the period during which we had witnessed it. these ideas had considerable influence on my judgment, and indisposed me to follow the advice of my friend, which was to turn him forth from my doors that very night. my wife's prepossessions were still more powerful advocates of this youth. she would vouch, she said, before any tribunal, for his innocence; but she willingly concurred with me in allowing him the continuance of our friendship on no other condition than that of a disclosure of the truth. to entitle ourselves to this confidence we were willing to engage, in our turn, for the observance of secrecy, so far that no detriment should accrue from this disclosure to himself or his friend. next morning, at breakfast, our guest appeared with a countenance less expressive of embarrassment than on the last evening. his attention was chiefly engaged by his own thoughts, and little was said till the breakfast was removed. i then reminded him of the incidents of the former day, and mentioned that the uneasiness which thence arose to us had rather been increased than diminished by time. "it is in your power, my young friend," continued i, "to add still more to this uneasiness, or to take it entirely away. i had no personal acquaintance with thomas welbeck. i have been informed by others that his character, for a certain period, was respectable, but that, at length, he contracted large debts, and, instead of paying them, absconded. you, it seems, lived with him. on the night of his departure you are known to have accompanied him across the river, and this, it seems, is the first of your reappearance on the stage. welbeck's conduct was dishonest. he ought doubtless to be pursued to his asylum and be compelled to refund his winnings. you confess yourself to know his place of refuge, but urge a promise of secrecy. know you not that to assist or connive at the escape of this man was wrong? to have promised to favour his concealment and impunity by silence was only an aggravation of this wrong. that, however, is past. your youth, and circumstances, hitherto unexplained, may apologize for that misconduct; but it is certainly your duty to repair it to the utmost of your power. think whether, by disclosing what you know, you will not repair it." "i have spent most of last night," said the youth, "in reflecting on this subject. i had come to a resolution, before you spoke, of confiding to you my simple tale. i perceive in what circumstances i am placed, and that i can keep my hold of your good opinion only by a candid deportment. i have indeed given a promise which it was wrong, or rather absurd, in another to exact, and in me to give; yet none but considerations of the highest importance would persuade me to break my promise. no injury will accrue from my disclosure to welbeck. if there should, dishonest as he was, that would be a sufficient reason for my silence. wortley will not, in any degree, be benefited by any communication that i can make. whether i grant or withhold information, my conduct will have influence only on my own happiness, and that influence will justify me in granting it. "i received your protection when i was friendless and forlorn. you have a right to know whom it is that you protected. my own fate is connected with the fate of welbeck, and that connection, together with the interest you are pleased to take in my concerns, because they are mine, will render a tale worthy of attention which will not be recommended by variety of facts or skill in the display of them. "wortley, though passionate, and, with regard to me, unjust, may yet be a good man; but i have no desire to make him one of my auditors. you, sir, may, if you think proper, relate to him afterwards what particulars concerning welbeck it may be of importance for him to know; but at present it will be well if your indulgence shall support me to the end of a tedious but humble tale." the eyes of my eliza sparkled with delight at this proposal. she regarded this youth with a sisterly affection, and considered his candour, in this respect, as an unerring test of his rectitude. she was prepared to hear and to forgive the errors of inexperience and precipitation. i did not fully participate in her satisfaction, but was nevertheless most zealously disposed to listen to his narrative. my engagements obliged me to postpone this rehearsal till late in the evening. collected then round a cheerful hearth, exempt from all likelihood of interruption from without, and our babe's unpractised senses shut up in the sweetest and profoundest sleep, mervyn, after a pause of recollection, began. chapter ii. my natal soil is chester county. my father had a small farm, on which he has been able, by industry, to maintain himself and a numerous family. he has had many children, but some defect in the constitution of our mother has been fatal to all of them but me. they died successively as they attained the age of nineteen or twenty, and, since i have not yet reached that age, i may reasonably look for the same premature fate. in the spring of last year my mother followed her fifth child to the grave, and three months afterwards died herself. my constitution has always been frail, and, till the death of my mother, i enjoyed unlimited indulgence. i cheerfully sustained my portion of labour, for that necessity prescribed; but the intervals were always at my own disposal, and, in whatever manner i thought proper to employ them, my plans were encouraged and assisted. fond appellations, tones of mildness, solicitous attendance when i was sick, deference to my opinions, and veneration for my talents, compose the image which i still retain of my mother. i had the thoughtlessness and presumption of youth, and, now that she is gone, my compunction is awakened by a thousand recollections of my treatment of her. i was indeed guilty of no flagrant acts of contempt or rebellion. perhaps her deportment was inevitably calculated to instil into me a froward and refractory spirit. my faults, however, were speedily followed by repentance, and, in the midst of impatience and passion, a look of tender upbraiding from her was always sufficient to melt me into tears and make me ductile to her will. if sorrow for her loss be an atonement for the offences which i committed during her life, ample atonement has been made. my father is a man of slender capacity, but of a temper easy and flexible. he was sober and industrious by habit. he was content to be guided by the superior intelligence of his wife. under this guidance he prospered; but, when that was withdrawn, his affairs soon began to betray marks of unskilfulness and negligence. my understanding, perhaps, qualified me to counsel and assist my father, but i was wholly unaccustomed to the task of superintendence. besides, gentleness and fortitude did not descend to me from my mother, and these were indispensable attributes in a boy who desires to dictate to his gray-headed parent. time, perhaps, might have conferred dexterity on me, or prudence on him, had not a most unexpected event given a different direction to my views. betty lawrence was a wild girl from the pine-forests of new jersey. at the age of ten years she became a bound servant in this city, and, after the expiration of her time, came into my father's neighbourhood in search of employment. she was hired in our family as milkmaid and market-woman. her features were coarse, her frame robust, her mind totally unlettered, and her morals defective in that point in which female excellence is supposed chiefly to consist. she possessed super-abundant health and good-humour, and was quite a supportable companion in the hay-field or the barnyard. on the death of my mother, she was exalted to a somewhat higher station. the same tasks fell to her lot; but the time and manner of performing them were, in some degree, submitted to her own choice. the cows and the dairy were still her province; but in this no one interfered with her or pretended to prescribe her measures. for this province she seemed not unqualified, and, as long as my father was pleased with her management, i had nothing to object. this state of things continued, without material variation, for several months. there were appearances in my father's deportment to betty, which excited my reflections, but not my fears. the deference which was occasionally paid to the advice or the claims of this girl was accounted for by that feebleness of mind which degraded my father, in whatever scene he should be placed, to be the tool of others. i had no conception that her claims extended beyond a temporary or superficial gratification. at length, however, a visible change took place in her manners. a scornful affectation and awkward dignity began to be assumed. a greater attention was paid to dress, which was of gayer hues and more fashionable texture. i rallied her on these tokens of a sweetheart, and amused myself with expatiating to her on the qualifications of her lover. a clownish fellow was frequently her visitant. his attentions did not appear to be discouraged. he therefore was readily supposed to be the man. when pointed out as the favourite, great resentment was expressed, and obscure insinuations were made that her aim was not quite so low as that. these denials i supposed to be customary on such occasions, and considered the continuance of his visits as a sufficient confutation of them. i frequently spoke of betty, her newly-acquired dignity, and of the probable cause of her change of manners, to my father. when this theme was started, a certain coldness and reserve overspread his features. he dealt in monosyllables, and either laboured to change the subject or made some excuse for leaving me. this behaviour, though it occasioned surprise, was never very deeply reflected on. my father was old, and the mournful impressions which were made upon him by the death of his wife, the lapse of almost half a year seemed scarcely to have weakened. betty had chosen her partner, and i was in daily expectation of receiving a summons to the wedding. one afternoon this girl dressed herself in the gayest manner and seemed making preparations for some momentous ceremony. my father had directed me to put the horse to the chaise. on my inquiring whither he was going, he answered me, in general terms, that he had some business at a few miles' distance. i offered to go in his stead, but he said that was impossible. i was proceeding to ascertain the possibility of this when he left me to go to a field where his workmen were busy, directing me to inform him when the chaise was ready, to supply his place, while absent, in overlooking the workmen. this office was performed; but before i called him from the field i exchanged a few words with the milkmaid, who sat on a bench, in all the primness of expectation, and decked with the most gaudy plumage. i rated her imaginary lover for his tardiness, and vowed eternal hatred to them both for not making me a bride's attendant. she listened to me with an air in which embarrassment was mingled sometimes with exultation and sometimes with malice. i left her at length, and returned to the house not till a late hour. as soon as i entered, my father presented betty to me as his wife, and desired she might receive that treatment from me which was due to a mother. it was not till after repeated and solemn declarations from both of them that i was prevailed upon to credit this event. its effect upon my feelings may be easily conceived. i knew the woman to be rude, ignorant, and licentious. had i suspected this event, i might have fortified my father's weakness and enabled him to shun the gulf to which he was tending; but my presumption had been careless of the danger. to think that such a one should take the place of my revered mother was intolerable. to treat her in any way not squaring with her real merits; to hinder anger and scorn from rising at the sight of her in her new condition, was not in my power. to be degraded to the rank of her servant, to become the sport of her malice and her artifices, was not to be endured. i had no independent provision; but i was the only child of my father, and had reasonably hoped to succeed to his patrimony. on this hope i had built a thousand agreeable visions. i had meditated innumerable projects which the possession of this estate would enable me to execute. i had no wish beyond the trade of agriculture, and beyond the opulence which a hundred acres would give. these visions were now at an end. no doubt her own interest would be, to this woman, the supreme law, and this would be considered as irreconcilably hostile to mine. my father would easily be moulded to her purpose, and that act easily extorted from him which should reduce me to beggary. she had a gross and perverse taste. she had a numerous kindred, indigent and hungry. on these his substance would speedily be lavished. me she hated, because she was conscious of having injured me, because she knew that i held her in contempt, and because i had detected her in an illicit intercourse with the son of a neighbour. the house in which i lived was no longer my own, nor even my father's. hitherto i had thought and acted in it with the freedom of a master; but now i was become, in my own conceptions, an alien and an enemy to the roof under which i was born. every tie which had bound me to it was dissolved or converted into something which repelled me to a distance from it. i was a guest whose presence was borne with anger and impatience. i was fully impressed with the necessity of removal, but i knew not whither to go, or what kind of subsistence to seek. my father had been a scottish emigrant, and had no kindred on this side of the ocean. my mother's family lived in new hampshire, and long separation had extinguished all the rights of relationship in her offspring. tilling the earth was my only profession, and, to profit by my skill in it, it would be necessary to become a day-labourer in the service of strangers; but this was a destiny to which i, who had so long enjoyed the pleasures of independence and command, could not suddenly reconcile myself. it occurred to me that the city might afford me an asylum. a short day's journey would transport me into it. i had been there twice or thrice in my life, but only for a few hours each time. i knew not a human face, and was a stranger to its modes and dangers. i was qualified for no employment, compatible with a town life, but that of the pen. this, indeed, had ever been a favourite tool with me; and, though it may appear somewhat strange, it is no less true that i had had nearly as much practice at the quill as at the mattock. but the sum of my skill lay in tracing distinct characters. i had used it merely to transcribe what others had written, or to give form to my own conceptions. whether the city would afford me employment, as a mere copyist, sufficiently lucrative, was a point on which i possessed no means of information. my determination was hastened by the conduct of my new mother. my conjectures as to the course she would pursue with regard to me had not been erroneous. my father's deportment, in a short time, grew sullen and austere. directions were given in a magisterial tone, and any remissness in the execution of his orders was rebuked with an air of authority. at length these rebukes were followed by certain intimations that i was now old enough to provide for myself; that it was time to think of some employment by which i might secure a livelihood; that it was a shame for me to spend my youth in idleness; that what he had gained was by his own labour; and i must be indebted for my living to the same source. these hints were easily understood. at first, they excited indignation and grief. i knew the source whence they sprung, and was merely able to suppress the utterance of my feelings in her presence. my looks, however, were abundantly significant, and my company became hourly more insupportable. abstracted from these considerations, my father's remonstrances were not destitute of weight. he gave me being, but sustenance ought surely to be my own gift. in the use of that for which he had been indebted to his own exertions, he might reasonably consult his own choice. he assumed no control over me; he merely did what he would with his own, and, so far from fettering my liberty, he exhorted me to use it for my own benefit, and to make provision for myself. i now reflected that there were other manual occupations besides that of the plough. among these none had fewer disadvantages than that of carpenter or cabinet-maker. i had no knowledge of this art; but neither custom, nor law, nor the impenetrableness of the mystery, required me to serve a seven years' apprenticeship to it. a master in this trade might possibly be persuaded to take me under his tuition; two or three years would suffice to give me the requisite skill. meanwhile my father would, perhaps, consent to bear the cost of my maintenance. nobody could live upon less than i was willing to do. i mentioned these ideas to my father; but he merely commended my intentions without offering to assist me in the execution of them. he had full employment, he said, for all the profits of his ground. no doubt, if i would bind myself to serve four or five years, my master would be at the expense of my subsistence. be that as it would, i must look for nothing from him. i had shown very little regard for his happiness; i had refused all marks of respect to a woman who was entitled to it from her relation to him. he did not see why he should treat as a son one who refused what was due to him as a father. he thought it right that i should henceforth maintain myself. he did not want my services on the farm, and the sooner i quitted his house the better. i retired from this conference with a resolution to follow the advice that was given. i saw that henceforth i must be my own protector, and wondered at the folly that detained me so long under his roof. to leave it was now become indispensable, and there could be no reason for delaying my departure for a single hour. i determined to bend my course to the city. the scheme foremost in my mind was to apprentice myself to some mechanical trade. i did not overlook the evils of constraint and the dubiousness as to the character of the master i should choose. i was not without hopes that accident would suggest a different expedient, and enable me to procure an immediate subsistence without forfeiting my liberty. i determined to commence my journey the next morning. no wonder the prospect of so considerable a change in my condition should deprive me of sleep. i spent the night ruminating on the future, and in painting to my fancy the adventures which i should be likely to meet. the foresight of man is in proportion to his knowledge. no wonder that, in my state of profound ignorance, not the faintest preconception should be formed of the events that really befell me. my temper was inquisitive, but there was nothing in the scene to which i was going from which my curiosity expected to derive gratification. discords and evil smells, unsavoury food, unwholesome labour, and irksome companions, were, in my opinion, the unavoidable attendants of a city. my best clothes were of the homeliest texture and shape. my whole stock of linen consisted of three check shirts. part of my winter evenings' employment, since the death of my mother, consisted in knitting my own stockings. of these i had three pair, one of which i put on, and the rest i formed, together with two shirts, into a bundle. three quarter-dollar pieces composed my whole fortune in money. chapter iii. i rose at the dawn, and, without asking or bestowing a blessing, sallied forth into the highroad to the city, which passed near the house. i left nothing behind, the loss of which i regretted. i had purchased most of my own books with the product of my own separate industry, and, their number being, of course, small, i had, by incessant application, gotten the whole of them by rote. they had ceased, therefore, to be of any further use. i left them, without reluctance, to the fate for which i knew them to be reserved, that of affording food and habitation to mice. i trod this unwonted path with all the fearlessness of youth. in spite of the motives to despondency and apprehension incident to my state, my heels were light and my heart joyous. "now," said i, "i am mounted into man. i must build a name and a fortune for myself. strange if this intellect and these hands will not supply me with an honest livelihood. i will try the city in the first place; but, if that should fail, resources are still left to me. i will resume my post in the cornfield and threshing-floor, to which i shall always have access, and where i shall always be happy." i had proceeded some miles on my journey, when i began to feel the inroads of hunger. i might have stopped at any farm-house, and have breakfasted for nothing. it was prudent to husband, with the utmost care, my slender stock; but i felt reluctance to beg as long as i had the means of buying, and i imagined that coarse bread and a little milk would cost little even at a tavern, when any farmer was willing to bestow them for nothing. my resolution was further influenced by the appearance of a signpost. what excuse could i make for begging a breakfast with an inn at hand and silver in my pocket? i stopped, accordingly, and breakfasted. the landlord was remarkably attentive and obliging, but his bread was stale, his milk sour, and his cheese the greenest imaginable. i disdained to animadvert on these defects, naturally supposing that his house could furnish no better. having finished my meal, i put, without speaking, one of my pieces into his hand. this deportment i conceived to be highly becoming, and to indicate a liberal and manly spirit. i always regarded with contempt a scrupulous maker of bargains. he received the money with a complaisant obeisance. "right," said he. "_just_ the money, sir. you are on foot, sir. a pleasant way of travelling, sir. i wish you a good day, sir." so saying, he walked away. this proceeding was wholly unexpected. i conceived myself entitled to at least three-fourths of it in change. the first impulse was to call him back, and contest the equity of his demand; but a moment's reflection showed me the absurdity of such conduct. i resumed my journey with spirits somewhat depressed. i have heard of voyagers and wanderers in deserts, who were willing to give a casket of gems for a cup of cold water. i had not supposed my own condition to be, in any respect, similar; yet i had just given one-third of my estate for a breakfast. i stopped at noon at another inn. i counted on purchasing a dinner for the same price, since i meant to content myself with the same fare. a large company was just sitting down to a smoking banquet. the landlord invited me to join them. i took my place at the table, but was furnished with bread and milk. being prepared to depart, i took him aside. "what is to pay?" said i.--"did you drink any thing, sir?"--"certainly. i drank the milk which was furnished."--"but any liquors, sir?"---"no." he deliberated a moment, and then, assuming an air of disinterestedness, "'tis our custom to charge dinner and club; but, as you drank nothing, we'll let the club go. a mere dinner is half a dollar, sir." he had no leisure to attend to my fluctuations. after debating with myself on what was to be done, i concluded that compliance was best, and, leaving the money at the bar, resumed my way. i had not performed more than half my journey, yet my purse was entirely exhausted. this was a specimen of the cost incurred by living at an inn. if i entered the city, a tavern must, at least for some time, be my abode; but i had not a farthing remaining to defray my charges. my father had formerly entertained a boarder for a dollar per week, and, in case of need, i was willing to subsist upon coarser fare and lie on a harder bed than those with which our guest had been supplied. these facts had been the foundation of my negligence on this occasion. what was now to be done? to return to my paternal mansion was impossible. to relinquish my design of entering the city and to seek a temporary asylum, if not permanent employment, at some one of the plantations within view, was the most obvious expedient. these deliberations did not slacken my pace. i was almost unmindful of my way, when i found i had passed schuylkill at the upper bridge. i was now within the precincts of the city, and night was hastening. it behooved me to come to a speedy decision. suddenly i recollected that i had not paid the customary toll at the bridge; neither had i money wherewith to pay it. a demand of payment would have suddenly arrested my progress; and so slight an incident would have precluded that wonderful destiny to which i was reserved. the obstacle that would have hindered my advance now prevented my return. scrupulous honesty did not require me to turn back and awaken the vigilance of the toll-gatherer. i had nothing to pay, and by returning i should only double my debt. "let it stand," said i, "where it does. all that honour enjoins is to pay when i am able." i adhered to the crossways, till i reached market street. night had fallen, and a triple row of lamps presented a spectacle enchanting and new. my personal cares were, for a time, lost in the tumultuous sensations with which i was now engrossed. i had never visited the city at this hour. when my last visit was paid, i was a mere child. the novelty which environed every object was, therefore, nearly absolute. i proceeded with more cautious steps, but was still absorbed in attention to passing objects. i reached the market-house, and, entering it, indulged myself in new delight and new wonder. i need not remark that our ideas of magnificence and splendour are merely comparative; yet you may be prompted to smile when i tell you that, in walking through this avenue, i, for a moment, conceived myself transported to the hall "pendent with many a row of starry lamps and blazing crescents fed by naphtha and asphaltos." that this transition from my homely and quiet retreat had been effected in so few hours wore the aspect of miracle or magic. i proceeded from one of these buildings to another, till i reached their termination in front street. here my progress was checked, and i sought repose to my weary limbs by seating myself on a stall. no wonder some fatigue was felt by me, accustomed as i was to strenuous exertions, since, exclusive of the minutes spent at breakfast and dinner, i had travelled fifteen hours and forty-five miles. i began now to reflect, with some earnestness, on my condition. i was a stranger, friendless and moneyless. i was unable to purchase food and shelter, and was wholly unused to the business of begging. hunger was the only serious inconvenience to which i was immediately exposed. i had no objection to spend the night in the spot where i then sat. i had no fear that my visions would be troubled by the officers of police. it was no crime to be without a home; but how should i supply my present cravings and the cravings of to-morrow? at length it occurred to me that one of our country neighbours was probably at this time in the city. he kept a store as well as cultivated a farm. he was a plain and well-meaning man, and, should i be so fortunate as to meet him, his superior knowledge of the city might be of essential benefit to me in my present forlorn circumstances. his generosity might likewise induce him to lend me so much as would purchase one meal. i had formed the resolution to leave the city next day, and was astonished at the folly that had led me into it; but, meanwhile, my physical wants must be supplied. where should i look for this man? in the course of conversation i recollected him to have referred to the place of his temporary abode. it was an inn; but the sign or the name of the keeper for some time withstood all my efforts to recall them. at length i lighted on the last. it was lesher's tavern. i immediately set out in search of it. after many inquiries, i at last arrived at the door. i was preparing to enter the house when i perceived that my bundle was gone. i had left it on the stall where i had been sitting. people were perpetually passing to and fro. it was scarcely possible not to have been noticed. no one that observed it would fail to make it his prey. yet it was of too much value to me to allow me to be governed by a bare probability. i resolved to lose not a moment in returning. with some difficulty i retraced my steps, but the bundle had disappeared. the clothes were, in themselves, of small value, but they constituted the whole of my wardrobe; and i now reflected that they were capable of being transmuted, by the pawn or sale of them, into food. there were other wretches as indigent as i was, and i consoled myself by thinking that my shirts and stockings might furnish a seasonable covering to their nakedness; but there was a relic concealed within this bundle, the loss of which could scarcely be endured by me. it was the portrait of a young man who died three years ago at my father's house, drawn by his own hand. he was discovered one morning in the orchard with many marks of insanity upon him. his air and dress bespoke some elevation of rank and fortune. my mother's compassion was excited, and, as his singularities were harmless, an asylum was afforded him, though he was unable to pay for it. he was constantly declaiming, in an incoherent manner, about some mistress who had proved faithless. his speeches seemed, however, like the rantings of an actor, to be rehearsed by rote or for the sake of exercise. he was totally careless of his person and health, and, by repeated negligences of this kind, at last contracted a fever of which he speedily died. the name which he assumed was clavering. he gave no distinct account of his family, but stated, in loose terms, that they were residents in england, high-born and wealthy. that they had denied him the woman whom he loved and banished him to america, under penalty of death if he should dare to return, and that they had refused him all means of subsistence in a foreign land. he predicted, in his wild and declamatory way, his own death. he was very skilful at the pencil, and drew this portrait a short time before his dissolution, presented it to me, and charged me to preserve it in remembrance of him. my mother loved the youth because he was amiable and unfortunate, and chiefly because she fancied a very powerful resemblance between his countenance and mine. i was too young to build affection on any rational foundation. i loved him, for whatever reason, with an ardour unusual at my age, and which this portrait had contributed to prolong and to cherish. in thus finally leaving my home, i was careful not to leave this picture behind. i wrapped it in paper in which a few elegiac stanzas were inscribed in my own hand, and with my utmost elegance of penmanship. i then placed it in a leathern case, which, for greater security, was deposited in the centre of my bundle. it will occur to you, perhaps, that it would be safer in some fold or pocket of the clothes which i wore. i was of a different opinion, and was now to endure the penalty of my error. it was in vain to heap execrations on my negligence, or to consume the little strength left to me in regrets. i returned once more to the tavern and made inquiries for mr. capper, the person whom i have just mentioned as my father's neighbour. i was informed that capper was now in town; that he had lodged, on the last night, at this house; that he had expected to do the same to-night, but a gentleman had called ten minutes ago, whose invitation to lodge with him to-night had been accepted. they had just gone out together. who, i asked, was the gentleman? the landlord had no knowledge of him; he knew neither his place of abode nor his name. was mr. capper expected to return hither in the morning? no; he had heard the stranger propose to mr. capper to go with him into the country to-morrow, and mr. capper, he believed, had assented. this disappointment was peculiarly severe. i had lost, by my own negligence, the only opportunity that would offer of meeting my friend. had even the recollection of my loss been postponed for three minutes, i should have entered the house, and a meeting would have been secured. i could discover no other expedient to obviate the present evil. my heart began now, for the first time, to droop. i looked back, with nameless emotions, on the days of my infancy. i called up the image of my mother. i reflected on the infatuation of my surviving parent, and the usurpation of the detestable betty, with horror. i viewed myself as the most calamitous and desolate of human beings. at this time i was sitting in the common room. there were others in the same apartment, lounging, or whistling, or singing. i noticed them not, but, leaning my head upon my hand, i delivered myself up to painful and intense meditation. from this i was roused by some one placing himself on the bench near me and addressing me thus:--"pray, sir, if you will excuse me, who was the person whom you were looking for just now? perhaps i can give you the information you want. if i can, you will be very welcome to it." i fixed my eyes with some eagerness on the person that spoke. he was a young man, expensively and fashionably dressed, whose mien was considerably prepossessing, and whose countenance bespoke some portion of discernment. i described to him the man whom i sought. "i am in search of the same man myself," said he, "but i expect to meet him here. he may lodge elsewhere, but he promised to meet me here at half after nine. i have no doubt he will fulfil his promise, so that you will meet the gentleman." i was highly gratified by this information, and thanked my informant with some degree of warmth. my gratitude he did not notice, but continued: "in order to beguile expectation, i have ordered supper; will you do me the favour to partake with me, unless indeed you have supped already?" i was obliged, somewhat awkwardly, to decline his invitation, conscious as i was that the means of payment were not in my power. he continued, however, to urge my compliance till at length it was, though reluctantly, yielded. my chief motive was the certainty of seeing capper. my new acquaintance was exceedingly conversible, but his conversation was chiefly characterized by frankness and good-humour. my reserve gradually diminished, and i ventured to inform him, in general terms, of my former condition and present views. he listened to my details with seeming attention, and commented on them with some judiciousness. his statements, however, tended to discourage me from remaining in the city. meanwhile the hour passed and capper did not appear. i noticed this circumstance to him with no little solicitude. he said that possibly he might have forgotten or neglected his engagement. his affair was not of the highest importance, and might be readily postponed to a future opportunity. he perceived that my vivacity was greatly damped by this intelligence. he importuned me to disclose the cause. he made himself very merry with my distress, when it was at length discovered. as to the expense of supper, i had partaken of it at his invitation; he therefore should of course be charged with it. as to lodging, he had a chamber and a bed, which he would insist upon my sharing with him. my faculties were thus kept upon the stretch of wonder. every new act of kindness in this man surpassed the fondest expectation that i had formed. i saw no reason why i should be treated with benevolence. i should have acted in the same manner if placed in the same circumstances; yet it appeared incongruous and inexplicable. i know whence my ideas of human nature were derived. they certainly were not the offspring of my own feelings. these would have taught me that interest and duty were blended in every act of generosity. i did not come into the world without my scruples and suspicions. i was more apt to impute kindnesses to sinister and hidden than to obvious and laudable motives. i paused to reflect upon the possible designs of this person. what end could be served by this behaviour? i was no subject of violence or fraud. i had neither trinket nor coin to stimulate the treachery of others. what was offered was merely lodging for the night. was this an act of such transcendent disinterestedness as to be incredible? my garb was meaner than that of my companion, but my intellectual accomplishments were at least upon a level with his. why should he be supposed to be insensible to my claims upon his kindness? i was a youth destitute of experience, money, and friends; but i was not devoid of all mental and personal endowments. that my merit should be discovered, even on such slender intercourse, had surely nothing in it that shocked belief. while i was thus deliberating, my new friend was earnest in his solicitations for my company. he remarked my hesitation, but ascribed it to a wrong cause. "come," said he, "i can guess your objections and can obviate them. you are afraid of being ushered into company; and people who have passed their lives like you have a wonderful antipathy to strange faces; but this is bedtime with our family, so that we can defer your introduction to them till to-morrow. we may go to our chamber without being seen by any but servants." i had not been aware of this circumstance. my reluctance flowed from a different cause, but, now that the inconveniences of ceremony were mentioned, they appeared to me of considerable weight. i was well pleased that they should thus be avoided, and consented to go along with him. we passed several streets and turned several corners. at last we turned into a kind of court which seemed to be chiefly occupied by stables. "we will go," said he, "by the back way into the house. we shall thus save ourselves the necessity of entering the parlour, where some of the family may still be." my companion was as talkative as ever, but said nothing from which i could gather any knowledge of the number, character, and condition of his family. chapter iv. we arrived at a brick wall, through which we passed by a gate into an extensive court or yard. the darkness would allow me to see nothing but outlines. compared with the pigmy dimensions of my father's wooden hovel, the buildings before me were of gigantic loftiness. the horses were here far more magnificently accommodated than i had been. by a large door we entered an elevated hall. "stay here," said he, "just while i fetch a light." he returned, bearing a candle, before i had time to ponder on my present situation. we now ascended a staircase, covered with painted canvas. no one whose inexperience is less than mine can imagine to himself the impressions made upon me by surrounding objects. the height to which this stair ascended, its dimensions, and its ornaments, appeared to me a combination of all that was pompous and superb. we stopped not till we had reached the third story. here my companion unlocked and led the way into a chamber. "this," said he, "is my room; permit me to welcome you into it." i had no time to examine this room before, by some accident, the candle was extinguished. "curse upon my carelessness!" said he. "i must go down again and light the candle. i will return in a twinkling. meanwhile you may undress yourself and go to bed." he went out, and, as i afterwards recollected, locked the door behind him. i was not indisposed to follow his advice, but my curiosity would first be gratified by a survey of the room. its height and spaciousness were imperfectly discernible by starlight, and by gleams from a street-lamp. the floor was covered with a carpet, the walls with brilliant hangings; the bed and windows were shrouded by curtains of a rich texture and glossy hues. hitherto i had merely read of these things. i knew them to be the decorations of opulence; and yet, as i viewed them, and remembered where and what i was on the same hour the preceding day, i could scarcely believe myself awake, or that my senses were not beguiled by some spell. "where," said i, "will this adventure terminate? i rise on the morrow with the dawn and speed into the country. when this night is remembered, how like a vision will it appear! if i tell the tale by a kitchen-fire, my veracity will be disputed. i shall be ranked with the story-tellers of shiraz and bagdad." though busied in these reflections, i was not inattentive to the progress of time. methought my companion was remarkably dilatory. he went merely to relight his candle, but certainly he might, during this time, have performed the operation ten times over. some unforeseen accident might occasion his delay. another interval passed, and no tokens of his coming. i began now to grow uneasy. i was unable to account for his detention. was not some treachery designed? i went to the door, and found that it was locked. this heightened my suspicions. i was alone, a stranger, in an upper room of the house. should my conductor have disappeared, by design or by accident, and some one of the family should find me here, what would be the consequence? should i not be arrested as a thief, and conveyed to prison? my transition from the street to this chamber would not be more rapid than my passage hence to a jail. these ideas struck me with panic. i revolved them anew, but they only acquired greater plausibility. no doubt i had been the victim of malicious artifice. inclination, however, conjured up opposite sentiments, and my fears began to subside. what motive, i asked, could induce a human being to inflict wanton injury? i could not account for his delay; but how numberless were the contingencies that might occasion it! i was somewhat comforted by these reflections, but the consolation they afforded was short-lived. i was listening with the utmost eagerness to catch the sound of a foot, when a noise was indeed heard, but totally unlike a step. it was human breath struggling, as it were, for passage. on the first effort of attention, it appeared like a groan. whence it arose i could not tell. he that uttered it was near; perhaps in the room. presently the same noise was again heard, and now i perceived that it came from the bed. it was accompanied with a motion like some one changing his posture. what i at first conceived to be a groan appeared now to be nothing more than the expiration of a sleeping man. what should i infer from this incident? my companion did not apprize me that the apartment was inhabited. was his imposture a jestful or a wicked one? there was no need to deliberate. there were no means of concealment or escape. the person would some time awaken and detect me. the interval would only be fraught with agony, and it was wise to shorten it. should i not withdraw the curtain, awake the person, and encounter at once all the consequences of my situation? i glided softly to the bed, when the thought occurred, may not the sleeper be a female? i cannot describe the mixture of dread and of shame which glowed in my veins. the light in which such a visitant would be probably regarded by a woman's fears, the precipitate alarms that might be given, the injury which i might unknowingly inflict or undeservedly suffer, threw my thoughts into painful confusion. my presence might pollute a spotless reputation, or furnish fuel to jealousy. still, though it were a female, would not less injury be done by gently interrupting her slumber? but the question of sex still remained to be decided. for this end i once more approached the bed, and drew aside the silk. the sleeper was a babe. this i discovered by the glimmer of a street-lamp. part of my solicitudes were now removed. it was plain that this chamber belonged to a nurse or a mother. she had not yet come to bed. perhaps it was a married pair, and their approach might be momently expected. i pictured to myself their entrance and my own detection. i could imagine no consequence that was not disastrous and horrible, and from which i would not at any price escape. i again examined the door, and found that exit by this avenue was impossible. there were other doors in this room. any practicable expedient in this extremity was to be pursued. one of these was bolted. i unfastened it and found a considerable space within. should i immure myself in this closet? i saw no benefit that would finally result from it. i discovered that there was a bolt on the inside, which would somewhat contribute to security. this being drawn, no one could enter without breaking the door. i had scarcely paused, when the long-expected sound of footsteps was heard in the entry. was it my companion, or a stranger? if it were the latter, i had not yet mustered courage sufficient to meet him. i cannot applaud the magnanimity of my proceeding; but no one can expect intrepid or judicious measures from one in my circumstances. i stepped into the closet, and closed the door. some one immediately after unlocked the chamber door. he was unattended with a light. the footsteps, as they moved along the carpet, could scarcely be heard. i waited impatiently for some token by which i might be governed. i put my ear to the keyhole, and at length heard a voice, but not that of my companion, exclaim, somewhat above a whisper, "smiling cherub! safe and sound, i see. would to god my experiment may succeed, and that thou mayest find a mother where i have found a wife!" there he stopped. he appeared to kiss the babe, and, presently retiring, locked the door after him. these words were capable of no consistent meaning. they served, at least, to assure me that i had been treacherously dealt with. this chamber, it was manifest, did not belong to my companion. i put up prayers to my deity that he would deliver me from these toils. what a condition was mine! immersed in palpable darkness! shut up in this unknown recess! lurking like a robber! my meditations were disturbed by new sounds. the door was unlocked, more than one person entered the apartment, and light streamed through the keyhole. i looked; but the aperture was too small and the figures passed too quickly to permit me the sight of them. i bent my ear, and this imparted some more authentic information. the man, as i judged by the voice, was the same who had just departed. rustling of silk denoted his companion to be female. some words being uttered by the man, in too low a key to be overheard, the lady burst into a passion of tears. he strove to comfort her by soothing tones and tender appellations. "how can it be helped?" said he. "it is time to resume your courage. your duty to yourself and to me requires you to subdue this unreasonable grief." he spoke frequently in this strain, but all he said seemed to have little influence in pacifying the lady. at length, however, her sobs began to lessen in vehemence and frequency. he exhorted her to seek for some repose. apparently she prepared to comply, and conversation was, for a few minutes, intermitted. i could not but advert to the possibility that some occasion to examine the closet, in which i was immured, might occur. i knew not in what manner to demean myself if this should take place. i had no option at present. by withdrawing myself from view i had lost the privilege of an upright deportment. yet the thought of spending the night in this spot was not to be endured. gradually i began to view the project of bursting from the closet, and trusting to the energy of truth and of an artless tale, with more complacency. more than once my hand was placed upon the bolt, but withdrawn by a sudden faltering of resolution. when one attempt failed, i recurred once more to such reflections as were adapted to renew my purpose. i preconcerted the address which i should use. i resolved to be perfectly explicit; to withhold no particular of my adventures from the moment of my arrival. my description must necessarily suit some person within their knowledge. all i should want was liberty to depart; but, if this were not allowed, i might at least hope to escape any ill treatment, and to be confronted with my betrayer. in that case i did not fear to make him the attester of my innocence. influenced by these considerations, i once more touched the lock. at that moment the lady shrieked, and exclaimed, "good god! what is here?" an interesting conversation ensued. the object that excited her astonishment was the child. i collected from what passed that the discovery was wholly unexpected by her. her husband acted as if equally unaware of this event. he joined in all her exclamations of wonder and all her wild conjectures. when these were somewhat exhausted, he artfully insinuated the propriety of bestowing care upon the little foundling. i now found that her grief had been occasioned by the recent loss of her own offspring. she was, for some time, averse to her husband's proposal, but at length was persuaded to take the babe to her bosom and give it nourishment. this incident had diverted my mind from its favourite project, and filled me with speculations on the nature of the scene. one explication was obvious, that the husband was the parent of this child, and had used this singular expedient to procure for it the maternal protection of his wife. it would soon claim from her all the fondness which she entertained for her own progeny. no suspicion probably had yet, or would hereafter, occur with regard to its true parent. if her character be distinguished by the usual attributes of women, the knowledge of this truth may convert her love into hatred. i reflected with amazement on the slightness of that thread by which human passions are led from their true direction. with no less amazement did i remark the complexity of incidents by which i had been empowered to communicate to her this truth. how baseless are the structures of falsehood, which we build in opposition to the system of eternal nature! if i should escape undetected from this recess, it will be true that i never saw the face of either of these persons, and yet i am acquainted with the most secret transaction of their lives. my own situation was now more critical than before. the lights were extinguished, and the parties had sought repose. to issue from the closet now would be imminently dangerous. my councils were again at a stand and my designs frustrated. meanwhile the persons did not drop their discourse, and i thought myself justified in listening. many facts of the most secret and momentous nature were alluded to. some allusions were unintelligible. to others i was able to affix a plausible meaning, and some were palpable enough. every word that was uttered on that occasion is indelibly imprinted on my memory. perhaps the singularity of my circumstances, and my previous ignorance of what was passing in the world, contributed to render me a greedy listener. most that was said i shall overlook; but one part of the conversation it will be necessary to repeat. a large company had assembled that evening at their house. they criticized the character and manners of several. at last the husband said, "what think you of the nabob? especially when he talked about riches? how artfully he encourages the notion of his poverty! yet not a soul believes him. i cannot for my part account for that scheme of his. i half suspect that his wealth flows from a bad source, since he is so studious of concealing it." "perhaps, after all," said the lady, "you are mistaken as to his wealth." "impossible," exclaimed the other. "mark how he lives. have i not seen his bank-account? his deposits, since he has been here, amount to no less than half a million." "heaven grant that it be so!" said the lady, with a sigh. "i shall think with less aversion of your scheme. if poor tom's fortune be made, and he not the worse, or but little the worse on that account, i shall think it on the whole best." "that," replied he, "is what reconciles me to the scheme. to him thirty thousand are nothing." "but will he not suspect you of some hand in it?" "how can he? will i not appear to lose as well as himself? tom is my brother, but who can be supposed to answer for a brother's integrity? but he cannot suspect either of us. nothing less than a miracle can bring our plot to light. besides, this man is not what he ought to be. he will, some time or other, come out to be a grand impostor. he makes money by other arts than bargain and sale. he has found his way, by some means, to the portuguese treasury." here the conversation took a new direction, and, after some time, the silence of sleep ensued. who, thought i, is this nabob who counts his dollars by half-millions, and on whom it seems as if some fraud was intended to be practised? amidst their wariness and subtlety, how little are they aware that their conversation has been overheard! by means as inscrutable as those which conducted me hither, i may hereafter be enabled to profit by this detection of a plot. but, meanwhile, what was i to do? how was i to effect my escape from this perilous asylum? after much reflection, it occurred to me that to gain the street without exciting their notice was not utterly impossible. sleep does not commonly end of itself, unless at a certain period. what impediments were there between me and liberty which i could not remove, and remove with so much caution as to escape notice? motion and sound inevitably go together; but every sound is not attended to. the doors of the closet and the chamber did not creak upon their hinges. the latter might be locked. this i was able to ascertain only by experiment. if it were so, yet the key was probably in the lock, and might be used without much noise. i waited till their slow and hoarser inspirations showed them to be both asleep. just then, on changing my position, my head struck against some things which depended from the ceiling of the closet. they were implements of some kind which rattled against each other in consequence of this unlucky blow. i was fearful lest this noise should alarm, as the closet was little distant from the bed. the breathing of one instantly ceased, and a motion was made as if the head were lifted from the pillow. this motion, which was made by the husband, awaked his companion, who exclaimed, "what is the matter?" "something, i believe," replied he, "in the closet. if i was not dreaming, i heard the pistols strike against each other as if some one was taking them down." this intimation was well suited to alarm the lady. she besought him to ascertain the matter. this, to my utter dismay, he at first consented to do, but presently observed that probably his ears had misinformed him. it was hardly possible that the sound proceeded from them. it might be a rat, or his own fancy might have fashioned it. it is not easy to describe my trepidations while this conference was holding. i saw how easily their slumber was disturbed. the obstacles to my escape were less surmountable than i had imagined. in a little time all was again still. i waited till the usual tokens of sleep were distinguishable. i once more resumed my attempt. the bolt was withdrawn with all possible slowness; but i could by no means prevent all sound. my state was full of inquietude and suspense; my attention being painfully divided between the bolt and the condition of the sleepers. the difficulty lay in giving that degree of force which was barely sufficient. perhaps not less than fifteen minutes were consumed in this operation. at last it was happily effected, and the door was cautiously opened. emerging as i did from utter darkness, the light admitted into three windows produced, to my eyes, a considerable illumination. objects which, on my first entrance into this apartment, were invisible, were now clearly discerned. the bed was shrouded by curtains, yet i shrunk back into my covert, fearful of being seen. to facilitate my escape, i put off my shoes. my mind was so full of objects of more urgent moment, that the propriety of taking them along with me never occurred. i left them in the closet. i now glided across the apartment to the door. i was not a little discouraged by observing that the key was wanting. my whole hope depended on the omission to lock it. in my haste to ascertain this point, i made some noise which again roused one of the sleepers. he started, and cried, "who is there?" i now regarded my case as desperate, and detection as inevitable. my apprehensions, rather than my caution, kept me mute. i shrunk to the wall, and waited in a kind of agony for the moment that should decide my fate. the lady was again roused. in answer to her inquiries, her husband said that some one, he believed, was at the door, but there was no danger of their entering, for he had locked it, and the key was in his pocket. my courage was completely annihilated by this piece of intelligence. my resources were now at an end. i could only remain in this spot till the morning light, which could be at no great distance, should discover me. my inexperience disabled me from estimating all the perils of my situation. perhaps i had no more than temporary inconveniences to dread. my intention was innocent, and i had been betrayed into my present situation, not by my own wickedness, but the wickedness of others. i was deeply impressed with the ambiguousness which would necessarily rest upon my motives, and the scrutiny to which they would be subjected. i shuddered at the bare possibility of being ranked with thieves. these reflections again gave edge to my ingenuity in search of the means of escape. i had carefully attended to the circumstances of their entrance. possibly the act of locking had been unnoticed; but was it not likewise possible that this person had been mistaken? the key was gone. would this have been the case if the door were unlocked? my fears, rather than my hopes, impelled me to make the experiment. i drew back the latch, and, to my unspeakable joy, the door opened. i passed through and explored my way to the staircase. i descended till i reached the bottom. i could not recollect with accuracy the position of the door leading into the court, but, by carefully feeling along the wall with my hands, i at length discovered it. it was fastened by several bolts and a lock. the bolts were easily withdrawn, but the key was removed. i knew not where it was deposited. i thought i had reached the threshold of liberty, but here was an impediment that threatened to be insurmountable. but, if doors could not be passed, windows might be unbarred. i remembered that my companion had gone into a door on the left hand, in search of a light. i searched for this door. fortunately it was fastened only by a bolt. it admitted me into a room which i carefully explored till i reached a window. i will not dwell on my efforts to unbar this entrance. suffice it to say that, after much exertion and frequent mistakes, i at length found my way into the yard, and thence passed into the court. chapter v. now i was once more on public ground. by so many anxious efforts had i disengaged myself from the perilous precincts of private property. as many stratagems as are usually made to enter a house had been employed by me to get out of it. i was urged to the use of them by my fears; yet, so far from carrying off spoil, i had escaped with the loss of an essential part of my dress. i had now leisure to reflect. i seated myself on the ground and reviewed the scenes through which i had just passed. i began to think that my industry had been misemployed. suppose i had met the person on his first entrance into his chamber? was the truth so utterly wild as not to have found credit? since the door was locked, and there was no other avenue, what other statement but the true one would account for my being found there? this deportment had been worthy of an honest purpose. my betrayer probably expected that this would be the issue of his jest. my rustic simplicity, he might think, would suggest no more ambiguous or elaborate expedient. he might likewise have predetermined to interfere if my safety had been really endangered. on the morrow the two doors of the chamber and the window below would be found unclosed. they will suspect a design to pillage, but their searches will terminate in nothing but in the discovery of a pair of clumsy and dusty shoes in the closet. now that i was safe i could not help smiling at the picture which my fancy drew of their anxiety and wonder. these thoughts, however, gave place to more momentous considerations. i could not imagine to myself a more perfect example of indigence than i now exhibited. there was no being in the city on whose kindness i had any claim. money i had none, and what i then wore comprised my whole stock of movables. i had just lost my shoes, and this loss rendered my stockings of no use. my dignity remonstrated against a barefoot pilgrimage, but to this, necessity now reconciled me. i threw my stockings between the bars of a stable-window, belonging, as i thought, to the mansion i had just left. these, together with my shoes, i left to pay the cost of my entertainment. i saw that the city was no place for me. the end that i had had in view, of procuring some mechanical employment, could only be obtained by the use of means, but what means to pursue i knew not. this night's perils and deceptions gave me a distaste to a city life, and my ancient occupations rose to my view enhanced by a thousand imaginary charms, i resolved forthwith to strike into the country. the day began now to dawn. it was sunday, and i was desirous of eluding observation. i was somewhat recruited by rest, though the languors of sleeplessness oppressed me. i meant to throw myself on the first lap of verdure i should meet, and indulge in sleep that i so much wanted. i knew not the direction of the streets; but followed that which i first entered from the court, trusting that, by adhering steadily to one course, i should some time reach the fields. this street, as i afterwards found, tended to schuylkill, and soon extricated me from houses. i could not cross this river without payment of toll. it was requisite to cross it in order to reach that part of the country whither i was desirous of going; but how should i effect my passage? i knew of no ford, and the smallest expense exceeded my capacity. ten thousand guineas and a farthing were equally remote from nothing, and nothing was the portion allotted to me. while my mind was thus occupied, i turned up one of the streets which tend northward. it was, for some length, uninhabited and unpaved. presently i reached a pavement, and a painted fence, along which a row of poplars was planted. it bounded a garden into which a knot-hole permitted me to pry. the enclosure was a charming green, which i saw appended to a house of the loftiest and most stately order. it seemed like a recent erection, had all the gloss of novelty, and exhibited, to my unpractised eyes, the magnificence of palaces. my father's dwelling did not equal the height of one story, and might be easily comprised in one-fourth of those buildings which here were designed to accommodate the menials. my heart dictated the comparison between my own condition and that of the proprietors of this domain. how wide and how impassable was the gulf by which we were separated! this fair inheritance had fallen to one who, perhaps, would only abuse it to the purposes of luxury, while i, with intentions worthy of the friend of mankind, was doomed to wield the flail and the mattock. i had been entirely unaccustomed to this strain of reflection. my books had taught me the dignity and safety of the middle path, and my darling writer abounded with encomiums on rural life. at a distance from luxury and pomp, i viewed them, perhaps, in a just light. a nearer scrutiny confirmed my early prepossessions; but, at the distance at which i now stood, the lofty edifices, the splendid furniture, and the copious accommodations of the rich excited my admiration and my envy. i relinquished my station, and proceeded, in a heartless mood, along the fence. i now came to the mansion itself. the principal door was entered by a staircase of marble. i had never seen the stone of carrara, and wildly supposed this to have been dug from italian quarries. the beauty of the poplars, the coolness exhaled from the dew-besprent bricks, the commodiousness of the seat which these steps afforded, and the uncertainty into which i was plunged respecting my future conduct, all combined to make me pause. i sat down on the lower step and began to meditate. by some transition it occurred to me that the supply of my most urgent wants might be found in some inhabitant of this house. i needed at present a few cents; and what were a few cents to the tenant of a mansion like this? i had an invincible aversion to the calling of a beggar, but i regarded with still more antipathy the vocation of a thief; to this alternative, however, i was now reduced. i must either steal or beg; unless, indeed, assistance could be procured under the notion of a loan. would a stranger refuse to lend the pittance that i wanted? surely not, when the urgency of my wants was explained. i recollected other obstacles. to summon the master of the house from his bed, perhaps, for the sake of such an application, would be preposterous. i should be in more danger of provoking his anger than exciting his benevolence. this request might, surely, with more propriety be preferred to a passenger. i should, probably, meet several before i should arrive at schuylkill. a servant just then appeared at the door, with bucket and brush. this obliged me, much sooner than i intended, to decamp. with some reluctance i rose and proceeded. this house occupied the corner of the street, and i now turned this corner towards the country. a person, at some distance before me, was approaching in an opposite direction. "why," said i, "may i not make my demand of the first man i meet? this person exhibits tokens of ability to lend. there is nothing chilling or austere in his demeanour." the resolution to address this passenger was almost formed; but the nearer he advanced my resolves grew less firm. he noticed me not till he came within a few paces. he seemed busy in reflection; and, had not my figure caught his eye, or had he merely bestowed a passing glance upon me, i should not have been sufficiently courageous to have detained him. the event, however, was widely different. he looked at me and started. for an instant, as it were, and till he had time to dart at me a second glance, he checked his pace. this behaviour decided mine, and he stopped on perceiving tokens of a desire to address him. i spoke, but my accents and air sufficiently denoted my embarrassments:-"i am going to solicit a favour which my situation makes of the highest importance to me, and which i hope it will be easy for you, sir, to grant. it is not an alms, but a loan, that i seek; a loan that i will repay the moment i am able to do it. i am going to the country, but have not wherewith to pay my passage over schuylkill, or to buy a morsel of bread. may i venture to request of you, sir, the loan of sixpence? as i told you, it is my intention to repay it." i delivered this address, not without some faltering, but with great earnestness. i laid particular stress upon my intention to refund the money. he listened with a most inquisitive air. his eye perused me from head to foot. after some pause, he said, in a very emphatic manner, "why into the country? have you family? kindred? friends?" "no," answered i, "i have neither. i go in search of the means of subsistence. i have passed my life upon a farm, and propose to die in the same condition." "whence have you come?" "i came yesterday from the country, with a view to earn my bread in some way, but have changed my plan and propose now to return." "why have you changed it? in what way are you capable of earning your bread?" "i hardly know," said i. "i can, as yet, manage no tool, that can be managed in the city, but the pen. my habits have, in some small degree, qualified me for a writer. i would willingly accept employment of that kind." he fixed his eyes upon the earth, and was silent for some minutes. at length, recovering himself, he said, "follow me to my house. perhaps something may be done for you. if not, i will lend you sixpence." it may be supposed that i eagerly complied with the invitation. my companion said no more, his air bespeaking him to be absorbed by his own thoughts, till he reached his house, which proved to be that at the door of which i had been seated. we entered a parlour together. unless you can assume my ignorance and my simplicity, you will be unable to conceive the impressions that were made by the size and ornaments of this apartment. i shall omit these impressions, which, indeed, no description could adequately convey, and dwell on incidents of greater moment. he asked me to give him a specimen of my penmanship. i told you that i had bestowed very great attention upon this art. implements were brought, and i sat down to the task. by some inexplicable connection a line in shakspeare occurred to me, and i wrote,- "my poverty, but not my will, consents." the sentiment conveyed in this line powerfully affected him, but in a way which i could not then comprehend. i collected from subsequent events that the inference was not unfavourable to my understanding or my morals. he questioned me as to my history. i related my origin and my inducements to desert my father's house. with respect to last night's adventures i was silent. i saw no useful purpose that could be answered by disclosure, and i half suspected that my companion would refuse credit to my tale. there were frequent intervals of abstraction and reflection between his questions. my examination lasted not much less than an hour. at length he said, "i want an amanuensis or copyist. on what terms will you live with me?" i answered that i knew not how to estimate the value of my services. i knew not whether these services were agreeable or healthful. my life had hitherto been active. my constitution was predisposed to diseases of the lungs, and the change might be hurtful. i was willing, however, to try and to content myself for a month or a year, with so much as would furnish me with food, clothing, and lodging. "'tis well," said he. "you remain with me as long and no longer than both of us please. you shall lodge and eat in this house. i will supply you with clothing, and your task will be to write what i dictate. your person, i see, has not shared much of your attention. it is in my power to equip you instantly in the manner which becomes a resident in this house. come with me." he led the way into the court behind and thence into a neat building, which contained large wooden vessels and a pump: "there," said he, "you may wash yourself; and, when that is done, i will conduct you to your chamber and your wardrobe." this was speedily performed, and he accordingly led the way to the chamber. it was an apartment in the third story, finished and furnished in the same costly and superb style with the rest of the house. he opened closets and drawers which overflowed with clothes and linen of all and of the best kinds. "these are yours," said he, "as long as you stay with me. dress yourself as likes you best. here is every thing your nakedness requires. when dressed, you may descend to breakfast." with these words he left me. the clothes were all in the french style, as i afterwards, by comparing my garb with that of others, discovered. they were fitted to my shape with the nicest precision. i bedecked myself with all my care. i remembered the style of dress used by my beloved clavering. my locks were of shining auburn, flowing and smooth like his. having wrung the wet from them, and combed, i tied them carelessly in a black riband. thus equipped, i surveyed myself in a mirror. you may imagine, if you can, the sensations which this instantaneous transformation produced. appearances are wonderfully influenced by dress. check shirt, buttoned at the neck, an awkward fustian coat, check trowsers and bare feet, were now supplanted by linen and muslin, nankeen coat striped with green, a white silk waistcoat elegantly needle-wrought, cassimere pantaloons, stockings of variegated silk, and shoes that in their softness, pliancy, and polished surface vied with satin. i could scarcely forbear looking back to see whether the image in the glass, so well proportioned, so gallant, and so graceful, did not belong to another. i could scarcely recognise any lineaments of my own. i walked to the window. "twenty minutes ago," said i, "i was traversing that path a barefoot beggar; now i am thus." again i surveyed myself. "surely some insanity has fastened on my understanding. my senses are the sport of dreams. some magic that disdains the cumbrousness of nature's progress has wrought this change." i was roused from these doubts by a summons to breakfast, obsequiously delivered by a black servant. i found welbeck (for i shall henceforth call him by his true name) at the breakfast-table. a superb equipage of silver and china was before him. he was startled at my entrance. the change in my dress seemed for a moment to have deceived him. his eye was frequently fixed upon me with unusual steadfastness. at these times there was inquietude and wonder in his features. i had now an opportunity of examining my host. there was nicety but no ornament in his dress. his form was of the middle height, spare, but vigorous and graceful. his face was cast, i thought, in a foreign mould. his forehead receded beyond the usual degree in visages which i had seen. his eyes large and prominent, but imparting no marks of benignity and habitual joy. the rest of his face forcibly suggested the idea of a convex edge. his whole figure impressed me with emotions of veneration and awe. a gravity that almost amounted to sadness invariably attended him when we were alone together. he whispered the servant that waited, who immediately retired. he then said, turning to me, "a lady will enter presently, whom you are to treat with the respect due to my daughter. you must not notice any emotion she may betray at the sight of you, nor expect her to converse with you; for she does not understand your language." he had scarcely spoken when she entered. i was seized with certain misgivings and flutterings which a clownish education may account for. i so far conquered my timidity, however, as to snatch a look at her. i was not born to execute her portrait. perhaps the turban that wreathed her head, the brilliant texture and inimitable folds of her drapery, and nymphlike port, more than the essential attributes of her person, gave splendour to the celestial vision. perhaps it was her snowy hues, and the cast rather than the position of her features, that were so prolific of enchantment; or perhaps the wonder originated only in my own ignorance. she did not immediately notice me. when she did she almost shrieked with surprise. she held up her hands, and, gazing upon me, uttered various exclamations which i could not understand. i could only remark that her accents were thrillingly musical. her perturbations refused to be stilled. it was with difficulty that she withdrew her regards from me. much conversation passed between her and welbeck, but i could comprehend no part of it. i was at liberty to animadvert on the visible part of their intercourse. i diverted some part of my attention from my own embarrassments, and fixed it on their looks. in this art, as in most others, i was an unpractised simpleton. in the countenance of welbeck, there was somewhat else than sympathy with the astonishment and distress of the lady; but i could not interpret these additional tokens. when her attention was engrossed by welbeck, her eyes were frequently vagrant or downcast; her cheeks contracted a deeper hue; and her breathing was almost prolonged into a sigh. these were marks on which i made no comments at the time. my own situation was calculated to breed confusion in my thoughts and awkwardness in my gestures. breakfast being finished, the lady, apparently at the request of welbeck, sat down to a piano-forte. here again i must be silent. i was not wholly destitute of musical practice and musical taste. i had that degree of knowledge which enabled me to estimate the transcendent skill of this performer. as if the pathos of her touch were insufficient, i found after some time that the lawless jarrings of the keys were chastened by her own more liquid notes. she played without a book, and, though her bass might be preconcerted, it was plain that her right-hand notes were momentary and spontaneous inspirations. meanwhile welbeck stood, leaning his arms on the back of a chair near her, with his eyes fixed on her face. his features were fraught with a meaning which i was eager to interpret, but unable. i have read of transitions effected by magic; i have read of palaces and deserts which were subject to the dominion of spells; poets may sport with their power, but i am certain that no transition was ever conceived more marvellous and more beyond the reach of foresight than that which i had just experienced. heaths vexed by a midnight storm may be changed into a hall of choral nymphs and regal banqueting; forest glades may give sudden place to colonnades and carnivals; but he whose senses are deluded finds himself still on his natal earth. these miracles are contemptible when compared with that which placed me under this roof and gave me to partake in this audience. i know that my emotions are in danger of being regarded as ludicrous by those who cannot figure to themselves the consequences of a limited and rustic education. chapter vi. in a short time the lady retired. i naturally expected that some comments would be made on her behaviour, and that the cause of her surprise and distress on seeing me would be explained; but welbeck said nothing on that subject. when she had gone, he went to the window and stood for some time occupied, as it seemed, with his own thoughts. then he turned to me, and, calling me by my name, desired me to accompany him up-stairs. there was neither cheerfulness nor mildness in his address, but neither was there any thing domineering or arrogant. we entered an apartment on the same floor with my chamber, but separated from it by a spacious entry. it was supplied with bureaus, cabinets, and bookcases. "this," said he, "is your room and mine; but we must enter it and leave it together. i mean to act not as your master but your friend. my maimed hand" (so saying, he showed me his right hand, the forefinger of which was wanting) "will not allow me to write accurately or copiously. for this reason i have required your aid, in a work of some moment. much haste will not be requisite, and, as to the hours and duration of employment, these will be seasonable and short. "your present situation is new to you, and we will therefore defer entering on our business. meanwhile you may amuse yourself in what manner you please. consider this house as your home and make yourself familiar with it. stay within or go out, be busy or be idle, as your fancy shall prompt: only you will conform to our domestic system as to eating and sleep; the servants will inform you of this. next week we will enter on the task for which i designed you. you may now withdraw." i obeyed this mandate with some awkwardness and hesitation. i went into my own chamber not displeased with an opportunity of loneliness. i threw myself on a chair and resigned myself to those thoughts which would naturally arise in this situation. i speculated on the character and views of welbeck. i saw that he was embosomed in tranquillity and grandeur. riches, therefore, were his; but in what did his opulence consist, and whence did it arise? what were the limits by which it was confined, and what its degree of permanence? i was unhabituated to ideas of floating or transferable wealth. the rent of houses and lands was the only species of property which was, as yet, perfectly intelligible. my previous ideas led me to regard welbeck as the proprietor of this dwelling and of numerous houses and farms. by the same cause i was fain to suppose him enriched by inheritance, and that his life had been uniform. i next adverted to his social condition. this mansion appeared to have but two inhabitants besides servants. who was the nymph who had hovered for a moment in my sight? had he not called her his daughter? the apparent difference in their ages would justify this relation; but her guise, her features, and her accents, were foreign. her language i suspected strongly to be that of italy. how should he be the father of an italian? but were there not some foreign lineaments in his countenance? this idea seemed to open a new world to my view. i had gained, from my books, confused ideas of european governments and manners. i knew that the present was a period of revolution and hostility. might not these be illustrious fugitives from provence or the milanese? their portable wealth, which may reasonably be supposed to be great, they have transported hither. thus may be explained the sorrow that veils their countenance. the loss of estates and honours; the untimely death of kindred, and perhaps of his wife, may furnish eternal food for regrets. welbeck's utterance, though rapid and distinct, partook, as i conceived, in some very slight degree of a foreign idiom. such was the dream that haunted my undisciplined and unenlightened imagination. the more i revolved it, the more plausible it seemed. on due supposition every appearance that i had witnessed was easily solved,--unless it were their treatment of me. this, at first, was a source of hopeless perplexity. gradually, however, a clue seemed to be afforded. welbeck had betrayed astonishment on my first appearance. the lady's wonder was mingled with distress. perhaps they discovered a remarkable resemblance between me and one who stood in the relation of son to welbeck, and of brother to the lady. this youth might have perished on the scaffold or in war. these, no doubt, were his clothes. this chamber might have been reserved for him, but his death left it to be appropriated to another. i had hitherto been unable to guess at the reason why all this kindness had been lavished on me. will not this conjecture sufficiently account for it? no wonder that this resemblance was enhanced by assuming his dress. taking all circumstances into view, these ideas were not, perhaps, destitute of probability. appearances naturally suggested them to me. they were, also, powerfully enforced by inclination. they threw me into transports of wonder and hope. when i dwelt upon the incidents of my past life, and traced the chain of events, from the death of my mother to the present moment, i almost acquiesced in the notion that some beneficent and ruling genius had prepared my path for me. events which, when foreseen, would most ardently have been deprecated, and when they happened were accounted in the highest degree luckless, were now seen to be propitious. hence i inferred the infatuation of despair, and the folly of precipitate conclusions. but what was the fate reserved for me? perhaps welbeck would adopt me for his own son. wealth has ever been capriciously distributed. the mere physical relation of birth is all that entitles us to manors and thrones. identity itself frequently depends upon a casual likeness or an old nurse's imposture. nations have risen in arms, as in the case of the stuarts, in the cause of one the genuineness of whose birth has been denied and can never be proved. but if the cause be trivial and fallacious, the effects are momentous and solid. it ascertains our portion of felicity and usefulness, and fixes our lot among peasants or princes. something may depend upon my own deportment. will it not behoove me to cultivate all my virtues and eradicate all my defects? i see that the abilities of this man are venerable. perhaps he will not lightly or hastily decide in my favour. he will be governed by the proofs that i shall give of discernment and integrity. i had always been exempt from temptation, and was therefore undepraved; but this view of things had a wonderful tendency to invigorate my virtuous resolutions. all within me was exhilaration and joy. there was but one thing wanting to exalt me to a dizzy height and give me place among the stars of heaven. my resemblance to her brother had forcibly affected this lady; but i was not her brother. i was raised to a level with her and made a tenant of the same mansion. some intercourse would take place between us. time would lay level impediments and establish familiarity, and this intercourse might foster love and terminate in--_marriage_! these images were of a nature too glowing and expansive to allow me to be longer inactive. i sallied forth into the open air. this tumult of delicious thoughts in some time subsided, and gave way to images relative to my present situation. my curiosity was awake. as yet i had seen little of the city, and this opportunity for observation was not to be neglected. i therefore coursed through several streets, attentively examining the objects that successively presented themselves. at length, it occurred to me to search out the house in which i had lately been immured. i was not without hopes that at some future period i should be able to comprehend the allusions and brighten the obscurities that hung about the dialogue of last night. the house was easily discovered. i reconnoitred the court and gate through which i had passed. the mansion was of the first order in magnitude and decoration. this was not the bound of my present discovery, for i was gifted with that confidence which would make me set on foot inquiries in the neighbourhood. i looked around for a suitable medium of intelligence. the opposite and adjoining houses were small, and apparently occupied by persons of an indigent class. at one of these was a sign denoting it to be the residence of a tailor. seated on a bench at the door was a young man, with coarse uncombed locks, breeches knee-unbuttoned, stockings ungartered, shoes slipshod and unbuckled, and a face unwashed, gazing stupidly from hollow eyes. his aspect was embellished with good nature, though indicative of ignorance. this was the only person in sight. he might be able to say something concerning his opulent neighbour. to him, therefore, i resolved to apply. i went up to him, and, pointing to the house in question, asked him who lived there. he answered, "mr. matthews." "what is his profession,--his way of life?" "a gentleman. he does nothing but walk about." "how long has he been married?" "married! he is not married as i know on. he never has been married. he is a bachelor." this intelligence was unexpected. it made me pause to reflect whether i had not mistaken the house. this, however, seemed impossible. i renewed my questions. "a bachelor, say you? are you not mistaken?" "no. it would be an odd thing if he was married. an old fellow, with one foot in the grave--comical enough for him to _git_ a _vife_!" "an old man? does he live alone? what is his family?" "no, he does not live alone. he has a niece that lives with him. she is married, and her husband lives there too." "what is his name?" "i don't know. i never heard it as i know on." "what is his trade?" "he's a merchant; he keeps a store somewhere or other; but i don't know where." "how long has he been married?" "about two years. they lost a child lately. the young woman was in a huge taking about it. they say she was quite crazy some days for the death of the child; and she is not quite out of _the dumps_ yet. to-be-sure, the child was a sweet little thing; but they need not make such a rout about it. i'll war'n' they'll have enough of them before they die." "what is the character of the young man? where was he born and educated? has he parents or brothers?" my companion was incapable of answering these questions, and i left him with little essential addition to the knowledge i already possessed. chapter vii. after viewing various parts of the city, intruding into churches, and diving into alleys, i returned. the rest of the day i spent chiefly in my chamber, reflecting on my new condition; surveying my apartment, its presses and closets; and conjecturing the causes of appearances. at dinner and supper i was alone. venturing to inquire of the servant where his master and mistress were, i was answered that they were engaged. i did not question him as to the nature of their engagement, though it was a fertile source of curiosity. next morning, at breakfast, i again met welbeck and the lady. the incidents were nearly those of the preceding morning, if it were not that the lady exhibited tokens of somewhat greater uneasiness. when she left us, welbeck sank into apparent meditation. i was at a loss whether to retire or remain where i was. at last, however, i was on the point of leaving the room, when he broke silence and began a conversation with me. he put questions to me, the obvious scope of which was to know my sentiments on moral topics. i had no motives to conceal my opinions, and therefore delivered them with frankness. at length he introduced allusions to my own history, and made more particular inquiries on that head. here i was not equally frank; yet i did not feign any thing, but merely dealt in generals. i had acquired notions of propriety on this head, perhaps somewhat fastidious. minute details, respecting our own concerns, are apt to weary all but the narrator himself. i said thus much, and the truth of my remark was eagerly assented to. with some marks of hesitation and after various preliminaries, my companion hinted that my own interest, as well as his, enjoined upon me silence to all but himself, on the subject of my birth and early adventures. it was not likely that, while in his service, my circle of acquaintance would be large or my intercourse with the world frequent; but in my communication with others he requested me to speak rather of others than of myself. this request, he said, might appear singular to me, but he had his reasons for making it, which it was not necessary, at present, to disclose, though, when i should know them, i should readily acknowledge their validity. i scarcely knew what answer to make. i was willing to oblige him. i was far from expecting that any exigence would occur, making disclosure my duty. the employment was productive of pain more than of pleasure, and the curiosity that would uselessly seek a knowledge of my past life was no less impertinent than the loquacity that would uselessly communicate that knowledge. i readily promised, therefore, to adhere to his advice. this assurance afforded him evident satisfaction; yet it did not seem to amount to quite as much as he wished. he repeated, in stronger terms, the necessity there was for caution. he was far from suspecting me to possess an impertinent and talkative disposition, or that, in my eagerness to expatiate on my own concerns, i should overstep the limits of politeness. but this was not enough. i was to govern myself by a persuasion that the interests of my friend and myself would be materially affected by my conduct. perhaps i ought to have allowed these insinuations to breed suspicion in my mind; but, conscious as i was of the benefits which i had received from this man; prone, from my inexperience, to rely upon professions and confide in appearances; and unaware that i could be placed in any condition in which mere silence respecting myself could be injurious or criminal, i made no scruple to promise compliance with his wishes. nay, i went further than this; i desired to be accurately informed as to what it was proper to conceal. he answered that my silence might extend to every thing anterior to my arrival in the city and my being incorporated with his family. here our conversation ended, and i retired to ruminate on what had passed. i derived little satisfaction from my reflections. i began now to perceive inconveniences that might arise from this precipitate promise. whatever should happen in consequence of my being immured in the chamber, and of the loss of my clothes and of the portrait of my friend, i had bound myself to silence. these inquietudes, however, were transient. i trusted that these events would operate auspiciously; but my curiosity was now awakened as to the motives which _welbeck_ could have for exacting from me this concealment. to act under the guidance of another, and to wander in the dark, ignorant whither my path tended and what effects might flow from my agency, was a new and irksome situation. from these thoughts i was recalled by a message from welbeck. he gave me a folded paper, which he requested me to carry to no.--south fourth street. "inquire," said he, "for mrs. wentworth, in order merely to ascertain the house, for you need not ask to see her; merely give the letter to the servant and retire. excuse me for imposing this service upon you. it is of too great moment to be trusted to a common messenger; i usually perform it myself, but am at present otherwise engaged." i took the letter and set out to deliver it. this was a trifling circumstance, yet my mind was full of reflections on the consequences that might flow from it. i remembered the directions that were given, but construed them in a manner different, perhaps, from welbeck's expectations or wishes. he had charged me to leave the billet with the servant who happened to answer my summons; but had he not said that the message was important, insomuch that it could not be intrusted to common hands? he had permitted, rather than enjoined, me to dispense with seeing the lady; and this permission i conceived to be dictated merely by regard to my convenience. it was incumbent on me, therefore, to take some pains to deliver the script into her own hands. i arrived at the house and knocked. a female servant appeared. "her mistress was up-stairs; she would tell her if i wished to see her," and meanwhile invited me to enter the parlour; i did so; and the girl retired to inform her mistress that one waited for her. i ought to mention that my departure from the directions which i had received was, in some degree, owing to an inquisitive temper; i was eager after knowledge, and was disposed to profit by every opportunity to survey the interior of dwellings and converse with their inhabitants. i scanned the walls, the furniture, the pictures. over the fireplace was a portrait in oil of a female. she was elderly and matron-like. perhaps she was the mistress of this habitation, and the person to whom i should immediately be introduced. was it a casual suggestion, or was there an actual resemblance between the strokes of the pencil which executed this portrait and that of clavering? however that be, the sight of this picture revived the memory of my friend and called up a fugitive suspicion that this was the production of his skill. i was busily revolving this idea when the lady herself entered. it was the same whose portrait i had been examining. she fixed scrutinizing and powerful eyes upon me. she looked at the superscription of the letter which i presented, and immediately resumed her examination of me. i was somewhat abashed by the closeness of her observation, and gave tokens of this state of mind which did not pass unobserved. they seemed instantly to remind her that she behaved with too little regard to civility. she recovered herself and began to peruse the letter. having done this, her attention was once more fixed upon me. she was evidently desirous of entering into some conversation, but seemed at a loss in what manner to begin. this situation was new to me and was productive of no small embarrassment. i was preparing to take my leave when she spoke, though not without considerable hesitation:-"this letter is from mr. welbeck--you are his friend--i presume--perhaps--a relation?" i was conscious that i had no claim to either of these titles, and that i was no more than his servant. my pride would not allow me to acknowledge this, and i merely said, "i live with him at present, madam." i imagined that this answer did not perfectly satisfy her; yet she received it with a certain air of acquiescence. she was silent for a few minutes, and then, rising, said, "excuse me, sir, for a few minutes. i will write a few words to mr. welbeck." so saying, she withdrew. i returned to the contemplation of the picture. from this, however, my attention was quickly diverted by a paper that lay on the mantel. a single glance was sufficient to put my blood into motion. i started and laid my hand upon the well-known packet. it was that which enclosed the portrait of clavering! i unfolded and examined it with eagerness. by what miracle came it hither? it was found, together with my bundle, two nights before. i had despaired of ever seeing it again, and yet here was the same portrait enclosed in the selfsame paper! i have forborne to dwell upon the regret, amounting to grief, with which i was affected in consequence of the loss of this precious relic. my joy on thus speedily and unexpectedly regaining it is not easily described. for a time i did not reflect that to hold it thus in my hand was not sufficient to entitle me to repossession. i must acquaint this lady with the history of this picture, and convince her of my ownership. but how was this to be done? was she connected in any way, by friendship or by consanguinity, with that unfortunate youth? if she were, some information as to his destiny would be anxiously sought. i did not, just then, perceive any impropriety in imparting it. if it came into her hands by accident, still, it will be necessary to relate the mode in which it was lost in order to prove my title to it. i now heard her descending footsteps, and hastily replaced the picture on the mantel. she entered, and, presenting me a letter, desired me to deliver it to mr. welbeck. i had no pretext for deferring my departure, but was unwilling to go without obtaining possession of the portrait. an interval of silence and irresolution succeeded. i cast significant glances at the spot where it lay, and at length mustered up my strength of mind, and, pointing to the paper,--"madam," said i, "_there_ is something which i recognise to be mine: i know not how it came into your possession, but so lately as the day before yesterday it was in mine. i lost it by a strange accident, and, as i deem it of inestimable value, i hope you will have no objection to restore it." during this speech the lady's countenance exhibited marks of the utmost perturbation. "your picture!" she exclaimed; "you lost it! how? where? did you know that person? what has become of him?" "i knew him well," said i. "that picture was executed by himself. he gave it to me with his own hands; and, till the moment i unfortunately lost it, it was my dear and perpetual companion." "good heaven!" she exclaimed, with increasing vehemence; "where did you meet with him? what has become of him? is he dead, or alive?" these appearances sufficiently showed me that clavering and this lady were connected by some ties of tenderness. i answered that he was dead; that my mother and myself were his attendants and nurses, and that this portrait was his legacy to me. this intelligence melted her into tears, and it was some time before she recovered strength enough to resume the conversation. she then inquired, "when and where was it that he died? how did you lose this portrait? it was found wrapped in some coarse clothes, lying in a stall in the market-house, on saturday evening. two negro women, servants of one of my friends, strolling through the market, found it and brought it to their mistress, who, recognising the portrait, sent it to me. to whom did that bundle belong? was it yours?" these questions reminded me of the painful predicament in which i now stood. i had promised welbeck to conceal from every one my former condition; but to explain in what manner this bundle was lost, and how my intercourse with clavering had taken place, was to violate this promise. it was possible, perhaps, to escape the confession of the truth by equivocation. falsehoods were easily invented, and might lead her far away from my true condition; but i was wholly unused to equivocation. never yet had a lie polluted my lips. i was not weak enough to be ashamed of my origin. this lady had an interest in the fate of clavering, and might justly claim all the information which i was able to impart. yet to forget the compact which i had so lately made, and an adherence to which might possibly be in the highest degree beneficial to me and to welbeck; i was willing to adhere to it, provided falsehood could be avoided. these thoughts rendered me silent. the pain of my embarrassment amounted almost to agony. i felt the keenest regret at my own precipitation in claiming the picture. its value to me was altogether imaginary. the affection which this lady had borne the original, whatever was the source of that affection, would prompt her to cherish the copy, and, however precious it was in my eyes, i should cheerfully resign it to her. in the confusion of my thoughts an expedient suggested itself sufficiently inartificial and bold. "it is true, madam, what i have said. i saw him breathe his last. this is his only legacy. if you wish it i willingly resign it; but this is all that i can now disclose. i am placed in circumstances which render it improper to say more." these words were uttered not very distinctly, and the lady's vehemence hindered her from noticing them. she again repeated her interrogations, to which i returned the same answer. at first she expressed the utmost surprise at my conduct. from this she descended to some degree of asperity. she made rapid allusions to the history of clavering. he was the son of the gentleman who owned the house in which welbeck resided. he was the object of immeasurable fondness and indulgence. he had sought permission to travel, and, this being refused by the absurd timidity of his parents, he had twice been frustrated in attempting to embark for europe clandestinely. they ascribed his disappearance to a third and successful attempt of this kind, and had exercised anxious and unwearied diligence in endeavouring to trace his footsteps. all their efforts had failed. one motive for their returning to europe was the hope of discovering some traces of him, as they entertained no doubt of his having crossed the ocean. the vehemence of mrs. wentworth's curiosity as to those particulars of his life and death may be easily conceived. my refusal only heightened this passion. finding me refractory to all her efforts, she at length dismissed me in anger. chapter viii. this extraordinary interview was now past. pleasure as well as pain attended my reflections on it. i adhered to the promise i had improvidently given to welbeck, but had excited displeasure, and perhaps suspicion, in the lady. she would find it hard to account for my silence. she would probably impute it to perverseness, or imagine it to flow from some incident connected with the death of clavering, calculated to give a new edge to her curiosity. it was plain that some connection subsisted between her and welbeck. would she drop the subject at the point which it had now attained? would she cease to exert herself to extract from me the desired information, or would she not rather make welbeck a party in the cause, and prejudice my new friend against me? this was an evil proper, by all lawful means, to avoid. i knew of no other expedient than to confess to him the truth with regard to clavering, and explain to him the dilemma in which my adherence to my promise had involved me. i found him on my return home, and delivered him the letter with which i was charged. at the sight of it, surprise, mingled with some uneasiness, appeared in his looks. "what!" said he, in a tone of disappointment, "you then saw the lady?" i now remembered his directions to leave my message at the door, and apologized for my neglecting them by telling my reasons. his chagrin vanished, but not without an apparent effort, and he said that all was well; the affair was of no moment. after a pause of preparation, i entreated his attention to something which i had to relate. i then detailed the history of clavering and of my late embarrassments. as i went on, his countenance betokened increasing solicitude. his emotion was particularly strong when i came to the interrogatories of mrs. wentworth in relation to clavering; but this emotion gave way to profound surprise when i related the manner in which i had eluded her inquiries. i concluded with observing that, when i promised forbearance on the subject of my own adventures, i had not foreseen any exigence which would make an adherence to my promise difficult or inconvenient; that, if his interest was promoted by my silence, i was still willing to maintain it, and requested his directions how to conduct myself on this occasion. he appeared to ponder deeply and with much perplexity on what i had said. when he spoke there was hesitation in his manner and circuity in his expressions, that proved him to have something in his thoughts which he knew not how to communicate. he frequently paused; but my answers and remarks, occasionally given, appeared to deter him from the revelation of his purpose. our discourse ended, for the present, by his desiring me to persist in my present plan; i should suffer no inconveniences from it, since it would be my own fault if an interview again took place between the lady and me; meanwhile he should see her and effectually silence her inquiries. i ruminated not superficially or briefly on this dialogue. by what means would he silence her inquiries? he surely meant not to mislead her by fallacious representations. some inquietude now crept into my thoughts. i began to form conjectures as to the nature of the scheme to which my suppression of the truth was to be thus made subservient. it seemed as if i were walking in the dark and might rush into snares or drop into pits before i was aware of my danger. each moment accumulated my doubts, and i cherished a secret foreboding that the event would prove my new situation to be far less fortunate than i had, at first, fondly believed. the question now occurred, with painful repetition, who and what was welbeck? what was his relation to this foreign lady? what was the service for which i was to be employed? i could not be contented without a solution of these mysteries. why should i not lay my soul open before my new friend? considering my situation, would he regard my fears and my surmises as criminal? i felt that they originated in laudable habits and views. my peace of mind depended on the favourable verdict which conscience should pass on my proceedings. i saw the emptiness of fame and luxury, when put in the balance against the recompense of virtue. never would i purchase the blandishments of adulation and the glare of opulence at the price of my honesty. amidst these reflections the dinner-hour arrived. the lady and welbeck were present. a new train of sentiments now occupied my mind. i regarded them both with inquisitive eyes. i cannot well account for the revolution which had taken place in my mind. perhaps it was a proof of the capriciousness of my temper, or it was merely the fruit of my profound ignorance of life and manners. whencesoever it arose, certain it is that i contemplated the scene before me with altered eyes. its order and pomp was no longer the parent of tranquillity and awe. my wild reveries of inheriting this splendour and appropriating the affections of this nymph, i now regarded as lunatic hope and childish folly. education and nature had qualified me for a different scene. this might be the mask of misery and the structure of vice. my companions as well as myself were silent during the meal. the lady retired as soon as it was finished. my inexplicable melancholy increased. it did not pass unnoticed by welbeck, who inquired, with an air of kindness, into the cause of my visible dejection. i am almost ashamed to relate to what extremes my folly transported me. instead of answering him, i was weak enough to shed tears. this excited afresh his surprise and his sympathy. he renewed his inquiries; my heart was full, but how to disburden it i knew not. at length, with some difficulty, i expressed my wishes to leave his house and return into the country. what, he asked, had occurred to suggest this new plan? what motive could incite me to bury myself in rustic obscurity? how did i purpose to dispose of myself? had some new friend sprung up more able or more willing to benefit me than he had been? "no," i answered, "i have no relation who would own me, or friend who would protect. if i went into the country it would be to the toilsome occupations of a day-labourer; but even that was better than my present situation." this opinion, he observed, must be newly formed. what was there irksome or offensive in my present mode of life? that this man condescended to expostulate with me; to dissuade me from my new plan; and to enumerate the benefits which he was willing to confer, penetrated my heart with gratitude. i could not but acknowledge that leisure and literature, copious and elegant accommodation, were valuable for their own sake; that all the delights of sensation and refinements of intelligence were comprised within my present sphere, and would be nearly wanting in that to which i was going. i felt temporary compunction for my folly, and determined to adopt a different deportment. i could not prevail upon myself to unfold the true cause of my dejection, and permitted him therefore to ascribe it to a kind of homesickness; to inexperience; and to that ignorance which, on being ushered into a new scene, is oppressed with a sensation of forlornness. he remarked that these chimeras would vanish before the influence of time, and company, and occupation. on the next week he would furnish me with employment; meanwhile he would introduce me into company, where intelligence and vivacity would combine to dispel my glooms. as soon as we separated, my disquietudes returned. i contended with them in vain, and finally resolved to abandon my present situation. when and how this purpose was to be effected i knew not. that was to be the theme of future deliberation. evening having arrived, welbeck proposed to me to accompany me on a visit to one of his friends. i cheerfully accepted the invitation, and went with him to your friend mr. wortley's. a numerous party was assembled, chiefly of the female sex. i was introduced by welbeck by the title of _a young friend of his_. notwithstanding my embarrassment, i did not fail to attend to what passed on this occasion. i remarked that the utmost deference was paid to my companion, on whom his entrance into this company appeared to operate like magic. his eyes sparkled; his features expanded into a benign serenity; and his wonted reserve gave place to a torrent-like and overflowing elocution. i marked this change in his deportment with the utmost astonishment. so great was it, that i could hardly persuade myself that it was the same person. a mind thus susceptible of new impressions must be, i conceived, of a wonderful texture. nothing was further from my expectations than that this vivacity was mere dissimulation and would take its leave of him when he left the company; yet this i found to be the case. the door was no sooner closed after him than his accustomed solemnity returned. he spake little, and that little was delivered with emphatical and monosyllabic brevity. we returned home at a late hour, and i immediately retired to my chamber, not so much from the desire of repose as in order to enjoy and pursue my own reflections without interruption. the condition of my mind was considerably remote from happiness. i was placed in a scene that furnished fuel to my curiosity. this passion is a source of pleasure, provided its gratification be practicable. i had no reason, in my present circumstances, to despair of knowledge; yet suspicion and anxiety beset me. i thought upon the delay and toil which the removal of my ignorance would cost, and reaped only pain and fear from the reflection. the air was remarkably sultry. lifted sashes and lofty ceilings were insufficient to attemper it. the perturbation of my thoughts affected my body, and the heat which oppressed me was aggravated, by my restlessness, almost into fever. some hours were thus painfully past, when i recollected that the bath, erected in the court below, contained a sufficient antidote to the scorching influence of the atmosphere. i rose, and descended the stairs softly, that i might not alarm welbeck and the lady, who occupied the two rooms on the second floor. i proceeded to the bath, and, filling the reservoir with water, speedily dissipated the heat that incommoded me. of all species of sensual gratification, that was the most delicious; and i continued for a long time laving my limbs and moistening my hair. in the midst of this amusement, i noticed the approach of day, and immediately saw the propriety of returning to my chamber. i returned with the same caution which i had used in descending; my feet were bare, so that it was easy to proceed unattended by the smallest signal of my progress. i had reached the carpeted staircase, and was slowly ascending, when i heard, within the chamber that was occupied by the lady, a noise, as of some one moving. though not conscious of having acted improperly, yet i felt reluctance to be seen. there was no reason to suppose that this sound was connected with the detection of me in this situation; yet i acted as if this reason existed, and made haste to pass the door and gain the second flight of steps. i was unable to accomplish my design, when the chamber door slowly opened, and welbeck, with a light in his hand, came out. i was abashed and disconcerted at this interview. he started at seeing me; but, discovering in an instant who it was, his face assumed an expression in which shame and anger were powerfully blended. he seemed on the point of opening his mouth to rebuke me; but, suddenly checking himself, he said, in a tone of mildness, "how is this? whence come you?" his emotion seemed to communicate itself, with an electrical rapidity, to my heart. my tongue faltered while i made some answer. i said, "i had been seeking relief from the heat of the weather, in the bath." he heard my explanation in silence; and, after a moment's pause, passed into his own room, and shut himself in. i hastened to my chamber. a different observer might have found in these circumstances no food for his suspicion or his wonder. to me, however, they suggested vague and tumultuous ideas. as i strode across the room i repeated, "this woman is his daughter. what proof have i of that? he once asserted it; and has frequently uttered allusions and hints from which no other inference could be drawn. the chamber from which he came, in an hour devoted to sleep, was hers. for what end could a visit like this be paid? a parent may visit his child at all seasons, without a crime. on seeing me, methought his features indicated more than surprise. a keen interpreter would be apt to suspect a consciousness of wrong. what if this woman be not his child! how shall their relationship be ascertained?" i was summoned at the customary hour to breakfast. my mind was full of ideas connected with this incident. i was not endowed with sufficient firmness to propose the cool and systematic observation of this man's deportment. i felt as if the state of my mind could not but be evident to him; and experienced in myself all the confusion which this discovery was calculated to produce in him. i would have willingly excused myself from meeting him; but that was impossible. at breakfast, after the usual salutations, nothing was said. for a time i scarcely lifted my eyes from the table. stealing a glance at welbeck, i discovered in his features nothing but his wonted gravity. he appeared occupied with thoughts that had no relation to last night's adventure. this encouraged me; and i gradually recovered my composure. their inattention to me allowed me occasionally to throw scrutinizing and comparing glances at the face of each. the relationship of parent and child is commonly discovered in the visage; but the child may resemble either of its parents, yet have no feature in common with both. here outlines, surfaces, and hues were in absolute contrariety. that kindred subsisted between them was possible, notwithstanding this dissimilitude; but this circumstance contributed to envenom my suspicions. breakfast being finished, welbeck cast an eye of invitation to the piano-forte. the lady rose to comply with his request. my eye chanced to be, at that moment, fixed on her. in stepping to the instrument, some motion or appearance awakened a thought in my mind which affected my feelings like the shock of an earthquake. i have too slight acquaintance with the history of the passions to truly explain the emotion which now throbbed in my veins. i had been a stranger to what is called love. from subsequent reflection, i have contracted a suspicion that the sentiment with which i regarded this lady was not untinctured from this source, and that hence arose the turbulence of my feelings on observing what i construed into marks of pregnancy. the evidence afforded me was slight; yet it exercised an absolute sway over my belief. it was well that this suspicion had not been sooner excited. now civility did not require my stay in the apartment, and nothing but flight could conceal the state of my mind. i hastened, therefore, to a distance, and shrouded myself in the friendly secrecy of my own chamber. the constitution of my mind is doubtless singular and perverse; yet that opinion, perhaps, is the fruit of my ignorance. it may by no means be uncommon for men to _fashion_ their conclusions in opposition to evidence and _probability_, and so as to feed their malice and subvert their happiness. thus it was, in an eminent degree, in my case. the simple fact was connected, in my mind, with a train of the most hateful consequences. the depravity of welbeck was inferred from it. the charms of this angelic woman were tarnished and withered. i had formerly surveyed her as a precious and perfect monument, but now it was a scene of ruin and blast. this had been a source of sufficient anguish; but this was not all. i recollected that the claims of a parent had been urged. will you believe that these claims were now admitted, and that they heightened the iniquity of welbeck into the blackest and most stupendous of all crimes? these ideas were necessarily transient. conclusions more conformable to appearances succeeded. this lady might have been lately reduced to widowhood. the recent loss of a beloved companion would sufficiently account for her dejection, and make her present situation compatible with duty. by this new train of ideas i was somewhat comforted. i saw the folly of precipitate inferences and the injustice of my atrocious imputations, and acquired some degree of patience in my present state of uncertainty. my heart was lightened of its wonted burden, and i laboured to invent some harmless explication of the scene that i had witnessed the preceding night. at dinner welbeck appeared as usual, but not the lady. i ascribed her absence to some casual indisposition, and ventured to inquire into the state of her health. my companion said she was well, but that she had left the city for a month or two, finding the heat of summer inconvenient where she was. this was no unplausible reason for retirement. a candid mind would have acquiesced in this representation, and found in it nothing inconsistent with a supposition respecting the cause of appearances favourable to her character; but otherwise was i affected. the uneasiness which had flown for a moment returned, and i sunk into gloomy silence. from this i was roused by my patron, who requested me to deliver a billet, which he put into my hand, at the counting-house of mr. thetford, and to bring him an answer. this message was speedily performed. i entered a large building by the river-side. a spacious apartment presented itself, well furnished with pipes and hogsheads. in one corner was a smaller room, in which a gentleman was busy at writing. i advanced to the door of the room, but was there met by a young person, who received my paper and delivered it to him within. i stood still at the door; but was near enough to overhear what would pass between them. the letter was laid upon the desk, and presently he that sat at it lifted his eyes and glanced at the superscription. he scarcely spoke above a whisper; but his words, nevertheless, were clearly distinguishable. i did not call to mind the sound of his voice, but his words called up a train of recollections. "lo!" said he, carelessly, "this from the _nabob_!" an incident so slight as this was sufficient to open a spacious scene of meditation. this little word, half whispered in a thoughtless mood, was a key to unlock an extensive cabinet of secrets. thetford was probably indifferent whether his exclamation were overheard. little did he think on the inferences which would be built upon it. "the nabob!" by this appellation had some one been denoted in the chamber dialogue of which i had been an unsuspected auditor. the man who pretended poverty, and yet gave proofs of inordinate wealth; whom it was pardonable to defraud of thirty thousand dollars; first, because the loss of that sum would be trivial to one opulent as he; and, secondly, because he was imagined to have acquired this opulence by other than honest methods. instead of forthwith returning home, i wandered into the fields, to indulge myself in the new thoughts which were produced by this occurrence. i entertained no doubt that the person alluded to was my patron. no new light was thrown upon his character; unless something were deducible from the charge vaguely made, that his wealth was the fruit of illicit practices. he was opulent, and the sources of his wealth were unknown, if not to the rest of the community, at least to thetford. but here had a plot been laid. the fortune of thetford's brother was to rise from the success of artifices of which the credulity of welbeck was to be the victim. to detect and to counterwork this plot was obviously my duty. my interference might now indeed be too late to be useful; but this was at least to be ascertained by experiment. how should my intention be effected? i had hitherto concealed from welbeck my adventures at thetford's house. these it was now necessary to disclose, and to mention the recent occurrence. my deductions, in consequence of my ignorance, might be erroneous; but of their truth his knowledge of his own affairs would enable him to judge. it was possible that thetford and he whose chamber conversation i had overheard were different persons. i endeavoured in vain to ascertain their identity by a comparison of their voices. the words lately heard, my remembrance did not enable me certainly to pronounce to be uttered by the same organs. this uncertainty was of little moment. it sufficed that welbeck was designated by this appellation, and that therefore he was proved to be the subject of some fraudulent proceeding. the information that i possessed it was my duty to communicate as expeditiously as possible. i was resolved to employ the first opportunity that offered for this end. my meditations had been ardently pursued, and, when i recalled my attention, i found myself bewildered among fields and fences. it was late before i extricated myself from unknown paths, and reached home. i entered the parlour; but welbeck was not there. a table, with tea-equipage for one person, was set; from which i inferred that welbeck was engaged abroad. this belief was confirmed by the report of the servant. he could not inform me where his master was, but merely that he should not take tea at home. this incident was a source of vexation and impatience. i knew not but that delay would be of the utmost moment to the safety of my friend. wholly unacquainted as i was with the nature of his contracts with thetford, i could not decide whether a single hour would not avail to obviate the evils that threatened him. had i known whither to trace his footsteps, i should certainly have sought an immediate interview; but, as it was, i was obliged to wait, with what patience i could collect, for his return to his own house. i waited hour after hour in vain. the sun declined, and the shades of evening descended; but welbeck was still at a distance. chapter ix. welbeck did not return, though hour succeeded hour till the clock struck ten. i inquired of the servants, who informed me that their master was not accustomed to stay out so late. i seated myself at a table, in a parlour, on which there stood a light, and listened for the signal of his coming, either by the sound of steps on the pavement without or by a peal from the bell. the silence was uninterrupted and profound, and each minute added to my sum of impatience and anxiety. to relieve myself from the heat of the weather, which was aggravated by the condition of my thoughts, as well as to beguile this tormenting interval, it occurred to me to betake myself to the bath. i left the candle where it stood, and imagined that even in the bath i should hear the sound of the bell which would be rung upon his arrival at the door. no such signal occurred, and, after taking this refreshment, i prepared to return to my post. the parlour was still unoccupied, but this was not all; the candle i had left upon the table was gone. this was an inexplicable circumstance. on my promise to wait for their master, the servants had retired to bed. no signal of any one's entrance had been given. the street door was locked, and the key hung at its customary place upon the wall. what was i to think? it was obvious to suppose that the candle had been removed by a domestic; but their footsteps could not be traced, and i was not sufficiently acquainted with the house to find the way, especially immersed in darkness, to their chamber. one measure, however, it was evidently proper to take, which was to supply myself, anew, with a light. this was instantly performed; but what was next to be done? i was weary of the perplexities in which i was embroiled. i saw no avenue to escape from them but that which led me to the bosom of nature and to my ancient occupations. for a moment i was tempted to resume my rustic garb, and, on that very hour, to desert this habitation. one thing only detained me; the desire to apprize my patron of the treachery of thetford. for this end i was anxious to obtain an interview; but now i reflected that this information could by other means be imparted. was it not sufficient to write him briefly these particulars, and leave him to profit by the knowledge? thus i might, likewise, acquaint him with my motives for thus abruptly and unseasonably deserting his service. to the execution of this scheme pen and paper were necessary. the business of writing was performed in the chamber on the third story. i had been hitherto denied access to this room. in it was a show of papers and books. here it was that the task, for which i had been retained, was to be performed; but i was to enter it and leave it only in company with welbeck. for what reasons, i asked, was this procedure to be adopted? the influence of prohibitions and an appearance of disguise in awakening curiosity is well known. my mind fastened upon the idea of this room with an unusual degree of intenseness. i had seen it but for a moment. many of welbeck's hours were spent in it. it was not to be inferred that they were consumed in idleness: what then was the nature of his employment over which a veil of such impenetrable secrecy was cast? will you wonder that the design of entering this recess was insensibly formed? possibly it was locked, but its accessibleness was likewise possible. i meant not the commission of any crime. my principal purpose was to procure the implements of writing, which were elsewhere not to be found. i should neither unseal papers nor open drawers. i would merely take a survey of the volumes and attend to the objects that spontaneously presented themselves to my view. in this there surely was nothing criminal or blameworthy. meanwhile i was not unmindful of the sudden disappearance of the candle. this incident filled my bosom with the inquietudes of fear and the perturbations of wonder. once more i paused to catch any sound that might arise from without. all was still. i seized the candle and prepared to mount the stairs. i had not reached the first landing when i called to mind my midnight meeting with welbeck at the door of his daughter's chamber. the chamber was now desolate; perhaps it was accessible; if so, no injury was done by entering it. my curiosity was strong, but it pictured to itself no precise object. three steps would bear me to the door. the trial, whether it was fastened, might be made in a moment; and i readily imagined that something might be found within to reward the trouble of examination. the door yielded to my hand, and i entered. no remarkable object was discoverable. the apartment was supplied with the usual furniture. i bent my steps towards a table over which a mirror was suspended. my glances, which roved with swiftness from one object to another, shortly lighted on a miniature portrait that hung near. i scrutinized it with eagerness. it was impossible to overlook its resemblance to my own visage. this was so great that for a moment i imagined myself to have been the original from which it had been drawn. this flattering conception yielded place to a belief merely of similitude between me and the genuine original. the thoughts which this opinion was fitted to produce were suspended by a new object. a small volume, that had, apparently, been much used, lay upon the toilet. i opened it, and found it to contain some of the dramas of apostolo zeno. i turned over the leaves; a written paper saluted my sight. a single glance informed me that it was english. for the present i was insensible to all motives that would command me to forbear. i seized the paper with an intention to peruse it. at that moment a stunning report was heard. it was loud enough to shake the walls of the apartment, and abrupt enough to throw me into tremors. i dropped the book and yielded for a moment to confusion and surprise. from what quarter it came, i was unable accurately to determine; but there could be no doubt, from its loudness, that it was near, and even in the house. it was no less manifest that the sound arose from the discharge of a pistol. some hand must have drawn the trigger. i recollected the disappearance of the candle from the room below. instantly a supposition darted into my mind which made my hair rise and my teeth chatter. "this," i said, "is the deed of welbeck. he entered while i was absent from the room; he hied to his chamber; and, prompted by some unknown instigation, has inflicted on himself death!" this idea had a tendency to palsy my limbs and my thoughts. some time passed in painful and tumultuous fluctuation. my aversion to this catastrophe, rather than a belief of being, by that means, able to prevent or repair the evil, induced me to attempt to enter his chamber. it was possible that my conjectures were erroneous. the door of his room was locked. i knocked; i demanded entrance in a low voice; i put my eye and my ear to the keyhole and the crevices; nothing could be heard or seen. it was unavoidable to conclude that no one was within; yet the effluvia of gunpowder was perceptible. perhaps the room above had been the scene of this catastrophe. i ascended the second flight of stairs. i approached the door. no sound could be caught by my most vigilant attention. i put out the light that i carried, and was then able to perceive that there was light within the room. i scarcely knew how to act. for some minutes i paused at the door. i spoke, and requested permission to enter. my words were succeeded by a death-like stillness. at length i ventured softly to withdraw the bolt, to open and to advance within the room. nothing could exceed the horror of my expectation; yet i was startled by the scene that i beheld. in a chair, whose back was placed against the front wall, sat welbeck. my entrance alarmed him not, nor roused him from the stupor into which he was plunged. he rested his hands upon his knees, and his eyes were riveted to something that lay, at the distance of a few feet before him, on the floor. a second glance was sufficient to inform me of what nature this object was. it was the body of a man, bleeding, ghastly, and still exhibiting the marks of convulsion and agony! i shall omit to describe the shock which a spectacle like this communicated to my unpractised senses. i was nearly as panic-struck and powerless as welbeck himself. i gazed, without power of speech, at one time, at welbeck; then i fixed terrified eyes on the distorted features of the dead. at length, welbeck, recovering from his reverie, looked up, as if to see who it was that had entered. no surprise, no alarm, was betrayed by him on seeing me. he manifested no desire or intention to interrupt the fearful silence. my thoughts wandered in confusion and terror. the first impulse was to fly from the scene; but i could not be long insensible to the exigences of the moment. i saw that affairs must not be suffered to remain in their present situation. the insensibility or despair of welbeck required consolation and succour. how to communicate my thoughts, or offer my assistance, i knew not. what led to this murderous catastrophe; who it was whose breathless corpse was before me; what concern welbeck had in producing his death; were as yet unknown. at length he rose from his seat, and strode at first with faltering, and then with more steadfast steps, across the floor. this motion seemed to put him in possession of himself. he seemed now, for the first time, to recognise my presence. he turned to me, and said, in a tone of severity,-"how now? what brings you here?" this rebuke was unexpected. i stammered out, in reply, that the report of the pistol had alarmed me, and that i came to discover the cause of it. he noticed not my answer, but resumed his perturbed steps, and his anxious but abstracted looks. suddenly he checked himself, and, glancing a furious eye at the corpse, he muttered, "yes, the die is cast. this worthless and miserable scene shall last no longer. i will at once get rid of life and all its humiliations." here succeeded a new pause. the course of his thoughts seemed now to become once more tranquil. sadness, rather than fury, overspread his features; and his accent, when he spoke to me, was not faltering, but solemn. "mervyn," said he, "you comprehend not this scene. your youth and inexperience make you a stranger to a deceitful and flagitious world. you know me not. it is time that this ignorance should vanish. the knowledge of me and of my actions may be of use to you. it may teach you to avoid the shoals on which my virtue and my peace have been wrecked; but to the rest of mankind it can be of no use. the ruin of my fame is, perhaps, irretrievable; but the height of my iniquity need not be known. i perceive in you a rectitude and firmness worthy to be trusted; promise me, therefore, that not a syllable of what i tell you shall ever pass your lips." i had lately experienced the inconvenience of a promise; but i was now confused, embarrassed, ardently inquisitive as to the nature of this scene, and unapprized of the motives that might afterwards occur, persuading or compelling me to disclosure. the promise which he exacted was given. he resumed:-"i have detained you in my service, partly for your own benefit, but chiefly for mine. i intended to inflict upon you injury and to do you good. neither of these ends can i now accomplish, unless the lessons which my example may inculcate shall inspire you with fortitude and arm you with caution. "what it was that made me thus, i know not. i am not destitute of understanding. my thirst of knowledge, though irregular, is ardent. i can talk and can feel as virtue and justice prescribe; yet the tenor of my actions has been uniform. one tissue of iniquity and folly has been my life; while my thoughts have been familiar with enlightened and disinterested principles. scorn and detestation i have heaped upon myself. yesterday is remembered with remorse. to-morrow is contemplated with anguish and fear; yet every day is productive of the same crimes and of the same follies. "i was left, by the insolvency of my father, (a trader of liverpool,) without any means of support but such as labour should afford me. whatever could generate pride, and the love of independence, was my portion. whatever can incite to diligence was the growth of my condition; yet my indolence was a cureless disease; and there were no arts too sordid for me to practise. "i was content to live on the bounty of a kinsman. his family was numerous, and his revenue small. he forbore to upbraid me, or even to insinuate the propriety of providing for myself; but he empowered me to pursue any liberal or mechanical profession which might suit my taste. i was insensible to every generous motive. i laboured to forget my dependent and disgraceful condition, because the remembrance was a source of anguish, without being able to inspire me with a steady resolution to change it. "i contracted an acquaintance with a woman who was unchaste, perverse, and malignant. me, however, she found it no difficult task to deceive. my uncle remonstrated against the union. he took infinite pains to unveil my error, and to convince me that wedlock was improper for one destitute, as i was, of the means of support, even if the object of my choice were personally unexceptionable. "his representations were listened to with anger. that he thwarted my will in this respect, even by affectionate expostulation, cancelled all that debt of gratitude which i owed to him. i rewarded him for all his kindness by invective and disdain, and hastened to complete my ill-omened marriage. i had deceived the woman's father by assertions of possessing secret resources. to gratify my passion, i descended to dissimulation and falsehood. he admitted me into his family, as the husband of his child; but the character of my wife and the fallacy of my assertions were quickly discovered. he denied me accommodation under his roof, and i was turned forth to the world to endure the penalty of my rashness and my indolence. "temptation would have moulded me into any villanous shape. my virtuous theories and comprehensive erudition would not have saved me from the basest of crimes. luckily for me, i was, for the present, exempted from temptation. i had formed an acquaintance with a young american captain. on being partially informed of my situation, he invited me to embark with him for his own country. my passage was gratuitous. i arrived, in a short time, at charleston, which was the place of his abode. "he introduced me to his family, every member of which was, like himself, imbued with affection and benevolence. i was treated like their son and brother. i was hospitably entertained until i should be able to select some path of lucrative industry. such was my incurable depravity, that i made no haste to select my pursuit. an interval of inoccupation succeeded, which i applied to the worst purposes. "my friend had a sister, who was married, but during the absence of her husband resided with her family. hence originated our acquaintance. the purest of human hearts and the most vigorous understanding were hers. she idolized her husband, who well deserved to be the object of her adoration. her affection for him, and her general principles, appeared to be confirmed beyond the power to be shaken. i sought her intercourse without illicit views; i delighted in the effusions of her candour and the flashes of her intelligence; i conformed, by a kind of instinctive hypocrisy, to her views; i spoke and felt from the influence of immediate and momentary conviction. she imagined she had found in me a friend worthy to partake in all her sympathies and forward all her wishes. we were mutually deceived. she was the victim of self-delusion; but i must charge myself with practising deceit both upon myself and her. "i reflect with astonishment and horror on the steps which led to her degradation and to my calamity. in the high career of passion all consequences were overlooked. she was the dupe of the most audacious sophistry and the grossest delusion. i was the slave of sensual impulses and voluntary blindness. the effect may be easily conceived. not till symptoms of pregnancy began to appear were our eyes opened to the ruin which impended over us. "then i began to revolve the consequences, which the mist of passion had hitherto concealed. i was tormented by the pangs of remorse, and pursued by the phantom of ingratitude. to complete my despair, this unfortunate lady was apprized of my marriage with another woman; a circumstance which i had anxiously concealed from her. she fled from her father's house at a time when her husband and brother were hourly expected. what became of her i knew not. she left behind her a letter to her father, in which the melancholy truth was told. "shame and remorse had no power over my life. to elude the storm of invective and upbraiding, to quiet the uproar of my mind, i did not betake myself to voluntary death. my pusillanimity still clung to this wretched existence. i abruptly retired from the scene, and, repairing to the port, embarked in the first vessel which appeared. the ship chanced to belong to wilmington, in delaware, and here i sought out an obscure and cheap abode. "i possessed no means of subsistence. i was unknown to my neighbours, and desired to remain unknown. i was unqualified for manual labour by all the habits of my life; but there was no choice between penury and diligence,--between honest labour and criminal inactivity. i mused incessantly on the forlornness of my condition. hour after hour passed, and the horrors of want began to encompass me. i sought with eagerness for an avenue by which i might escape from it. the perverseness of my nature led me on from one guilty thought to another. i took refuge in my customary sophistries, and reconciled myself at length to a scheme of--_forgery_!" chapter x. "having ascertained my purpose, it was requisite to search out the means by which i might effect it. these were not clearly or readily suggested. the more i contemplated my project, the more numerous and arduous its difficulties appeared. i had no associates in my undertaking. a due regard to my safety, and the unextinguished sense of honour, deterred me from seeking auxiliaries and co-agents. the esteem of mankind was the spring of all my activity, the parent of all my virtue and all my vice. to preserve this, it was necessary that my guilty projects should have neither witness nor partaker. "i quickly discovered that to execute this scheme demanded time, application, and money, none of which my present situation would permit me to devote to it. at first it appeared that an attainable degree of skill and circumspection would enable me to arrive, by means of counterfeit bills, to the pinnacle of affluence and honour. my error was detected by a closer scrutiny, and i finally saw nothing in this path but enormous perils and insurmountable impediments. "yet what alternative was offered me? to maintain myself by the labour of my hands, to perform any toilsome or prescribed task, was incompatible with my nature. my habits debarred me from country occupations. my pride regarded as vile and ignominious drudgery any employment which the town could afford. meanwhile, my wants were as urgent as ever, and my funds were exhausted. "there are few, perhaps, whose external situation resembled mine, who would have found in it any thing but incitements to industry and invention. a thousand methods of subsistence, honest but laborious, were at my command, but to these i entertained an irreconcilable aversion. ease and the respect attendant upon opulence i was willing to purchase at the price of ever-wakeful suspicion and eternal remorse; but, even at this price, the purchase was impossible. "the desperateness of my condition became hourly more apparent. the further i extended my view, the darker grew the clouds which hung over futurity. anguish and infamy appeared to be the inseparable conditions of my existence. there was one mode of evading the evils that impended. to free myself from self-upbraiding and to shun the persecutions of my fortune was possible only by shaking off life itself. "one evening, as i traversed the bank of the creek, these dismal meditations were uncommonly intense. they at length terminated in a resolution to throw myself into the stream. the first impulse was to rush instantly to my death; but the remembrance of papers, lying at my lodgings, which might unfold more than i desired to the curiosity of survivors, induced me to postpone this catastrophe till the next morning. "my purpose being formed, i found my heart lightened of its usual weight. by you it will be thought strange, but it is nevertheless true, that i derived from this new prospect not only tranquillity but cheerfulness. i hastened home. as soon as i entered, my landlord informed me that a person had been searching for me in my absence. this was an unexampled incident, and foreboded me no good. i was strongly persuaded that my visitant had been led hither not by friendly but hostile purposes. this persuasion was confirmed by the description of the stranger's guise and demeanour given by my landlord. my fears instantly recognised the image of watson, the man by whom i had been so eminently benefited, and whose kindness i had compensated by the ruin of his sister and the confusion of his family. "an interview with this man was less to be endured than to look upon the face of an avenging deity. i was determined to avoid this interview, and, for this end, to execute my fatal purpose within the hour. my papers were collected with a tremulous hand, and consigned to the flames. i then bade my landlord inform all visitants that i should not return till the next day, and once more hastened towards the river. "my way led past the inn where one of the stages from baltimore was accustomed to stop. i was not unaware that watson had possibly been brought in the coach which had recently arrived, and which now stood before the door of the inn. the danger of my being descried or encountered by him as i passed did not fail to occur. this was to be eluded by deviating from the main street. "scarcely had i turned a corner for this purpose when i was accosted by a young man whom i knew to be an inhabitant of the town, but with whom i had hitherto had no intercourse but what consisted in a transient salutation. he apologized for the liberty of addressing me, and, at the same time, inquired if i understood the french language. "being answered in the affirmative, he proceeded to tell me that in the stage, just arrived, had come a passenger, a youth who appeared to be french, who was wholly unacquainted with our language, and who had been seized with a violent disease. "my informant had felt compassion for the forlorn condition of the stranger, and had just been seeking me at my lodgings, in hope that my knowledge of french would enable me to converse with the sick man, and obtain from him a knowledge of his situation and views. "the apprehensions i had precipitately formed were thus removed, and i readily consented to perform this service. the youth was, indeed, in a deplorable condition. besides the pains of his disease, he was overpowered by dejection. the innkeeper was extremely anxious for the removal of his guest. he was by no means willing to sustain the trouble and expense of a sick or a dying man, for which it was scarcely probable that he should ever be reimbursed. the traveller had no baggage, and his dress betokened the pressure of many wants. "my compassion for this stranger was powerfully awakened. i was in possession of a suitable apartment, for which i had no power to pay the rent that was accruing; but my inability in this respect was unknown, and i might enjoy my lodgings unmolested for some weeks. the fate of this youth would be speedily decided, and i should be left at liberty to execute my first intentions before my embarrassments should be visibly increased. "after a moment's pause, i conducted the stranger to my home, placed him in my own bed, and became his nurse. his malady was such as is known in the tropical islands by the name of the yellow or malignant fever, and the physician who was called speedily pronounced his case desperate. "it was my duty to warn him of the death that was hastening, and to promise the fulfilment of any of his wishes not inconsistent with my present situation. he received my intelligence with fortitude, and appeared anxious to communicate some information respecting his own state. his pangs and his weakness scarcely allowed him to be intelligible. from his feeble efforts and broken narrative i collected thus much concerning his family and fortune. "his father's name was vincentio lodi. from a merchant at leghorn, he had changed himself into a planter in the island of guadaloupe. his son had been sent, at an early age, for the benefits of education, to europe. the young vincentio was, at length, informed by his father, that, being weary of his present mode of existence, he had determined to sell his property and transport himself to the united states. the son was directed to hasten home, that he might embark, with his father, on this voyage. "the summons was cheerfully obeyed. the youth, on his arrival at the island, found preparation making for the funeral of his father. it appeared that the elder lodi had flattered one of his slaves with the prospect of his freedom, but had, nevertheless, included this slave in the sale that he had made of his estate. actuated by revenge, the slave assassinated lodi in the open street, and resigned himself, without a struggle, to the punishment which the law had provided for such a deed. "the property had been recently transferred, and the price was now presented to young vincentio by the purchaser. he was by no means inclined to adopt his father's project, and was impatient to return with his inheritance to france. before this could be done, the conduct of his father had rendered a voyage to the continent indispensable. "lodi had a daughter, whom, a few weeks previous to his death, he had intrusted to an american captain for whom he had contracted a friendship. the vessel was bound to philadelphia; but the conduct she was to pursue, and the abode she was to select, on her arrival, were known only to the father, whose untimely death involved the son in considerable uncertainty with regard to his sister's fate. his anxiety on this account induced him to seize the first conveyance that offered. in a short time he landed at baltimore. "as soon as he recovered from the fatigues of his voyage, he prepared to go to philadelphia. thither his baggage was immediately sent under the protection of a passenger and countryman. his money consisted in portuguese gold, which, in pursuance of advice, he had changed into bank-notes. he besought me, in pathetic terms, to search out his sister, whose youth and poverty, and ignorance of the language and manners of the country, might expose her to innumerable hardships. at the same time, he put a pocket-book and small volume into my hand, indicating, by his countenance and gestures, his desire that i would deliver them to his sister. "his obsequies being decently performed, i had leisure to reflect upon the change in my condition which this incident had produced. in the pocket-book were found bills to the amount of twenty thousand dollars. the volume proved to be a manuscript, written by the elder lodi in italian, and contained memoirs of the ducal house of visconti, from whom the writer believed himself to have lineally descended. "thus had i arrived, by an avenue so much beyond my foresight, at the possession of wealth. the evil which impelled me to the brink of suicide, and which was the source, though not of all, yet of the larger portion, of my anguish, was now removed. what claims to honour or to ease were consequent on riches were, by an extraordinary fortune, now conferred upon me. "such, for a time, were my new-born but transitory raptures. i forgot that this money was not mine. that it had been received, under every sanction of fidelity, for another's use. to retain it was equivalent to robbery. the sister of the deceased was the rightful claimant; it was my duty to search her out, and perform my tacit but sacred obligations, by putting the whole into her possession. "this conclusion was too adverse to my wishes not to be strenuously combated. i asked what it was that gave man the power of ascertaining the successor to his property. during his life, he might transfer the actual possession; but, if vacant at his death, he into whose hands accident should cast it was the genuine proprietor. it is true, that the law had sometimes otherwise decreed, but in law there was no validity further than it was able, by investigation and punishment, to enforce its decrees: but would the law extort this money from me? "it was rather by gesture than by words that the will of lodi was imparted. it was the topic of remote inferences and vague conjecture rather than of explicit and unerring declarations. besides, if the lady were found, would not prudence dictate the reservation of her fortune to be administered by me, for her benefit? of this her age and education had disqualified herself. it was sufficient for the maintenance of both. she would regard me as her benefactor and protector. by supplying all her wants and watching over her safety without apprizing her of the means by which i shall be enabled to do this, i shall lay irresistible claims to her love and her gratitude. "such were the sophistries by which reason was seduced and my integrity annihilated. i hastened away from my present abode. i easily traced the baggage of the deceased to an inn, and gained possession of it. it contained nothing but clothes and books. i then instituted the most diligent search after the young lady. for a time, my exertions were fruitless. "meanwhile, the possessor of this house thought proper to embark with his family for europe. the sum which he demanded for his furniture, though enormous, was precipitately paid by me. his servants were continued in their former stations, and in the day at which he relinquished the mansion, i entered on possession. "there was no difficulty in persuading the world that welbeck was a personage of opulence and rank. my birth and previous adventures it was proper to conceal. the facility with which mankind are misled in their estimate of characters, their proneness to multiply inferences and conjectures, will not be readily conceived by one destitute of my experience. my sudden appearance on the stage, my stately reserve, my splendid habitation, and my circumspect deportment, were sufficient to entitle me to homage. the artifices that were used to unveil the truth, and the guesses that were current respecting me, were adapted to gratify my ruling passion. "i did not remit my diligence to discover the retreat of mademoiselle lodi. i found her, at length, in the family of a kinsman of the captain under whose care she had come to america. her situation was irksome and perilous. she had already experienced the evils of being protectorless and indigent, and my seasonable interference snatched her from impending and less supportable ills. "i could safely unfold all that i knew of her brother's history, except the legacy which he had left. i ascribed the diligence with which i had sought her to his death-bed injunctions, and prevailed upon her to accept from me the treatment which she would have received from her brother if he had continued to live, and if his power to benefit had been equal to my own. "though less can be said in praise of the understanding than of the sensibilities of this woman, she is one whom no one could refrain from loving, though placed in situations far less favourable to the generation of that sentiment than mine. in habits of domestic and incessant intercourse, in the perpetual contemplation of features animated by boundless gratitude and ineffable sympathies, it could not be expected that either she or i should escape enchantment. "the poison was too sweet not to be swallowed with avidity by me. too late i remembered that i was already enslaved by inextricable obligations. it was easy to have hidden this impediment from the eyes of my companion, but here my integrity refused to yield. i can, indeed, lay claim to little merit on account of this forbearance. if there had been no alternative between deceit and the frustration of my hopes, i should doubtless have dissembled the truth with as little scruple on this as on a different occasion; but i could not be blind to the weakness of her with whom i had to contend. chapter xi. "meanwhile large deductions had been made from my stock of money, and the remnant would be speedily consumed by my present mode of life. my expenses far exceeded my previous expectations. in no long time i should be reduced to my ancient poverty, which the luxurious existence that i now enjoyed, and the regard due to my beloved and helpless companion, would render more irksome than ever. some scheme to rescue me from this fate was indispensable; but my aversion to labour, to any pursuit the end of which was merely gain, and which would require application and attention, continued undiminished. "i was plunged anew into dejection and perplexity. from this i was somewhat relieved by a plan suggested by mr. thetford. i thought i had experience of his knowledge and integrity, and the scheme that he proposed seemed liable to no possibility of miscarriage. a ship was to be purchased, supplied with a suitable cargo, and despatched to a port in the west indies. loss from storms and enemies was to be precluded by insurance. every hazard was to be enumerated, and the ship and cargo valued at the highest rate. should the voyage be safely performed, the profits would be double the original expense. should the ship be taken or wrecked, the insurers would have bound themselves to make ample, speedy, and certain indemnification. thetford's brother, a wary and experienced trader, was to be the supercargo. "all my money was laid out upon this scheme. scarcely enough was reserved to supply domestic and personal wants. large debts were likewise incurred. our caution had, as we conceived, annihilated every chance of failure. too much could not be expended on a project so infallible; and the vessel, amply fitted and freighted, departed on her voyage. "an interval, not devoid of suspense and anxiety, succeeded. my mercantile inexperience made me distrust the clearness of my own discernment, and i could not but remember that my utter and irretrievable destruction was connected with the failure of my scheme. time added to my distrust and apprehensions. the time at which tidings of the ship were to be expected elapsed without affording any information of her destiny. my anxieties, however, were to be carefully hidden from the world. i had taught mankind to believe that this project had been adopted more for amusement than gain; and the debts which i had contracted seemed to arise from willingness to adhere to established maxims, more than from the pressure of necessity. "month succeeded month, and intelligence was still withheld. the notes which i had given for one-third of the cargo, and for the premium of insurance, would shortly become due. for the payment of the former, and the cancelling of the latter, i had relied upon the expeditious return or the demonstrated loss of the vessel. neither of these events had taken place. "my cares were augmented from another quarter. my companion's situation now appeared to be such as, if our intercourse had been sanctified by wedlock, would have been regarded with delight. as it was, no symptoms were equally to be deplored. consequences, as long as they were involved in uncertainty, were extenuated or overlooked; but now, when they became apparent and inevitable, were fertile of distress and upbraiding. "indefinable fears, and a desire to monopolize all the meditations and affections of this being, had induced me to perpetuate her ignorance of any but her native language, and debar her from all intercourse with the world. my friends were of course inquisitive respecting her character, adventures, and particularly her relation to me. the consciousness how much the truth redounded to my dishonour made me solicitous to lead conjecture astray. for this purpose i did not discountenance the conclusion that was adopted by some,--that she was my daughter. i reflected that all dangerous surmises would be effectually precluded by this belief. "these precautions afforded me some consolation in my present difficulties. it was requisite to conceal the lady's condition from the world. if this should be ineffectual, it would not be difficult to divert suspicion from my person. the secrecy that i had practised would be justified, in the apprehension of those to whom the personal condition of clemenza should be disclosed, by the feelings of a father. "meanwhile, it was an obvious expedient to remove the unhappy lady to a distance from impertinent observers. a rural retreat, lonely and sequestered, was easily procured, and hither she consented to repair. this arrangement being concerted, i had leisure to reflect upon the evils which every hour brought nearer, and which threatened to exterminate me. "my inquietudes forbade me to sleep, and i was accustomed to rise before day and seek some respite in the fields. returning from one of these unseasonable rambles, i chanced to meet you. your resemblance to the deceased lodi, in person and visage, is remarkable. when you first met my eye, this similitude startled me. your subsequent appeal to my compassion was clothed in such terms as formed a powerful contrast with your dress, and prepossessed me greatly in favour of your education and capacity. "in my present hopeless condition, every incident, however trivial, was attentively considered, with a view to extract from it some means of escaping from my difficulties. my love for the italian girl, in spite of all my efforts to keep it alive, had begun to languish. marriage was impossible; and had now, in some degree, ceased to be desirable. we are apt to judge of others by ourselves. the passion i now found myself disposed to ascribe chiefly to fortuitous circumstances; to the impulse of gratitude, and the exclusion of competitors; and believed that your resemblance to her brother, your age and personal accomplishments, might, after a certain time, and in consequence of suitable contrivances on my part, give a new direction to her feelings. to gain your concurrence, i relied upon your simplicity, your gratitude, and your susceptibility to the charms of this bewitching creature. "i contemplated, likewise, another end. mrs. wentworth is rich. a youth who was once her favourite, and designed to inherit her fortunes, has disappeared, for some years, from the scene. his death is most probable, but of that there is no satisfactory information. the life of this person, whose name is clavering, is an obstacle to some designs which had occurred to me in relation to this woman. my purposes were crude and scarcely formed. i need not swell the catalogue of my errors by expatiating upon them. suffice it to say that the peculiar circumstances of your introduction to me led me to reflections on the use that might be made of your agency, in procuring this lady's acquiescence in my schemes. you were to be ultimately persuaded to confirm her in the belief that her nephew was dead. to this consummation it was indispensable to lead you by slow degrees and circuitous paths. meanwhile, a profound silence, with regard to your genuine history, was to be observed; and to this forbearance your consent was obtained with more readiness than i expected. "there was an additional motive for the treatment you received from me. my personal projects and cares had hitherto prevented me from reading lodi's manuscript; a slight inspection, however, was sufficient to prove that the work was profound and eloquent. my ambition has panted, with equal avidity, after the reputation of literature and opulence. to claim the authorship of this work was too harmless and specious a stratagem not to be readily suggested. i meant to translate it into english, and to enlarge it by enterprising incidents of my own invention. my scruples to assume the merit of the original composer might thus be removed. for this end, your assistance as an amanuensis would be necessary. "you will perceive that all these projects depended on the seasonable arrival of intelligence from ----. the delay of another week would seal my destruction. the silence might arise from the foundering of the ship and the destruction of all on board. in this case, the insurance was not forfeited, but payment could not be obtained within a year. meanwhile, the premium and other debts must be immediately discharged, and this was beyond my power. meanwhile, i was to live in a manner that would not belie my pretensions; but my coffers were empty. "i cannot adequately paint the anxieties with which i have been haunted. each hour has added to the burden of my existence, till, in consequence of the events of this day, it has become altogether insupportable. some hours ago, i was summoned by thetford to his house. the messenger informed me that tidings had been received of my ship. in answer to my eager interrogations, he could give no other information than that she had been captured by the british. he was unable to relate particulars. "news of her safe return would, indeed, have been far more acceptable; but even this information was a source of infinite congratulation. it precluded the demand of my insurers. the payment of other debts might be postponed for a month, and my situation be the same as before the adoption of this successless scheme. hope and joy were reinstated in my bosom, and i hasted to thetford's counting-house. "he received me with an air of gloomy dissatisfaction. i accounted for his sadness by supposing him averse to communicate information which was less favourable than our wishes had dictated. he confirmed, with visible reluctance, the news of her capture. he had just received letters from his brother, acquainting him with all particulars, and containing the official documents of this transaction. "this had no tendency to damp my satisfaction, and i proceeded to peruse with eagerness the papers which he put into my hand. i had not proceeded far, when my joyous hopes vanished. two french mulattoes had, after much solicitation, and the most solemn promises to carry with them no articles which the laws of war decree to be contraband, obtained a passage in the vessel. she was speedily encountered by a privateer, by whom every receptacle was ransacked. in a chest, belonging to the frenchmen, and which they had affirmed to contain nothing but their clothes, were found two sabres, and other accoutrements of an officer of cavalry. under this pretence, the vessel was captured and condemned, and this was a cause of forfeiture which had not been provided against in the contract of insurance. "by this untoward event my hopes were irreparably blasted. the utmost efforts were demanded to conceal my thoughts from my companion. the anguish that preyed upon my heart was endeavoured to be masked by looks of indifference. i pretended to have been previously informed by the messenger not only of the capture, but of the cause that led to it, and forbore to expatiate upon my loss, or to execrate the authors of my disappointment. my mind, however, was the theatre of discord and agony, and i waited with impatience for an opportunity to leave him. "for want of other topics, i asked by whom this information had been brought. he answered, that the bearer was captain amos watson, whose vessel had been forfeited, at the same time, under a different pretence. he added that, my name being mentioned accidentally to watson, the latter had betrayed marks of great surprise, and been very earnest in his inquiries respecting my situation. having obtained what knowledge thetford was able to communicate, the captain had departed, avowing a former acquaintance with me, and declaring his intention of paying me a visit. "these words operated on my frame like lightning. all within me was tumult and terror, and i rushed precipitately out of the house. i went forward with unequal steps, and at random. some instinct led me into the fields, and i was not apprized of the direction of my steps, till, looking up, i found myself upon the shore of schuylkill. "thus was i, a second time, overborne by hopeless and incurable evils. an interval of motley feelings, of specious artifice and contemptible imposture, had elapsed since my meeting with the stranger at wilmington. then my forlorn state had led me to the brink of suicide. a brief and feverish respite had been afforded me, but now was i transported to the verge of the same abyss. "amos watson was the brother of the angel whom i had degraded and destroyed. what but fiery indignation and unappeasable vengeance could lead him into my presence? with what heart could i listen to his invectives? how could i endure to look upon the face of one whom i had loaded with such atrocious and intolerable injuries? "i was acquainted with his loftiness of mind; his detestation of injustice, and the whirlwind passions that ingratitude and villany like mine were qualified to awaken in his bosom. i dreaded not his violence. the death that he might be prompted to inflict was no object of aversion. it was poverty and disgrace, the detection of my crimes, the looks and voice of malediction and upbraiding, from which my cowardice shrunk. "why should i live? i must vanish from that stage which i had lately trodden. my flight must be instant and precipitate. to be a fugitive from exasperated creditors, and from the industrious revenge of watson, was an easy undertaking; but whither could i fly, where i should not be pursued by the phantoms of remorse, by the dread of hourly detection, by the necessities of hunger and thirst? in what scene should i be exempt from servitude and drudgery? was my existence embellished with enjoyments that would justify my holding it, encumbered with hardships and immersed in obscurity? "there was no room for hesitation. to rush into the stream before me, and put an end at once to my life and the miseries inseparably linked with it, was the only proceeding which fate had left to my choice. my muscles were already exerted for this end, when the helpless condition of clemenza was remembered. what provision could i make against the evils that threatened her? should i leave her utterly forlorn and friendless? mrs. wentworth's temper was forgiving and compassionate. adversity had taught her to participate and her wealth enabled her to relieve distress. who was there by whom such powerful claims to succour and protection could be urged as by this desolate girl? might i not state her situation in a letter to this lady, and urge irresistible pleas for the extension of her kindness to this object? "these thoughts made me suspend my steps. i determined to seek my habitation once more, and, having written and deposited this letter, to return to the execution of my fatal purpose. i had scarcely reached my own door, when some one approached along the pavement. the form, at first, was undistinguishable, but, by coming, at length, within the illumination of a lamp, it was perfectly recognised. "to avoid this detested interview was now impossible. watson approached and accosted me. in this conflict of tumultuous feelings i was still able to maintain an air of intrepidity. his demeanour was that of a man who struggles with his rage. his accents were hurried, and scarcely articulate. 'i have ten words to say to you,' said he; 'lead into the house, and to some private room. my business with you will be despatched in a breath.' "i made him no answer, but led the way into my house, and to my study. on entering this room, i put the light upon the table, and, turning to my visitant, prepared silently to hear what he had to unfold. he struck his clenched hand against the table with violence. his motion was of that tempestuous kind as to overwhelm the power of utterance, and found it easier to vent itself in gesticulations than in words. at length he exclaimed,-"'it is well. now has the hour, so long and so impatiently demanded by my vengeance, arrived. welbeck! would that my first words could strike thee dead! they will so, if thou hast any title to the name of man. "'my sister is dead; dead of anguish and a broken heart. remote from her friends; in a hovel; the abode of indigence and misery. "'her husband is no more. he returned after a long absence, a tedious navigation, and vicissitudes of hardships. he flew to the bosom of his love; of his wife. she was gone; lost to him, and to virtue. in a fit of desperation, he retired to his chamber and despatched himself. this is the instrument with which the deed was performed.' "saying this, watson took a pistol from his pocket, and held it to my head. i lifted not my hand to turn aside the weapon. i did not shudder at the spectacle, or shrink from his approaching hand. with fingers clasped together, and eyes fixed upon the floor, i waited till his fury was exhausted. he continued:-"'all passed in a few hours. the elopement of his daughter,--the death of his son. o my father! most loved and most venerable of men! to see thee changed into a maniac! haggard and wild! deterred from outrage on thyself and those around thee by fetters and stripes! what was it that saved me from a like fate? to view this hideous ruin, and to think by whom it was occasioned! yet not to become frantic like thee, my father; or not destroy myself like thee, my brother! my friend!-"'no. for this hour was i reserved; to avenge your wrongs and mine in the blood of this ungrateful villain.' "'there,' continued he, producing a second pistol, and tendering it to me,--'there is thy defence. take we opposite sides of this table, and fire at the same instant.' "during this address i was motionless. he tendered the pistol, but i unclasped not my hands to receive it. "'why do you hesitate?' resumed he. 'let the chance between us be equal, or fire you first.' "'no,' said i, 'i am ready to die by your hand. i wish it. it will preclude the necessity of performing the office for myself. i have injured you, and merit all that your vengeance can inflict. i know your nature too well to believe that my death will be perfect expiation. when the gust of indignation is past, the remembrance of your deed will only add to your sum of misery; yet i do not love you well enough to wish that you would forbear. i desire to die, and to die by another's hand rather than my own.' "'coward!' exclaimed watson, with augmented vehemence, 'you know me too well to believe me capable of assassination. vile subterfuge! contemptible plea! take the pistol and defend yourself. you want not the power or the will; but, knowing that i spurn at murder, you think your safety will be found in passiveness. your refusal will avail you little. your fame, if not your life, is at my mercy. if you falter now, i will allow you to live, but only till i have stabbed your reputation.' "i now fixed my eyes steadfastly upon him, and spoke:--'how much a stranger are you to the feelings of welbeck! how poor a judge of his cowardice! i take your pistol, and consent to your conditions.' "we took opposite sides of the table. 'are you ready?' he cried; 'fire!' "both triggers were drawn at the same instant. both pistols were discharged. mine was negligently raised. such is the untoward chance that presides over human affairs; such is the malignant destiny by which my steps have ever been pursued. the bullet whistled harmlessly by me,--levelled by an eye that never before failed, and with so small an interval between us. i escaped, but my blind and random shot took place in his heart. "there is the fruit of this disastrous meeting. the catalogue of death is thus completed. thou sleepest, watson! thy sister is at rest, and so art thou. thy vows of vengeance are at an end. it was not reserved for thee to be thy own and thy sister's avenger. welbeck's measure of transgressions is now full, and his own hand must execute the justice that is due to him." chapter xii. such was welbeck's tale, listened to by me with an eagerness in which every faculty was absorbed. how adverse to my dreams were the incidents that had just been related! the curtain was lifted, and a scene of guilt and ignominy disclosed where my rash and inexperienced youth had suspected nothing but loftiness and magnanimity. for a while the wondrousness of this tale kept me from contemplating the consequences that awaited us. my unfledged fancy had not hitherto soared to this pitch. all was astounding by its novelty, or terrific by its horror. the very scene of these offences partook, to my rustic apprehension, of fairy splendour and magical abruptness. my understanding was bemazed, and my senses were taught to distrust their own testimony. from this musing state i was recalled by my companion, who said to me, in solemn accents, "mervyn! i have but two requests to make. assist me to bury these remains, and then accompany me across the river. i have no power to compel your silence on the acts that you have witnessed. i have meditated to benefit as well as to injure you; but i do not desire that your demeanour should conform to any other standard than justice. you have promised, and to that promise i trust. "if you choose to fly from this scene, to withdraw yourself from what you may conceive to be a theatre of guilt or peril, the avenues are open; retire unmolested and in silence. if you have a manlike spirit, if you are grateful for the benefits bestowed upon you, if your discernment enables you to see that compliance with my request will entangle you in no guilt and betray you into no danger, stay, and aid me in hiding these remains from human scrutiny. "watson is beyond the reach of further injury. i never intended him harm, though i have torn from him his sister and friend, and have brought his life to an untimely close. to provide him a grave is a duty that i owe to the dead and to the living. i shall quickly place myself beyond the reach of inquisitors and judges, but would willingly rescue from molestation or suspicion those whom i shall leave behind." what would have been the fruit of deliberation, if i had had the time or power to deliberate, i know not. my thoughts flowed with tumult and rapidity. to shut this spectacle from my view was the first impulse; but to desert this man, in a time of so much need, appeared a thankless and dastardly deportment. to remain where i was, to conform implicitly to his direction, required no effort. some fear was connected with his presence, and with that of the dead; but, in the tremulous confusion of my present thoughts, solitude would conjure up a thousand phantoms. i made no preparation to depart. i did not verbally assent to his proposal. he interpreted my silence into acquiescence. he wrapped the body in the carpet, and then, lifting one end, cast at me a look which indicated his expectations that i would aid him in lifting this ghastly burden. during this process, the silence was unbroken. i knew not whither he intended to convey the corpse. he had talked of burial, but no receptacle had been provided. how far safety might depend upon his conduct in this particular, i was unable to estimate. i was in too heartless a mood to utter my doubts. i followed his example in raising the corpse from the floor. he led the way into the passage and down-stairs. having reached the first floor, he unbolted a door which led into the cellar. the stairs and passage were illuminated by lamps that hung from the ceiling and were accustomed to burn during the night. now, however, we were entering darksome and murky recesses. "return," said he, in a tone of command, "and fetch the light. i will wait for you." i obeyed. as i returned with the light, a suspicion stole into my mind, that welbeck had taken this opportunity to fly; and that, on regaining the foot of the stairs, i should find the spot deserted by all but the dead. my blood was chilled by this image. the momentary resolution it inspired was to follow the example of the fugitive, and leave the persons whom the ensuing day might convene on this spot, to form their own conjectures as to the cause of this catastrophe. meanwhile, i cast anxious eyes forward. welbeck was discovered in the same place and posture in which he had been left. lifting the corpse and its shroud in his arms, he directed me to follow him. the vaults beneath were lofty and spacious. he passed from one to the other till we reached a small and remote cell. here he cast his burden on the ground. in the fall, the face of watson chanced to be disengaged from its covering. its closed eyes and sunken muscles were rendered in a tenfold degree ghastly and rueful by the feeble light which the candle shed upon it. this object did not escape the attention of welbeck. he leaned against the wall, and, folding his arms, resigned himself to reverie. he gazed upon the countenance of watson, but his looks denoted his attention to be elsewhere employed. as to me, my state will not be easily described. my eye roved fearfully from one object to another. by turns it was fixed upon the murdered person and the murderer. the narrow cell in which we stood, its rudely-fashioned walls and arches, destitute of communication with the external air, and its palpable dark scarcely penetrated by the rays of a solitary candle, added to the silence which was deep and universal, produced an impression on my fancy which no time will obliterate. perhaps my imagination was distempered by terror. the incident which i am going to relate may appear to have existed only in my fancy. be that as it may, i experienced all the effects which the fullest belief is adapted to produce. glancing vaguely at the countenance of watson, my attention was arrested by a convulsive motion in the eyelids. this motion increased, till at length the eyes opened, and a glance, languid but wild, was thrown around. instantly they closed, and the tremulous appearance vanished. i started from my place and was on the point of uttering some involuntary exclamation. at the same moment, welbeck seemed to recover from his reverie. "how is this?" said he. "why do we linger here? every moment is precious. we cannot dig for him a grave with our hands. wait here, while i go in search of a spade." saying this, he snatched the candle from my hand, and hasted away. my eye followed the light as its gleams shifted their place upon the walls and ceilings, and, gradually vanishing, gave place to unrespited gloom. this proceeding was so unexpected and abrupt, that i had no time to remonstrate against it. before i retrieved the power of reflection, the light had disappeared and the footsteps were no longer to be heard. i was not, on ordinary occasions, destitute of equanimity; but perhaps the imagination of man is naturally abhorrent of death, until tutored into indifference by habit. every circumstance combined to fill me with shuddering and panic. for a while, i was enabled to endure my situation by the exertions of my reason. that the lifeless remains of a human being are powerless to injure or benefit, i was thoroughly persuaded. i summoned this belief to my aid, and was able, if not to subdue, yet to curb, my fears. i listened to catch the sound of the returning footsteps of welbeck, and hoped that every new moment would terminate my solitude. no signal of his coming was afforded. at length it occurred to me that welbeck had gone with no intention to return; that his malice had seduced me hither to encounter the consequences of his deed. he had fled and barred every door behind him. this suspicion may well be supposed to overpower my courage, and to call forth desperate efforts for my deliverance. i extended my hands and went forward. i had been too little attentive to the situation and direction of these vaults and passages, to go forward with undeviating accuracy. my fears likewise tended to confuse my perceptions and bewilder my steps. notwithstanding the danger of encountering obstructions, i rushed towards the entrance with precipitation. my temerity was quickly punished. in a moment, i was repelled by a jutting angle of the wall, with such force that i staggered backward and fell. the blow was stunning, and, when i recovered my senses, i perceived that a torrent of blood was gushing from my nostrils. my clothes were moistened with this unwelcome effusion, and i could not but reflect on the hazard which i should incur by being detected in this recess, covered by these accusing stains. this reflection once more set me on my feet and incited my exertions. i now proceeded with greater wariness and caution. i had lost all distinct notions of my way. my motions were at random. all my labour was to shun obstructions and to advance whenever the vacuity would permit. by this means, the entrance was at length found, and, after various efforts, i arrived, beyond my hopes, at the foot of the staircase. i ascended, but quickly encountered an insuperable impediment. the door at the stair-head was closed and barred. my utmost strength was exerted in vain, to break the lock or the hinges. thus were my direst apprehensions fulfilled. welbeck had left me to sustain the charge of murder; to obviate suspicions the most atrocious and plausible that the course of human events is capable of producing. here i must remain till the morrow; till some one can be made to overhear my calls and come to my deliverance. what effects will my appearance produce on the spectator? terrified by phantoms and stained with blood, shall i not exhibit the tokens of a maniac as well as an assassin? the corpse of watson will quickly be discovered. if, previous to this disclosure, i should change my blood-stained garments and withdraw into the country, shall i not be pursued by the most vehement suspicions, and, perhaps, hunted to my obscurest retreat by the ministers of justice? i am innocent; but my tale, however circumstantial or true, will scarcely suffice for my vindication. my flight will be construed into a proof of incontestable guilt. while harassed by these thoughts, my attention was attracted by a faint gleam cast upon the bottom of the staircase. it grew stronger, hovered for a moment in my sight, and then disappeared. that it proceeded from a lamp or candle, borne by some one along the passages, was no untenable opinion, but was far less probable than that the effulgence was meteorous. i confided in the latter supposition, and fortified myself anew against the dread of preternatural dangers. my thoughts reverted to the contemplation of the hazards and suspicions which flowed from my continuance in this spot. in the midst of my perturbed musing, my attention was again recalled by an illumination like the former. instead of hovering and vanishing, it was permanent. no ray could be more feeble; but the tangible obscurity to which it succeeded rendered it conspicuous as an electrical flash. for a while i eyed it without moving from my place, and in momentary expectation of its disappearance. remarking its stability, the propriety of scrutinizing it more nearly, and of ascertaining the source whence it flowed, was at length suggested. hope, as well as curiosity, was the parent of my conduct. though utterly at a loss to assign the cause of this appearance, i was willing to believe some connection between that cause and the means of my deliverance. i had scarcely formed the resolution of descending the stair, when my hope was extinguished by the recollection that the cellar had narrow and grated windows, through which light from the street might possibly have found access. a second recollection supplanted this belief, for in my way to this staircase my attention would have been solicited, and my steps, in some degree, been guided, by light coming through these avenues. having returned to the bottom of the stair, i perceived every part of the long-drawn passage illuminated. i threw a glance forward to the quarter whence the rays seemed to proceed, and beheld, at a considerable distance, welbeck in the cell which i had left, turning up the earth with a spade. after a pause of astonishment, the nature of the error which i had committed rushed upon my apprehension. i now perceived that the darkness had misled me to a different staircase from that which i had originally descended. it was apparent that welbeck intended me no evil, but had really gone in search of the instrument which he had mentioned. this discovery overwhelmed me with contrition and shame, though it freed me from the terrors of imprisonment and accusation. to return to the cell which i had left, and where welbeck was employed in his disastrous office, was the expedient which regard to my own safety unavoidably suggested. welbeck paused, at my approach, and betrayed a momentary consternation at the sight of my ensanguined visage. the blood, by some inexplicable process of nature, perhaps by the counteracting influence of fear, had quickly ceased to flow. whether the cause of my evasion, and of my flux of blood, was guessed, or whether his attention was withdrawn, by more momentous objects, from my condition, he proceeded in his task in silence. a shallow bed and a slight covering of clay were provided for the hapless watson. welbeck's movements were hurried and tremulous. his countenance betokened a mind engrossed by a single purpose, in some degree foreign to the scene before him. an intensity and fixedness of features were conspicuous, that led me to suspect the subversion of his reason. having finished the task, he threw aside his implement. he then put into my hand a pocket-book, saying it belonged to watson, and might contain something serviceable to the living. i might make what use of it i thought proper. he then remounted the stairs, and, placing the candle on a table in the hall, opened the principal door and went forth. i was driven, by a sort of mechanical impulse, in his footsteps. i followed him because it was agreeable to him and because i knew not whither else to direct my steps. the streets were desolate and silent. the watchman's call, remotely and faintly heard, added to the general solemnity. i followed my companion in a state of mind not easily described. i had no spirit even to inquire whither he was going. it was not till we arrived at the water's edge that i persuaded myself to break silence. i then began to reflect on the degree in which his present schemes might endanger welbeck or myself. i had acted long enough a servile and mechanical part; and been guided by blind and foreign impulses. it was time to lay aside my fetters, and demand to know whither the path tended in which i was importuned to walk. meanwhile i found myself entangled among boats and shipping. i am unable to describe the spot by any indisputable tokens. i know merely that it was the termination of one of the principal streets. here welbeck selected a boat and prepared to enter it. for a moment i hesitated to comply with his apparent invitation. i stammered out an interrogation:--"why is this? why should we cross the river? what service can i do for you? i ought to know the purpose of my voyage before i enter it." he checked himself and surveyed me for a minute in silence. "what do you fear?" said he. "have i not explained my wishes? merely cross the river with me, for i cannot navigate a boat by myself. is there any thing arduous or mysterious in this undertaking? we part on the jersey shore, and i shall leave you to your destiny. all i shall ask from you will be silence, and to hide from mankind what you know concerning me." he now entered the boat and urged me to follow his example. i reluctantly complied, i perceived that the boat contained but one oar, and that was a small one. he seemed startled and thrown into great perplexity by this discovery. "it will be impossible," said he, in a tone of panic and vexation, "to procure another at this hour: what is to be done?" this impediment was by no means insuperable. i had sinewy arms, and knew well how to use an oar for the double purpose of oar and rudder. i took my station at the stern, and quickly extricated the boat from its neighbours and from the wharves. i was wholly unacquainted with the river. the bar by which it was encumbered i knew to exist, but in what direction and to what extent it existed, and how it might be avoided in the present state of the tide, i knew not. it was probable, therefore, unknowing as i was of the proper track, that our boat would speedily have grounded. my attention, meanwhile, was fixed upon the oar. my companion sat at the prow, and was in a considerable degree unnoticed. i cast my eyes occasionally at the scene which i had left. its novelty, joined with the incidents of my condition, threw me into a state of suspense and wonder which frequently slackened my hand and left the vessel to be driven by the downward current. lights were sparingly seen, and these were perpetually fluctuating, as masts, yards, and hulls were interposed, and passed before them. in proportion as we receded from the shore, the clamours seemed to multiply, and the suggestion that the city was involved in confusion and uproar did not easily give way to maturer thoughts. _twelve_ was the hour cried, and this ascended at once from all quarters, and was mingled with the baying of dogs, so as to produce trepidation and alarm. from this state of magnificent and awful feeling i was suddenly called by the conduct of welbeck. we had scarcely moved two hundred yards from the shore, when he plunged into the water. the first conception was that some implement or part of the boat had fallen over-board. i looked back and perceived that his seat was vacant. in my first astonishment i loosened my hold of the oar, and it floated away. the surface was smooth as glass, and the eddy occasioned by his sinking was scarcely visible. i had not time to determine whether this was designed or accidental. its suddenness deprived me of the power to exert myself for his succour. i wildly gazed around me, in hopes of seeing him rise. after some time my attention was drawn, by the sound of agitation in the water, to a considerable distance. it was too dark for any thing to be distinctly seen. there was no cry for help. the noise was like that of one vigorously struggling for a moment, and then sinking to the bottom. i listened with painful eagerness, but was unable to distinguish a third signal. he sunk to rise no more. i was for a time inattentive to my own situation. the dreadfulness and unexpectedness of this catastrophe occupied me wholly. the quick motion of the lights upon the shore showed me that i was borne rapidly along with the tide. how to help myself, how to impede my course or to regain either shore, since i had lost the oar, i was unable to tell. i was no less at a loss to conjecture whither the current, if suffered to control my vehicle, would finally transport me. the disappearance of lights and buildings, and the diminution of the noises, acquainted me that i had passed the town. it was impossible longer to hesitate. the shore was to be regained by one way only, which was swimming. to any exploit of this kind, my strength and my skill were adequate. i threw away my loose gown; put the pocket-book of the unfortunate watson in my mouth, to preserve it from being injured by moisture; and committed myself to the stream. i landed in a spot incommoded with mud and reeds. i sunk knee-deep into the former, and was exhausted by the fatigue of extricating myself. at length i recovered firm ground, and threw myself on the turf to repair my wasted strength, and to reflect on the measures which my future welfare enjoined me to pursue. what condition was ever parallel to mine? the transactions of the last three days resembled the monstrous creations of delirium. they were painted with vivid hues on my memory; but so rapid and incongruous were these transitions, that i almost denied belief to their reality. they exercised a bewildering and stupefying influence on my mind, from which the meditations of an hour were scarcely sufficient to relieve me. gradually i recovered the power of arranging my ideas and forming conclusions. welbeck was dead. his property was swallowed up, and his creditors left to wonder at his disappearance. all that was left was the furniture of his house, to which mrs. wentworth would lay claim, in discharge of the unpaid rent. what now was the destiny that awaited the lost and friendless mademoiselle lodi? where was she concealed? welbeck had dropped no intimation by which i might be led to suspect the place of her abode. if my power, in other respects, could have contributed aught to her relief, my ignorance of her asylum had utterly disabled me. but what of the murdered person? he had suddenly vanished from the face of the earth. his fate and the place of his interment would probably be suspected and ascertained. was i sure to escape from the consequences of this deed? watson had relatives and friends. what influence on their state and happiness his untimely and mysterious fate would possess, it was obvious to inquire. this idea led me to the recollection of his pocket-book. some papers might be there explanatory of his situation. i resumed my feet. i knew not where to direct my steps. i was dropping with wet, and shivering with the cold. i was destitute of habitation and friend. i had neither money nor any valuable thing in my possession. i moved forward mechanically and at random. where i landed was at no great distance from the verge of the town. in a short time i discovered the glimmering of a distant lamp. to this i directed my steps, and here i paused to examine the contents of the pocket-book. i found three bank-notes, each of fifty dollars, enclosed in a piece of blank paper. besides these were three letters, apparently written by his wife, and dated at baltimore. they were brief, but composed in a strain of great tenderness, and containing affecting allusions to their child. i could gather, from their date and tenor, that they were received during his absence on his recent voyage; that her condition was considerably necessitous, and surrounded by wants which their prolonged separation had increased. the fourth letter was open, and seemed to have been very lately written. it was directed to mrs. mary watson. he informed her in it of his arrival at philadelphia from st. domingo; of the loss of his ship and cargo; and of his intention to hasten home with all possible expedition. he told her that all was lost but one hundred and fifty dollars, the greater part of which he should bring with him, to relieve her more pressing wants. the letter was signed, and folded, and superscribed, but unsealed. a little consideration showed me in what manner it became me, on this occasion, to demean myself. i put the bank-notes in the letter, and sealed it with a wafer; a few of which were found in the pocket-book. i hesitated some time whether i should add any thing to the information which the letter contained, by means of a pencil which offered itself to my view; but i concluded to forbear. i could select no suitable terms in which to communicate the mournful truth. i resolved to deposit this letter at the post-office, where i knew letters could be left at all hours. my reflections at length reverted to my own condition. what was the fate reserved for me? how far my safety might be affected by remaining in the city, in consequence of the disappearance of welbeck, and my known connection with the fugitive, it was impossible to foresee. my fears readily suggested innumerable embarrassments and inconveniences which would flow from this source. besides, on what pretence should i remain? to whom could i apply for protection or employment? all avenues, even to subsistence, were shut against me. the country was my sole asylum. here, in exchange for my labour, i could at least purchase food, safety, and repose. but, if my choice pointed to the country, there was no reason for a moment's delay. it would be prudent to regain the fields, and be far from this detested city before the rising of the sun. meanwhile i was chilled and chafed by the clothes that i wore. to change them for others was absolutely necessary to my ease. the clothes which i wore were not my own, and were extremely unsuitable to my new condition. my rustic and homely garb was deposited in my chamber at welbeck's. these thoughts suggested the design of returning thither. i considered that, probably, the servants had not been alarmed. that the door was unfastened, and the house was accessible. it would be easy to enter and retire without notice; and this, not without some waverings and misgivings, i presently determined to do. having deposited my letter at the office, i proceeded to my late abode. i approached, and lifted the latch with caution. there were no appearances of any one having been disturbed. i procured a light in the kitchen, and hied softly and with dubious footsteps to my chamber. there i disrobed, and resumed my check shirt, and trowsers, and fustian coat. this change being accomplished, nothing remained but that i should strike into the country with the utmost expedition. in a momentary review which i took of the past, the design for which welbeck professed to have originally detained me in his service occurred to my mind. i knew the danger of reasoning loosely on the subject of property. to any trinket or piece of furniture in this house i did not allow myself to question the right of mrs. wentworth; a right accruing to her in consequence of welbeck's failure in the payment of his rent; but there was one thing which i felt an irresistible desire, and no scruples which should forbid me, to possess, and that was, the manuscript to which welbeck had alluded, as having been written by the deceased lodi. i was well instructed in latin, and knew the tuscan language to be nearly akin to it. i despaired not of being at some time able to cultivate this language, and believed that the possession of this manuscript might essentially contribute to this end, as well as to many others equally beneficial. it was easy to conjecture that the volume was to be found among his printed books, and it was scarcely less easy to ascertain the truth of this conjecture. i entered, not without tremulous sensations, into the apartment which had been the scene of the disastrous interview between watson and welbeck. at every step i almost dreaded to behold the spectre of the former rise before me. numerous and splendid volumes were arranged on mahogany shelves, and screened by doors of glass. i ran swiftly over their names, and was at length so fortunate as to light upon the book of which i was in search. i immediately secured it, and, leaving the candle extinguished on a table in the parlour, i once more issued forth into the street. with light steps and palpitating heart i turned my face towards the country. my necessitous condition i believed would justify me in passing without payment the schuylkill bridge, and the eastern sky began to brighten with the dawn of morning not till i had gained the distance of nine miles from the city. such is the tale which i proposed to relate to you. such are the memorable incidents of five days of my life; from which i have gathered more instruction than from the whole tissue of my previous existence. such are the particulars of my knowledge respecting the crimes and misfortunes of welbeck; which the insinuations of wortley, and my desire to retain your good opinion, have induced me to unfold. chapter xiii. mervyn's pause allowed his auditors to reflect on the particulars of his narration, and to compare them with the facts with a knowledge of which their own observation had supplied them. my profession introduced me to the friendship of mrs. wentworth, by whom, after the disappearance of welbeck, many circumstances respecting him had been mentioned. she particularly dwelt upon the deportment and appearance of this youth, at the single interview which took place between them, and her representations were perfectly conformable to those which mervyn had himself delivered. previously to this interview, welbeck had insinuated to her that a recent event had put him in possession of the truth respecting the destiny of clavering. a kinsman of his had arrived from portugal, by whom this intelligence had been brought. he dexterously eluded her entreaties to be furnished with minuter information, or to introduce this kinsman to her acquaintance. as soon as mervyn was ushered into her presence, she suspected him to be the person to whom welbeck had alluded, and this suspicion his conversation had confirmed. she was at a loss to comprehend the reasons of the silence which he so pertinaciously maintained. her uneasiness, however, prompted her to renew her solicitations. on the day subsequent to the catastrophe related by mervyn, she sent a messenger to welbeck, with a request to see him. gabriel, the black servant, informed the messenger that his master had gone into the country for a week. at the end of the week, a messenger was again despatched with the same errand. he called and knocked, but no one answered his signals. he examined the entrance by the kitchen, but every avenue was closed. it appeared that the house was wholly deserted. these appearances naturally gave birth to curiosity and suspicion. the house was repeatedly examined, but the solitude and silence within continued the same. the creditors of welbeck were alarmed by these appearances, and their claims to the property remaining in the house were precluded by mrs. wentworth, who, as owner of the mansion, was legally entitled to the furniture, in place of the rent which welbeck had suffered to accumulate. on examining the dwelling, all that was valuable and portable, particularly linen and plate, was removed. the remainder was distrained, but the tumults of pestilence succeeded and hindered it from being sold. things were allowed to continue in their former situation, and the house was carefully secured. we had no leisure to form conjectures on the causes of this desertion. an explanation was afforded us by the narrative of this youth. it is probable that the servants, finding their master's absence continue, had pillaged the house and fled. meanwhile, though our curiosity with regard to welbeck was appeased, it was obvious to inquire by what series of inducements and events mervyn was reconducted to the city and led to the spot where i first met with him. we intimated our wishes in this respect, and our young friend readily consented to take up the thread of his story and bring it down to the point that was desired. for this purpose, the ensuing evening was selected. having, at an early hour, shut ourselves up from all intruders and visitors, he continued as follows. * * * * * i have mentioned that, by sunrise, i had gained the distance of many miles from the city. my purpose was to stop at the first farm-house, and seek employment as a day-labourer. the first person whom i observed was a man of placid mien and plain garb. habitual benevolence was apparent amidst the wrinkles of age. he was traversing his buckwheat-field, and measuring, as it seemed, the harvest that was now nearly ripe. i accosted him with diffidence, and explained my wishes. he listened to my tale with complacency, inquired into my name and family, and into my qualifications for the office to which i aspired. my answers were candid and full. "why," said he, "i believe thou and i can make a bargain. we will, at least, try each other for a week or two. if it does not suit our mutual convenience, we can change. the morning is damp and cool, and thy plight does not appear the most comfortable that can be imagined. come to the house and eat some breakfast." the behaviour of this good man filled me with gratitude and joy. methought i could embrace him as a father, and entrance into his house appeared like return to a long-lost and much-loved home. my desolate and lonely condition appeared to be changed for paternal regards and the tenderness of friendship. these emotions were confirmed and heightened by every object that presented itself under this roof. the family consisted of mrs. hadwin, two simple and affectionate girls, his daughters, and servants. the manners of this family, quiet, artless, and cordial, the occupations allotted me, the land by which the dwelling was surrounded, its pure airs, romantic walks, and exhaustless fertility, constituted a powerful contrast to the scenes which i had left behind, and were congenial with every dictate of my understanding and every sentiment that glowed in my heart. my youth, mental cultivation, and circumspect deportment, entitled me to deference and confidence. each hour confirmed me in the good opinion of mr. hadwin, and in the affections of his daughters. in the mind of my employer, the simplicity of the husbandman and the devotion of the quaker were blended with humanity and intelligence. the sisters, susan and eliza, were unacquainted with calamity and vice through the medium of either observation or books. they were strangers to the benefits of an elaborate education, but they were endowed with curiosity and discernment, and had not suffered their slender means of instruction to remain unimproved. the sedateness of the elder formed an amusing contrast with the laughing eye and untamable vivacity of the younger; but they smiled and they wept in unison. they thought and acted in different but not discordant keys. on all momentous occasions, they reasoned and felt alike. in ordinary cases, they separated, as it were, into different tracks; but this diversity was productive not of jarring, but of harmony. a romantic and untutored disposition like mine may be supposed liable to strong impressions from perpetual converse with persons of their age and sex. the elder was soon discovered to have already disposed of her affections. the younger was free, and somewhat that is more easily conceived than named stole insensibly upon my heart. the images that haunted me at home and abroad, in her absence and her presence, gradually coalesced into one shape, and gave birth to an incessant train of latent palpitations and indefinable hopes. my days were little else than uninterrupted reveries, and night only called up phantoms more vivid and equally enchanting. the memorable incidents which had lately happened scarcely counterpoised my new sensations or diverted my contemplations from the present. my views were gradually led to rest upon futurity, and in that i quickly found cause of circumspection and dread. my present labours were light, and were sufficient for my subsistence in a single state; but wedlock was the parent of new wants and of new cares. mr. hadwin's possessions were adequate to his own frugal maintenance, but, divided between his children, would be too scanty for either. besides, this division could only take place at his death, and that was an event whose speedy occurrence was neither desirable nor probable. another obstacle was now remembered. hadwin was the conscientious member of a sect which forbade the marriage of its votaries with those of a different communion. i had been trained in an opposite creed, and imagined it impossible that i should ever become a proselyte to quakerism. it only remained for me to feign conversion, or to root out the opinions of my friend and win her consent to a secret marriage. whether hypocrisy was eligible was no subject of deliberation. if the possession of all that ambition can conceive were added to the transports of union with eliza hadwin, and offered as the price of dissimulation, it would have been instantly rejected. my external goods were not abundant nor numerous, but the consciousness of rectitude was mine; and, in competition with this, the luxury of the heart and of the senses, the gratifications of boundless ambition and inexhaustible wealth, were contemptible and frivolous. the conquest of eliza's errors was easy; but to introduce discord and sorrow into this family was an act of the utmost ingratitude and profligacy. it was only requisite for my understanding clearly to discern, to be convinced of the insuperability of this obstacle. it was manifest, therefore, that the point to which my wishes tended was placed beyond my reach. to foster my passion was to foster a disease destructive either of my integrity or my existence. it was indispensable to fix my thoughts upon a different object, and to debar myself even from her intercourse. to ponder on themes foreign to my darling image, and to seclude myself from her society, at hours which had usually been spent with her, were difficult tasks. the latter was the least practicable. i had to contend with eyes which alternately wondered at and upbraided me for my unkindness. she was wholly unaware of the nature of her own feelings, and this ignorance made her less scrupulous in the expression of her sentiments. hitherto i had needed not employment beyond myself and my companions. now my new motives made me eager to discover some means of controlling and beguiling my thoughts. in this state, the manuscript of lodi occurred to me. in my way hither, i had resolved to make the study of the language of this book, and the translation of its contents into english, the business and solace of my leisure. now this resolution was revived with new force. my project was perhaps singular. the ancient language of italy possessed a strong affinity with the modern. my knowledge of the former was my only means of gaining the latter. i had no grammar or vocabulary to explain how far the meanings and inflections of tuscan words varied from the roman dialect. i was to ponder on each sentence and phrase; to select among different conjectures the most plausible, and to ascertain the true by patient and repeated scrutiny. this undertaking, fantastic and impracticable as it may seem, proved, upon experiment, to be within the compass of my powers. the detail of my progress would be curious and instructive. what impediments, in the attainment of a darling purpose, human ingenuity and patience are able to surmount; how much may be done by strenuous and solitary efforts; how the mind, unassisted, may draw forth the principles of inflection and arrangement; may profit by remote, analogous, and latent similitudes, would be forcibly illustrated by my example; but the theme, however attractive, must, for the present, be omitted. my progress was slow; but the perception of hourly improvement afforded me unspeakable pleasure. having arrived near the last pages, i was able to pursue, with little interruption, the thread of an eloquent narration. the triumph of a leader of outlaws over the popular enthusiasm of the milanese and the claims of neighbouring potentates was about to be depicted. the _condottiero_ sforza had taken refuge from his enemies in a tomb, accidentally discovered amidst the ruins of a roman fortress in the apennines. he had sought this recess for the sake of concealment, but found in it a treasure by which he would be enabled to secure the wavering and venal faith of that crew of ruffians that followed his standard, provided he fell not into the hands of the enemies who were now in search of him. my tumultuous curiosity was suddenly checked by the following leaves being glued together at the edges. to dissever them without injury to the written spaces was by no means easy. i proceeded to the task, not without precipitation. the edges were torn away, and the leaves parted. it may be thought that i took up the thread where it had been broken; but no. the object that my eyes encountered, and which the cemented leaves had so long concealed, was beyond the power of the most capricious or lawless fancy to have prefigured; yet it bore a shadowy resemblance to the images with which my imagination was previously occupied. i opened, and beheld--_a bank-note_! to the first transports of surprise, the conjecture succeeded, that the remaining leaves, cemented together in the same manner, might enclose similar bills. they were hastily separated, and the conjecture was verified. my sensations at this discovery were of an inexplicable kind. i gazed at the notes in silence. i moved my finger over them; held them in different positions; read and reread the name of each sum, and the signature; added them together, and repeated to myself--"_twenty thousand dollars!_ they are mine, and by such means!" this sum would have redeemed the fallen fortunes of welbeck. the dying lodi was unable to communicate all the contents of this inestimable volume. he had divided his treasure, with a view to its greater safety, between this volume and his pocket-book. death hasted upon him too suddenly to allow him to explain his precautions. welbeck had placed the book in his collection, purposing some time to peruse it; but, deterred by anxieties which the perusal would have dissipated, he rushed to desperation and suicide, from which some evanescent contingency, by unfolding this treasure to his view, would have effectually rescued him. but was this event to be regretted? this sum, like the former, would probably have been expended in the same pernicious prodigality. his career would have continued some time longer; but his inveterate habits would have finally conducted his existence to the same criminal and ignominious close. but the destiny of welbeck was accomplished. the money was placed, without guilt or artifice, in my possession. my fortune had been thus unexpectedly and wondrously propitious. how was i to profit by her favour? would not this sum enable me to gather round me all the instruments of pleasure? equipage, and palace, and a multitude of servants; polished mirrors, splendid hangings, banquets, and flatterers, were equally abhorrent to my taste and my principles. the accumulation of knowledge, and the diffusion of happiness, in which riches may be rendered eminently instrumental, were the only precepts of duty, and the only avenues to genuine felicity. "but what," said i, "is my title to this money? by retaining it, shall i not be as culpable as welbeck? it came into his possession, as it came into mine, without a crime; but my knowledge of the true proprietor is equally certain, and the claims of the unfortunate stranger are as valid as ever. indeed, if utility, and not law, be the measure of justice, her claim, desolate and indigent as she is, unfitted, by her past life, by the softness and the prejudices of her education, for contending with calamity, is incontestable. "as to me, health and diligence will give me, not only the competence which i seek, but the power of enjoying it. if my present condition be unchangeable, i shall not be unhappy. my occupations are salutary and meritorious; i am a stranger to the cares as well as to the enjoyment of riches; abundant means of knowledge are possessed by me, as long as i have eyes to gaze at man and at nature, as they are exhibited in their original forms or in books. the precepts of my duty cannot be mistaken. the lady must be sought and the money restored to her." certain obstacles existed to the immediate execution of this scheme. how should i conduct my search? what apology should i make for withdrawing thus abruptly, and contrary to the terms of an agreement into which i had lately entered, from the family and service of my friend and benefactor hadwin? my thoughts were called away from pursuing these inquiries by a rumour, which had gradually swelled to formidable dimensions; and which, at length, reached us in our quiet retreats. the city, we were told, was involved in confusion and panic, for a pestilential disease had begun its destructive progress. magistrates and citizens were flying to the country. the numbers of the sick multiplied beyond all example; even in the pest-affected cities of the levant. the malady was malignant and unsparing. the usual occupations and amusements of life were at an end. terror had exterminated all the sentiments of nature. wives were deserted by husbands, and children by parents. some had shut themselves in their houses, and debarred themselves from all communication with the rest of mankind. the consternation of others had destroyed their understanding, and their misguided steps hurried them into the midst of the danger which they had previously laboured to shun. men were seized by this disease in the streets; passengers fled from them; entrance into their own dwellings was denied to them; they perished in the public ways. the chambers of disease were deserted, and the sick left to die of negligence. none could be found to remove the lifeless bodies. their remains, suffered to decay by piecemeal, filled the air with deadly exhalations, and added tenfold to the devastation. such was the tale, distorted and diversified a thousand ways by the credulity and exaggeration of the tellers. at first i listened to the story with indifference or mirth. methought it was confuted by its own extravagance. the enormity and variety of such an evil made it unworthy to be believed. i expected that every new day would detect the absurdity and fallacy of such representations. every new day, however, added to the number of witnesses and the consistency of the tale, till, at length, it was not possible to withhold my faith. chapter xiv. this rumour was of a nature to absorb and suspend the whole soul. a certain sublimity is connected with enormous dangers that imparts to our consternation or our pity a tincture of the pleasing. this, at least, may be experienced by those who are beyond the verge of peril. my own person was exposed to no hazard. i had leisure to conjure up terrific images, and to personate the witnesses and sufferers of this calamity. this employment was not enjoined upon me by necessity, but was ardently pursued, and must therefore have been recommended by some nameless charm. others were very differently affected. as often as the tale was embellished with new incidents or enforced by new testimony, the hearer grew pale, his breath was stifled by inquietudes, his blood was chilled, and his stomach was bereaved of its usual energies. a temporary indisposition was produced in many. some were haunted by a melancholy bordering upon madness, and some, in consequence of sleepless panics, for which no cause could be assigned, and for which no opiates could be found, were attacked by lingering or mortal diseases. mr. hadwin was superior to groundless apprehensions. his daughters, however, partook in all the consternation which surrounded them. the eldest had, indeed, abundant reason for her terror. the youth to whom she was betrothed resided in the city. a year previous to this, he had left the house of mr. hadwin, who was his uncle, and had removed to philadelphia in pursuit of fortune. he made himself clerk to a merchant, and, by some mercantile adventures in which he had successfully engaged, began to flatter himself with being able, in no long time, to support a family. meanwhile, a tender and constant correspondence was maintained between him and his beloved susan. this girl was a soft enthusiast, in whose bosom devotion and love glowed with an ardour that has seldom been exceeded. the first tidings of the _yellow fever_ was heard by her with unspeakable perturbation. wallace was interrogated, by letter, respecting its truth. for a time, he treated it as a vague report. at length, a confession was extorted from him that there existed a pestilential disease in the city; but he added that it was hitherto confined to one quarter, distant from the place of his abode. the most pathetic entreaties were urged by her that he would withdraw into the country. he declared his resolution to comply when the street in which he lived should become infected and his stay should be attended with real danger. he stated how much his interests depended upon the favour of his present employer, who had used the most powerful arguments to detain him, but declared that, when his situation should become, in the least degree, perilous, he would slight every consideration of gratitude and interest, and fly to _malverton_. meanwhile, he promised to communicate tidings of his safety by every opportunity. belding, mr. hadwin's next neighbour, though not uninfected by the general panic, persisted to visit the city daily with his _market-cart_. he set out by sunrise, and usually returned by noon. by him a letter was punctually received by susan. as the hour of belding's return approached, her impatience and anxiety increased. the daily epistle was received and read, in a transport of eagerness. for a while her emotion subsided, but returned with augmented vehemence at noon on the ensuing day. these agitations were too vehement for a feeble constitution like hers. she renewed her supplications to wallace to quit the city. he repeated his assertions of being, hitherto, secure, and his promise of coming when the danger should be imminent. when belding returned, and, instead of being accompanied by wallace, merely brought a letter from him, the unhappy susan would sink into fits of lamentation and weeping, and repel every effort to console her with an obstinacy that partook of madness. it was, at length, manifest that wallace's delays would be fatally injurious to the health of his mistress. mr. hadwin had hitherto been passive. he conceived that the entreaties and remonstrances of his daughter were more likely to influence the conduct of wallace than any representations which he could make. now, however, he wrote the contumacious wallace a letter, in which he laid his commands upon him to return in company with belding, and declared that by a longer delay the youth would forfeit his favour. the malady had, at this time, made considerable progress. belding's interest at length yielded to his fears, and this was the last journey which he proposed to make. hence our impatience for the return of wallace was augmented; since, if this opportunity were lost, no suitable conveyance might again be offered him. belding set out, as usual, at the dawn of day. the customary interval between his departure and return was spent by susan in a tumult of hopes and fears. as noon approached, her suspense arose to a pitch of wildness and agony. she could scarcely be restrained from running along the road, many miles, towards the city; that she might, by meeting belding half-way, the sooner ascertain the fate of her lover. she stationed herself at a window which overlooked the road along which belding was to pass. her sister and her father, though less impatient, marked, with painful eagerness, the first sound of the approaching vehicle. they snatched a look at it as soon as it appeared in sight. belding was without a companion. this confirmation of her fears overwhelmed the unhappy susan. she sunk into a fit, from which, for a long time, her recovery was hopeless. this was succeeded by paroxysms of a furious insanity, in which she attempted to snatch any pointed implement which lay within her reach, with a view to destroy herself. these being carefully removed, or forcibly wrested from her, she resigned herself to sobs and exclamations. having interrogated belding, he informed us that he occupied his usual post in the market-place; that heretofore wallace had duly sought him out, and exchanged letters; but that, on this morning, the young man had not made his appearance, though belding had been induced, by his wish to see him, to prolong his stay in the city much beyond the usual period. that some other cause than sickness had occasioned this omission was barely possible. there was scarcely room for the most sanguine temper to indulge a hope. wallace was without kindred, and probably without friends, in the city. the merchant in whose service he had placed himself was connected with him by no considerations but that of interest. what then must be his situation when seized with a malady which all believed to be contagious, and the fear of which was able to dissolve the strongest ties that bind human beings together? i was personally a stranger to this youth. i had seen his letters, and they bespoke, not indeed any great refinement or elevation of intelligence, but a frank and generous spirit, to which i could not refuse my esteem; but his chief claim to my affection consisted in his consanguinity to mr. hadwin, and his place in the affections of susan. his welfare was essential to the happiness of those whose happiness had become essential to mine. i witnessed the outrages of despair in the daughter, and the symptoms of a deep but less violent grief in the sister and parent. was it not possible for me to alleviate their pangs? could not the fate of wallace be ascertained? this disease assailed men with different degrees of malignity. in its worst form perhaps it was incurable; but, in some of its modes, it was doubtless conquerable by the skill of physicians and the fidelity of nurses. in its least formidable symptoms, negligence and solitude would render it fatal. wallace might, perhaps, experience this pest in its most lenient degree; but the desertion of all mankind, the want not only of medicines but of food, would irrevocably seal his doom. my imagination was incessantly pursued by the image of this youth, perishing alone, and in obscurity; calling on the name of distant friends, or invoking, ineffectually, the succour of those who were near. hitherto distress had been contemplated at a distance, and through the medium of a fancy delighting to be startled by the wonderful, or transported by sublimity. now the calamity had entered my own doors, imaginary evils were supplanted by real, and my heart was the seat of commiseration and horror. i found myself unfit for recreation or employment. i shrouded myself in the gloom of the neighbouring forest, or lost myself in the maze of rocks and dells. i endeavoured, in vain, to shut out the phantoms of the dying wallace, and to forget the spectacle of domestic woes. at length it occurred to me to ask, may not this evil be obviated, and the felicity of the hadwins re-established? wallace is friendless and succourless; but cannot i supply to him the place of protector and nurse? why not hasten to the city, search out his abode, and ascertain whether he be living or dead? if he still retain life, may i not, by consolation and attendance, contribute to the restoration of his health, and conduct him once more to the bosom of his family? with what transports will his arrival be hailed! how amply will their impatience and their sorrow be compensated by his return! in the spectacle of their joys, how rapturous and pure will be my delight! do the benefits which i have received from the hadwins demand a less retribution than this? it is true that my own life will be endangered; but my danger will be proportioned to the duration of my stay in this seat of infection. the death or the flight of wallace may absolve me from the necessity of spending one night in the city. the rustics who daily frequent the market are, as experience proves, exempt from this disease; in consequence, perhaps, of limiting their continuance in the city to a few hours. may i not, in this respect, conform to their example, and enjoy a similar exemption? my stay, however, may be longer than the day. i may be condemned to share in the common destiny. what then? life is dependent on a thousand contingencies, not to be computed or foreseen. the seeds of an early and lingering death are sown in my constitution. it is in vain to hope to escape the malady by which my mother and my brothers have died. we are a race whose existence some inherent property has limited to the short space of twenty years. we are exposed, in common with the rest of mankind, to innumerable casualties; but, if these be shunned, we are unalterably fated to perish by _consumption_. why then should i scruple to lay down my life in the cause of virtue and humanity? it is better to die in the consciousness of having offered an heroic sacrifice, to die by a speedy stroke, than by the perverseness of nature, in ignominious inactivity and lingering agonies. these considerations determined me to hasten to the city. to mention my purpose to the hadwins would be useless or pernicious. it would only augment the sum of their present anxieties. i should meet with a thousand obstacles in the tenderness and terror of eliza, and in the prudent affection of her father. their arguments i should be condemned to hear, but should not be able to confute; and should only load myself with imputations of perverseness and temerity. but how else should i explain my absence? i had hitherto preserved my lips untainted by prevarication or falsehood. perhaps there was no occasion which would justify an untruth; but here, at least, it was superfluous or hurtful. my disappearance, if effected without notice or warning, will give birth to speculation and conjecture; but my true motives will never be suspected, and therefore will excite no fears. my conduct will not be charged with guilt. it will merely be thought upon with some regret, which will be alleviated by the opinion of my safety, and the daily expectation of my return. but, since my purpose was to search out wallace, i must be previously furnished with directions to the place of his abode, and a description of his person. satisfaction on this head was easily obtained from mr. hadwin; who was prevented from suspecting the motives of my curiosity, by my questions being put in a manner apparently casual. he mentioned the street, and the number of the house. i listened with surprise. it was a house with which i was already familiar. he resided, it seems, with a merchant. was it possible for me to be mistaken? what, i asked, was the merchant's name? _thetford._ this was a confirmation of my first conjecture. i recollected the extraordinary means by which i had gained access to the house and bedchamber of this gentleman. i recalled the person and appearance of the youth by whose artifices i had been entangled in the snare. these artifices implied some domestic or confidential connection between thetford and my guide. wallace was a member of the family. could it be he by whom i was betrayed? suitable questions easily obtained from hadwin a description of the person and carriage of his nephew. every circumstance evinced the identity of their persons. wallace, then, was the engaging and sprightly youth whom i had encountered at lesher's; and who, for purposes not hitherto discoverable, had led me into a situation so romantic and perilous. i was far from suspecting that these purposes were criminal. it was easy to infer that his conduct proceeded from juvenile wantonness and a love of sport. my resolution was unaltered by this disclosure; and, having obtained all the information which i needed, i secretly began my journey. my reflections, on the way, were sufficiently employed in tracing the consequences of my project; in computing the inconveniences and dangers to which i was preparing to subject myself; in fortifying my courage against the influence of rueful sights and abrupt transitions; and in imagining the measures which it would be proper to pursue in every emergency. connected as these views were with the family and character of thetford, i could not but sometimes advert to those incidents which formerly happened. the mercantile alliance between him and welbeck was remembered; the allusions which were made to the condition of the latter in the chamber-conversation of which i was an unsuspected auditor; and the relation which these allusions might possess with subsequent occurrences. welbeck's property was forfeited. it had been confided to the care of thetford's brother. had the cause of this forfeiture been truly or thoroughly explained? might not contraband articles have been admitted through the management or under the connivance of the brothers? and might not the younger thetford be furnished with the means of purchasing the captured vessel and her cargo,--which, as usual, would be sold by auction at a fifth or tenth of its real value? welbeck was not alive to profit by the detection of this artifice, admitting these conclusions to be just. my knowledge will be useless to the world; for by what motives can i be influenced to publish the truth? or by whom will my single testimony be believed, in opposition to that plausible exterior, and, perhaps, to that general integrity, which thetford has maintained? to myself it will not be unprofitable. it is a lesson on the principles of human nature; on the delusiveness of appearances; on the perviousness of fraud; and on the power with which nature has invested human beings over the thoughts and actions of each other. thetford and his frauds were dismissed from my thoughts, to give place to considerations relative to clemenza lodi, and the money which chance had thrown into my possession. time had only confirmed my purpose to restore these bills to the rightful proprietor, and heightened my impatience to discover her retreat. i reflected, that the means of doing this were more likely to suggest themselves at the place to which i was going than elsewhere. i might, indeed, perish before my views, in this respect, could be accomplished. against these evils i had at present no power to provide. while i lived, i would bear perpetually about me the volume and its precious contents. if i died, a superior power must direct the course of this as of all other events. chapter xv. these meditations did not enfeeble my resolution, or slacken my pace. in proportion as i drew near the city, the tokens of its calamitous condition became more apparent. every farm-house was filled with supernumerary tenants, fugitives from home, and haunting the skirts of the road, eager to detain every passenger with inquiries after news. the passengers were numerous; for the tide of emigration was by no means exhausted. some were on foot, bearing in their countenances the tokens of their recent terror, and filled with mournful reflections on the forlornness of their state. few had secured to themselves an asylum; some were without the means of paying for victuals or lodging for the coming night; others, who were not thus destitute, yet knew not whither to apply for entertainment, every house being already overstocked with inhabitants, or barring its inhospitable doors at their approach. families of weeping mothers and dismayed children, attended with a few pieces of indispensable furniture, were carried in vehicles of every form. the parent or husband had perished; and the price of some movable, or the pittance handed forth by public charity, had been expended to purchase the means of retiring from this theatre of disasters, though uncertain and hopeless of accommodation in the neighbouring districts. between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had led to the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which i was suffered to listen. from every mouth the tale of sorrow was repeated with new aggravations. pictures of their own distress, or of that of their neighbours, were exhibited in all the hues which imagination can annex to pestilence and poverty. my preconceptions of the evil now appeared to have fallen short of the truth. the dangers into which i was rushing seemed more numerous and imminent than i had previously imagined. i wavered not in my purpose. a panic crept to my heart, which more vehement exertions were necessary to subdue or control; but i harboured not a momentary doubt that the course which i had taken was prescribed by duty. there was no difficulty or reluctance in proceeding. all for which my efforts were demanded was to walk in this path without tumult or alarm. various circumstances had hindered me from setting out upon this journey as early as was proper. my frequent pauses to listen to the narratives of travellers contributed likewise to procrastination. the sun had nearly set before i reached the precincts of the city. i pursued the track which i had formerly taken, and entered high street after nightfall. instead of equipages and a throng of passengers, the voice of levity and glee, which i had formerly observed, and which the mildness of the season would, at other times, have produced, i found nothing but a dreary solitude. the market-place, and each side of this magnificent avenue, were illuminated, as before, by lamps; but between the verge of schuylkill and the heart of the city i met not more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost-like, wrapped in cloaks, from behind which they cast upon me glances of wonder and suspicion, and, as i approached, changed their course, to avoid touching me. their clothes were sprinkled with vinegar, and their nostrils defended from contagion by some powerful perfume. i cast a look upon the houses, which i recollected to have formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, resounding with lively voices, and thronged with busy faces. now they were closed, above and below; dark, and without tokens of being inhabited. from the upper windows of some, a gleam sometimes fell upon the pavement i was traversing, and showed that their tenants had not fled, but were secluded or disabled. these tokens were new, and awakened all my panics. death seemed to hover over this scene, and i dreaded that the floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame. i had scarcely overcome these tremors, when i approached a house the door of which was opened, and before which stood a vehicle, which i presently recognised to be a _hearse_. the driver was seated on it. i stood still to mark his visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to take. presently a coffin, borne by two men, issued from the house. the driver was a negro; but his companions were white. their features were marked by ferocious indifference to danger or pity. one of them, as he assisted in thrusting the coffin into the cavity provided for it, said, "i'll be damned if i think the poor dog was quite dead. it wasn't the _fever_ that ailed him, but the sight of the girl and her mother on the floor. i wonder how they all got into that room. what carried them there?" the other surlily muttered, "their legs, to-be-sure." "but what should they hug together in one room for?" "to save us trouble, to-be-sure." "and i thank them with all my heart; but, damn it, it wasn't right to put him in his coffin before the breath was fairly gone. i thought the last look he gave me told me to stay a few minutes." "pshaw! he could not live. the sooner dead the better for him; as well as for us. did you mark how he eyed us when we carried away his wife and daughter? i never cried in my life, since i was knee-high, but curse me if i ever felt in better tune for the business than just then. hey!" continued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few paces distant, and listening to their discourse; "what's wanted? anybody dead?" i stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward. my joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead. i was ashamed of my own infirmity; and, by vigorous efforts of my reason, regained some degree of composure. the evening had now advanced, and it behooved me to procure accommodation at some of the inns. these were easily distinguished by their _signs_, but many were without inhabitants. at length i lighted upon one, the hall of which was open and the windows lifted. after knocking for some time, a young girl appeared, with many marks of distress. in answer to my question, she answered that both her parents were sick, and that they could receive no one. i inquired, in vain, for any other tavern at which strangers might be accommodated. she knew of none such, and left me, on someone's calling to her from above, in the midst of my embarrassment. after a moment's pause, i returned, discomfited and perplexed, to the street. i proceeded, in a considerable degree, at random. at length i reached a spacious building in fourth street, which the signpost showed me to be an inn. i knocked loudly and often at the door. at length a female opened the window of the second story, and, in a tone of peevishness, demanded what i wanted. i told her that i wanted lodging. "go hunt for it somewhere else," said she; "you'll find none here." i began to expostulate; but she shut the window with quickness, and left me to my own reflections. i began now to feel some regret at the journey i had taken. never, in the depth of caverns or forests, was i equally conscious of loneliness. i was surrounded by the habitations of men; but i was destitute of associate or friend. i had money, but a horse-shelter, or a morsel of food, could not be purchased. i came for the purpose of relieving others, but stood in the utmost need myself. even in health my condition was helpless and forlorn; but what would become of me should this fatal malady be contracted? to hope that an asylum would be afforded to a sick man, which was denied to one in health, was unreasonable. the first impulse which flowed from these reflections was to hasten back to _malverton_; which, with sufficient diligence, i might hope to regain before the morning light. i could not, methought, return upon my steps with too much speed. i was prompted to run, as if the pest was rushing upon me and could be eluded only by the most precipitate flight. this impulse was quickly counteracted by new ideas. i thought with indignation and shame on the imbecility of my proceeding. i called up the images of susan hadwin, and of wallace. i reviewed the motives which had led me to the undertaking of this journey. time had, by no means, diminished their force. i had, indeed, nearly arrived at the accomplishment of what i had intended. a few steps would carry me to thetford's habitation. this might be the critical moment when succour was most needed and would be most efficacious. i had previously concluded to defer going thither till the ensuing morning; but why should i allow myself a moment's delay? i might at least gain an external view of the house, and circumstances might arise which would absolve me from the obligation of remaining an hour longer in the city. all for which i came might be performed; the destiny of wallace be ascertained; and i be once more safe within the precincts of _malverton_ before the return of day. i immediately directed my steps towards the habitation of thetford. carriages bearing the dead were frequently discovered. a few passengers likewise occurred, whose hasty and perturbed steps denoted their participation in the common distress. the house of which i was in quest quickly appeared. light from an upper window indicated that it was still inhabited. i paused a moment to reflect in what manner it became me to proceed. to ascertain the existence and condition of wallace was the purpose of my journey. he had inhabited this house; and whether he remained in it was now to be known. i felt repugnance to enter, since my safety might, by entering, be unawares and uselessly endangered. most of the neighbouring houses were apparently deserted. in some there were various tokens of people being within. might i not inquire, at one of these, respecting the condition of thetford's family? yet why should i disturb them by inquiries so impertinent at this unseasonable hour? to knock at thetford's door, and put my questions to him who should obey the signal, was the obvious method. i knocked dubiously and lightly. no one came. i knocked again, and more loudly; i likewise drew the bell. i distinctly heard its distant peals. if any were within, my signal could not fail to be noticed. i paused, and listened, but neither voice nor footsteps could be heard. the light, though obscured by window-curtains, which seemed to be drawn close, was still perceptible. i ruminated on the causes that might hinder my summons from being obeyed. i figured to myself nothing but the helplessness of disease, or the insensibility of death. these images only urged me to persist in endeavouring to obtain admission. without weighing the consequences of my act, i involuntarily lifted the latch. the door yielded to my hand, and i put my feet within the passage. once more i paused. the passage was of considerable extent, and at the end of it i perceived light as from a lamp or candle. this impelled me to go forward, till i reached the foot of a staircase. a candle stood upon the lowest step. this was a new proof that the house was not deserted. i struck my heel against the floor with some violence; but this, like my former signals, was unnoticed. having proceeded thus far, it would have been absurd to retire with my purpose uneffected. taking the candle in my hand, i opened a door that was near. it led into a spacious parlour, furnished with profusion and splendour. i walked to and fro, gazing at the objects which presented themselves; and, involved in perplexity, i knocked with my heel louder than ever; but no less ineffectually. notwithstanding the lights which i had seen, it was possible that the house was uninhabited. this i was resolved to ascertain, by proceeding to the chamber which i had observed, from without, to be illuminated. this chamber, as far as the comparison of circumstances would permit me to decide, i believed to be the same in which i had passed the first night of my late abode in the city. now was i, a second time, in almost equal ignorance of my situation, and of the consequences which impended, exploring my way to the same recess. i mounted the stair. as i approached the door of which i was in search, a vapour, infectious and deadly, assailed my senses. it resembled nothing of which i had ever before been sensible. many odours had been met with, even since my arrival in the city, less supportable than this. i seemed not so much to smell as to taste the element that now encompassed me. i felt as if i had inhaled a poisonous and subtle fluid, whose power instantly bereft my stomach of all vigour. some fatal influence appeared to seize upon my vitals, and the work of corrosion and decomposition to be busily begun. for a moment, i doubted whether imagination had not some share in producing my sensation; but i had not been previously panic-struck; and even now i attended to my own sensations without mental discomposure. that i had imbibed this disease was not to be questioned. so far the chances in my favour were annihilated. the lot of sickness was drawn. whether my case would be lenient or malignant, whether i should recover or perish, was to be left to the decision of the future. this incident, instead of appalling me, tended rather to invigorate my courage. the danger which i feared had come. i might enter with indifference on this theatre of pestilence. i might execute, without faltering, the duties that my circumstances might create. my state was no longer hazardous; and my destiny would be totally uninfluenced by my future conduct. the pang with which i was first seized, and the momentary inclination to vomit, which it produced, presently subsided. my wholesome feelings, indeed, did not revisit me, but strength to proceed was restored to me. the effluvia became more sensible as i approached the door of the chamber. the door was ajar; and the light within was perceived. my belief that those within were dead was presently confuted by sound, which i first supposed to be that of steps moving quickly and timorously across the floor. this ceased, and was succeeded by sounds of different but inexplicable import. having entered the apartment, i saw a candle on the hearth. a table was covered with vials and other apparatus of a sick-chamber. a bed stood on one side, the curtain of which was dropped at the foot, so as to conceal any one within. i fixed my eyes upon this object. there were sufficient tokens that some one lay upon the bed. breath, drawn at long intervals; mutterings scarcely audible; and a tremulous motion in the bedstead, were fearful and intelligible indications. if my heart faltered, it must not be supposed that my trepidations arose from any selfish considerations. wallace only, the object of my search, was present to my fancy. pervaded with remembrance of the hadwins; of the agonies which they had already endured; of the despair which would overwhelm the unhappy susan when the death of her lover should be ascertained; observant of the lonely condition of this house, whence i could only infer that the sick had been denied suitable attendance; and reminded, by the symptoms that appeared, that this being was struggling with the agonies of death; a sickness of the heart, more insupportable than that which i had just experienced, stole upon me. my fancy readily depicted the progress and completion of this tragedy. wallace was the first of the family on whom the pestilence had seized. thetford had fled from his habitation. perhaps as a father and husband, to shun the danger attending his stay was the injunction of his duty. it was questionless the conduct which selfish regards would dictate. wallace was left to perish alone; or, perhaps, (which, indeed, was a supposition somewhat justified by appearances,) he had been left to the tendance of mercenary wretches; by whom, at this desperate moment, he had been abandoned. i was not mindless of the possibility that these forebodings, specious as they were, might be false. the dying person might be some other than wallace. the whispers of my hope were, indeed, faint; but they, at least, prompted me to snatch a look at the expiring man. for this purpose i advanced and thrust my head within the curtain. chapter xvi. the features of one whom i had seen so transiently as wallace may be imagined to be not easily recognised, especially when those features were tremulous and deathful. here, however, the differences were too conspicuous to mislead me. i beheld one in whom i could recollect none that bore resemblance. though ghastly and livid, the traces of intelligence and beauty were undefaced. the life of wallace was of more value to a feeble individual; but surely the being that was stretched before me, and who was hastening to his last breath, was precious to thousands. was he not one in whose place i would willingly have died? the offering was too late. his extremities were already cold. a vapour, noisome and contagious, hovered over him. the flutterings of his pulse had ceased. his existence was about to close amidst convulsion and pangs. i withdrew my gaze from this object, and walked to a table. i was nearly unconscious of my movements. my thoughts were occupied with contemplations of the train of horrors and disasters that pursue the race of man. my musings were quickly interrupted by the sight of a small cabinet, the hinges of which were broken and the lid half raised. in the present state of my thoughts, i was prone to suspect the worst. here were traces of pillage. some casual or mercenary attendant had not only contributed to hasten the death of the patient, but had rifled his property and fled. this suspicion would, perhaps, have yielded to mature reflections, if i had been suffered to reflect. a moment scarcely elapsed, when some appearance in the mirror, which hung over the table, called my attention. it was a human figure. nothing could be briefer than the glance that i fixed upon this apparition; yet there was room enough for the vague conception to suggest itself, that the dying man had started from his bed and was approaching me. this belief was, at the same instant, confuted, by the survey of his form and garb. one eye, a scar upon his cheek, a tawny skin, a form grotesquely misproportioned, brawny as hercules, and habited in livery, composed, as it were, the parts of one view. to perceive, to fear, and to confront this apparition were blended into one sentiment. i turned towards him with the swiftness of lightning; but my speed was useless to my safety. a blow upon my temple was succeeded by an utter oblivion of thought and of feeling. i sunk upon the floor prostrate and senseless. my insensibility might be mistaken by observers for death, yet some part of this interval was haunted by a fearful dream. i conceived myself lying on the brink of a pit, whose bottom the eye could not reach. my hands and legs were fettered, so as to disable me from resisting two grim and gigantic figures who stooped to lift me from the earth. their purpose, methought, was to cast me into this abyss. my terrors were unspeakable, and i struggled with such force, that my bonds snapped and i found myself at liberty. at this moment my senses returned, and i opened my eyes. the memory of recent events was, for a time, effaced by my visionary horrors. i was conscious of transition from one state of being to another; but my imagination was still filled with images of danger. the bottomless gulf and my gigantic persecutors were still dreaded. i looked up with eagerness. beside me i discovered three figures, whose character or office was explained by a coffin of pine boards which lay upon the floor. one stood with hammer and nails in his hand, as ready to replace and fasten the lid of the coffin as soon as its burden should be received. i attempted to rise from the floor, but my head was dizzy and my sight confused. perceiving me revive, one of the men assisted me to regain my feet. the mist and confusion presently vanished, so as to allow me to stand unsupported and to move. i once more gazed at my attendants, and recognised the three men whom i had met in high street, and whose conversation i have mentioned that i overheard. i looked again upon the coffin. a wavering recollection of the incidents that led me hither, and of the stunning blow which i had received, occurred to me. i saw into what error appearances had misled these men, and shuddered to reflect by what hairbreadth means i had escaped being buried alive. before the men had time to interrogate me, or to comment upon my situation, one entered the apartment, whose habit and mien tended to encourage me. the stranger was characterized by an aspect full of composure and benignity, a face in which the serious lines of age were blended with the ruddiness and smoothness of youth, and a garb that bespoke that religious profession with whose benevolent doctrines the example of hadwin had rendered me familiar. on observing me on my feet, he betrayed marks of surprise and satisfaction. he addressed me in a tone of mildness:-"young man," said he, "what is thy condition? art thou sick? if thou art, thou must consent to receive the best treatment which the times will afford. these men will convey thee to the hospital at bush hill." the mention of that contagious and abhorred receptacle inspired me with some degree of energy. "no," said i, "i am not sick; a violent blow reduced me to this situation. i shall presently recover strength enough to leave this spot without assistance." he looked at me with an incredulous but compassionate air:--"i fear thou dost deceive thyself or me. the necessity of going to the hospital is much to be regretted, but, on the whole, it is best. perhaps, indeed, thou hast kindred or friends who will take care of thee?" "no," said i; "neither kindred nor friends. i am a stranger in the city. i do not even know a single being." "alas!" returned the stranger, with a sigh, "thy state is sorrowful. but how camest thou hither?" continued he, looking around him; "and whence comest thou?" "i came from the country. i reached the city a few hours ago. i was in search of a friend who lived in this house." "thy undertaking was strangely hazardous and rash; but who is the friend thou seekest? was it he who died in that bed, and whose corpse has just been removed?" the men now betrayed some impatience; and inquired of the last comer, whom they called mr. estwick, what they were to do. he turned to me, and asked if i were willing to be conducted to the hospital. i assured him that i was free from disease, and stood in no need of assistance; adding, that my feebleness was owing to a stunning blow received from a ruffian on my temple. the marks of this blow were conspicuous, and after some hesitation he dismissed the men; who, lifting the empty coffin on their shoulders, disappeared. he now invited me to descend into the parlour; "for," said he, "the air of this room is deadly. i feel already as if i should have reason to repent of having entered it." he now inquired into the cause of those appearances which he had witnessed. i explained my situation as clearly and succinctly as i was able. after pondering, in silence, on my story,--"i see how it is," said he; "the person whom thou sawest in the agonies of death was a stranger. he was attended by his servant and a hired nurse. his master's death being certain, the nurse was despatched by the servant to procure a coffin. he probably chose that opportunity to rifle his master's trunk, that stood upon the table. thy unseasonable entrance interrupted him; and he designed, by the blow which he gave thee, to secure his retreat before the arrival of a hearse. i know the man, and the apparition thou hast so well described was his. thou sayest that a friend of thine lived in this house: thou hast come too late to be of service. the whole family have perished. not one was suffered to escape." this intelligence was fatal to my hopes. it required some efforts to subdue my rising emotions. compassion not only for wallace, but for thetford, his father, his wife and his child, caused a passionate effusion of tears. i was ashamed of this useless and childlike sensibility; and attempted to apologize to my companion. the sympathy, however, had proved contagious, and the stranger turned away his face to hide his own tears. "nay," said he, in answer to my excuses, "there is no need to be ashamed of thy emotion. merely to have known this family, and to have witnessed their deplorable fate, is sufficient to melt the most obdurate heart. i suspect that thou wast united to some one of this family by ties of tenderness like those which led the unfortunate _maravegli_ hither." this suggestion was attended, in relation to myself, with some degree of obscurity; but my curiosity was somewhat excited by the name that he had mentioned, i inquired into the character and situation of this person, and particularly respecting his connection with this family. "maravegli," answered he, "was the lover of the eldest daughter, and already betrothed to her. the whole family, consisting of helpless females, had placed themselves under his peculiar guardianship. mary walpole and her children enjoyed in him a husband and a father." the name of walpole, to which i was a stranger, suggested doubts which i hastened to communicate. "i am in search," said i, "not of a female friend, though not devoid of interest in the welfare of thetford and his family. my principal concern is for a youth, by name wallace." he looked at me with surprise. "thetford! this is not his abode. he changed his habitation some weeks previous to the _fever_. those who last dwelt under this roof were an englishwoman and seven daughters." this detection of my error somewhat consoled me. it was still possible that wallace was alive and in safety. i eagerly inquired whither thetford had removed, and whether he had any knowledge of his present condition. they had removed to no.--, in market street. concerning their state he knew nothing. his acquaintance with thetford was imperfect. whether he had left the city or had remained, he was wholly uninformed. it became me to ascertain the truth in these respects. i was preparing to offer my parting thanks to the person by whom i had been so highly benefited; since, as he now informed me, it was by his interposition that i was hindered from being enclosed alive in a coffin. he was dubious of my true condition, and peremptorily commanded the followers of the hearse to desist. a delay of twenty minutes, and some medical application, would, he believed, determine whether my life was extinguished or suspended. at the end of this time, happily, my senses were recovered. seeing my intention to depart, he inquired why, and whither i was going. having heard my answer,--"thy design," resumed he, "is highly indiscreet and rash. nothing will sooner generate this fever than fatigue and anxiety. thou hast scarcely recovered from the blow so lately received. instead of being useful to others, this precipitation will only disable thyself. instead of roaming the streets and inhaling this unwholesome air, thou hadst better betake thyself to bed and try to obtain some sleep. in the morning, thou wilt be better qualified to ascertain the fate of thy friend, and afford him the relief which he shall want." i could not but admit the reasonableness of these remonstrances; but where should a chamber and bed be sought? it was not likely that a new attempt to procure accommodation at the inns would succeed better than the former. "thy state," replied he, "is sorrowful. i have no house to which i can lead thee. i divide my chamber, and even my bed, with another, and my landlady could not be prevailed upon to admit a stranger. what thou wilt do, i know not. this house has no one to defend it. it was purchased and furnished by the last possessor; but the whole family, including mistress, children, and servants, were cut off in a single week. perhaps no one in america can claim the property. meanwhile, plunderers are numerous and active. a house thus totally deserted, and replenished with valuable furniture, will, i fear, become their prey. to-night nothing can be done towards rendering it secure, but staying in it. art thou willing to remain here till the morrow? "every bed in the house has probably sustained a dead person. it would not be proper, therefore, to lie in any one of them. perhaps thou mayest find some repose upon this carpet. it is, at least, better than the harder pavement and the open air." this proposal, after some hesitation, i embraced. he was preparing to leave me, promising, if life were spared to him, to return early in the morning. my curiosity respecting the person whose dying agonies i had witnessed prompted me to detain him a few minutes. "ah!" said he, "this, perhaps, is the only one of many victims to this pestilence whose loss the remotest generations may have reason to deplore. he was the only descendant of an illustrious house of venice. he has been devoted from his childhood to the acquisition of knowledge and the practice of virtue. he came hither as an enlightened observer; and, after traversing the country, conversing with all the men in it eminent for their talents or their office, and collecting a fund of observations whose solidity and justice have seldom been paralleled, he embarked, three months ago, for europe. "previously to his departure, he formed a tender connection with the eldest daughter of this family. the mother and her children had recently arrived from england. so many faultless women, both mentally and personally considered, it was not my fortune to meet with before. this youth well deserved to be adopted into this family. he proposed to return with the utmost expedition to his native country, and, after the settlement of his affairs, to hasten back to america and ratify his contract with fanny walpole. "the ship in which he embarked had scarcely gone twenty leagues to sea, before she was disabled by a storm, and obliged to return to port. he posted to new york, to gain a passage in a packet shortly to sail. meanwhile this malady prevailed among us. mary walpole pole was hindered by her ignorance of the nature of that evil which assailed us, and the counsel of injudicious friends, from taking the due precautions for her safety. she hesitated to fly till flight was rendered impracticable. her death added to the helplessness and distraction of the family. they were successively seized and destroyed by the same pest. "maravegli was apprized of their danger. he allowed the packet to depart without him, and hastened to rescue the walpoles from the perils which encompassed them. he arrived in this city time enough to witness the interment of the last survivor. in the same hour he was seized himself by this disease: the catastrophe is known to thee. "i will now leave thee to thy repose. sleep is no less needful to myself than to thee; for this is the second night which has passed without it." saying this, my companion took his leave. i now enjoyed leisure to review my situation. i experienced no inclination to sleep. i lay down for a moment, but my comfortless sensations and restless contemplations would not permit me to rest. before i entered this house, i was tormented with hunger; but my craving had given place to inquietude and loathing. i paced, in thoughtful and anxious mood, across the floor of the apartment. i mused upon the incidents related by estwick, upon the exterminating nature of this pestilence, and on the horrors of which it was productive. i compared the experience of the last hours with those pictures which my imagination had drawn in the retirements of _malverton_. i wondered at the contrariety that exists between the scenes of the city and the country; and fostered, with more zeal than ever, the resolution to avoid those seats of depravity and danger. concerning my own destiny, however, i entertained no doubt. my new sensations assured me that my stomach had received this corrosive poison. whether i should die or live was easily decided. the sickness which assiduous attendance and powerful prescriptions might remove would, by negligence and solitude, be rendered fatal; but from whom could i expect medical or friendly treatment? i had indeed a roof over my head. i should not perish in the public way; but what was my ground for hoping to continue under this roof? my sickness being suspected, i should be dragged in a cart to the hospital; where i should, indeed, die, but not with the consolation of loneliness and silence. dying groans were the only music, and livid corpses were the only spectacle, to which i should there be introduced. immured in these dreary meditations, the night passed away. the light glancing through the window awakened in my bosom a gleam of cheerfulness. contrary to my expectations, my feelings were not more distempered, notwithstanding my want of sleep, than on the last evening. this was a token that my state was far from being so desperate as i suspected. it was possible, i thought, that this was the worst indisposition to which i was liable. meanwhile, the coming of estwick was impatiently expected. the sun arose, and the morning advanced, but he came not. i remembered that he talked of having reason to repent his visit to this house. perhaps he, likewise, was sick, and this was the cause of his delay. this man's kindness had even my love. if i had known the way to his dwelling, i should have hastened thither, to inquire into his condition, and to perform for him every office that humanity might enjoin; but he had not afforded me any information on that head. chapter xvii. it was now incumbent on me to seek the habitation of thetford. to leave this house accessible to every passenger appeared to be imprudent. i had no key by which i might lock the principal door. i therefore bolted it on the inside, and passed through a window, the shutters of which i closed, though i could not fasten after me. this led me into a spacious court, at the end of which was a brick wall, over which i leaped into the street. this was the means by which i had formerly escaped from the same precincts. the streets, as i passed, were desolate and silent. the largest computation made the number of fugitives two-thirds of the whole people; yet, judging by the universal desolation, it seemed as if the solitude were nearly absolute. that so many of the houses were closed, i was obliged to ascribe to the cessation of traffic, which made the opening of their windows useless, and the terror of infection, which made the inhabitants seclude themselves from the observation of each other. i proceeded to search out the house to which estwick had directed me as the abode of thetford. what was my consternation when i found it to be the same at the door of which the conversation took place of which i had been an auditor on the last evening! i recalled the scene of which a rude sketch had been given by the _hearse-men_. if such were the fate of the master of the family, abounding with money and friends, what could be hoped for the moneyless and friendless wallace? the house appeared to be vacant and silent; but these tokens might deceive. there was little room for hope; but certainty was wanting, and might, perhaps, be obtained by entering the house. in some of the upper rooms a wretched being might be immured; by whom the information, so earnestly desired, might be imparted, and to whom my presence might bring relief, not only from pestilence, but famine. for a moment, i forgot my own necessitous condition, and reflected not that abstinence had already undermined my strength. i proceeded to knock at the door. that my signal was unnoticed produced no surprise. the door was unlocked, and i opened. at this moment my attention was attracted by the opening of another door near me. i looked, and perceived a man issuing forth from a house at a small distance. it now occurred to me, that the information which i sought might possibly be gained from one of thetford's neighbours. this person was aged, but seemed to have lost neither cheerfulness nor vigour. he had an air of intrepidity and calmness. it soon appeared that i was the object of his curiosity. he had, probably, marked my deportment through some window of his dwelling, and had come forth to make inquiries into the motives of my conduct. he courteously saluted me. "you seem," said he, "to be in search of some one. if i can afford you the information you want, you will be welcome to it." encouraged by this address, i mentioned the name of thetford; and added my fears that he had not escaped the general calamity. "it is true," said he. "yesterday himself, his wife, and his child, were in a hopeless condition. i saw them in the evening, and expected not to find them alive this morning. as soon as it was light, however, i visited the house again; but found it empty. i suppose they must have died, and been removed in the night." though anxious to ascertain the destiny of wallace, i was unwilling to put direct questions. i shuddered, while i longed to know the truth. "why," said i, falteringly, "did he not seasonably withdraw from the city? surely he had the means of purchasing an asylum in the country." "i can scarcely tell you," he answered. "some infatuation appeared to have seized him. no one was more timorous; but he seemed to think himself safe as long as he avoided contact with infected persons. he was likewise, i believe, detained by a regard to his interest. his flight would not have been more injurious to his affairs than it was to those of others; but gain was, in his eyes, the supreme good. he intended ultimately to withdraw; but his escape to-day, gave him new courage to encounter the perils of to-morrow. he deferred his departure from day to day, till it ceased to be practicable." "his family," said i, "was numerous. it consisted of more than his wife and children. perhaps these retired in sufficient season." "yes," said he; "his father left the house at an early period. one or two of the servants likewise forsook him. one girl, more faithful and heroic than the rest, resisted the remonstrances of her parents and friends, and resolved to adhere to him in every fortune. she was anxious that the family should fly from danger, and would willingly have fled in their company; but while they stayed, it was her immovable resolution not to abandon them. "alas, poor girl! she knew not of what stuff the heart of thetford was made. unhappily, she was the first to become sick. i question much whether her disease was pestilential. it was, probably, a slight indisposition, which, in a few days, would have vanished of itself, or have readily yielded to suitable treatment. "thetford was transfixed with terror. instead of summoning a physician, to ascertain the nature of her symptoms, he called a negro and his cart from bush hill. in vain the neighbours interceded for this unhappy victim. in vain she implored his clemency, and asserted the lightness of her indisposition. she besought him to allow her to send to her mother, who resided a few miles in the country, who would hasten to her succour, and relieve him and his family from the danger and trouble of nursing her. "the man was lunatic with apprehension. he rejected her entreaties, though urged in a manner that would have subdued a heart of flint. the girl was innocent, and amiable, and courageous, but entertained an unconquerable dread of the hospital. finding entreaties ineffectual, she exerted all her strength in opposition to the man who lifted her into the cart. "finding that her struggles availed nothing, she resigned herself to despair. in going to the hospital, she believed herself led to certain death, and to the sufferance of every evil which the known inhumanity of its attendants could inflict. this state of mind, added to exposure to a noonday sun, in an open vehicle, moving, for a mile, over a rugged pavement, was sufficient to destroy her. i was not surprised to hear that she died the next day. "this proceeding was sufficiently iniquitous; yet it was not the worst act of this man. the rank and education of the young woman might be some apology for negligence; but his clerk, a youth who seemed to enjoy his confidence, and to be treated by his family on the footing of a brother or son, fell sick on the next night, and was treated in the same manner." these tidings struck me to the heart. a burst of indignation and sorrow filled my eyes. i could scarcely stifle my emotions sufficiently to ask, "of whom, sir, do you speak? was the name of the youth--his name--was----" "his name was wallace. i see that you have some interest in his fate. he was one whom i loved. i would have given half my fortune to procure him accommodation under some hospitable roof. his attack was violent; but, still, his recovery, if he had been suitably attended, was possible. that he should survive removal to the hospital, and the treatment he must receive when there, was not to be hoped. "the conduct of thetford was as absurd as it was wicked. to imagine the disease to be contagious was the height of folly; to suppose himself secure, merely by not permitting a sick man to remain under his roof, was no less stupid; but thetford's fears had subverted his understanding. he did not listen to arguments or supplications. his attention was incapable of straying from one object. to influence him by words was equivalent to reasoning with the deaf. "perhaps the wretch was more to be pitied than hated. the victims of his implacable caution could scarcely have endured agonies greater than those which his pusillanimity inflicted on himself. whatever be the amount of his guilt, the retribution has been adequate. he witnessed the death of his wife and child, and last night was the close of his own existence. their sole attendant was a black woman; whom, by frequent visits, i endeavoured, with little success, to make diligent in the performance of her duty." such, then, was the catastrophe of wallace. the end for which i journeyed hither was accomplished. his destiny was ascertained; and all that remained was to fulfil the gloomy predictions of the lovely but unhappy susan. to tell them all the truth would be needlessly to exasperate her sorrow. time, aided by the tenderness and sympathy of friendship, may banish her despair, and relieve her from all but the witcheries of melancholy. having disengaged my mind from these reflections, i explained to my companion, in general terms, my reasons for visiting the city, and my curiosity respecting. thetford. he inquired into the particulars of my journey, and the time of my arrival. when informed that i had come in the preceding evening, and had passed the subsequent hours without sleep or food, he expressed astonishment and compassion. "your undertaking," said he, "has certainly been hazardous. there is poison in every breath which you draw, but this hazard has been greatly increased by abstaining from food and sleep. my advice is to hasten back into the country; but you must first take some repose and some victuals. if you pass schuylkill before nightfall, it will be sufficient." i mentioned the difficulty of procuring accommodation on the road. it would be most prudent to set out upon my journey so as to reach _malverton_ at night. as to food and sleep, they were not to be purchased in this city. "true," answered my companion, with quickness, "they are not to be bought; but i will furnish you with as much as you desire of both, for nothing. that is my abode," continued he, pointing to the house which he had lately left. "i reside with a widow lady and her daughter, who took my counsel, and fled in due season. i remain to moralize upon the scene, with only a faithful black, who makes my bed, prepares my coffee, and bakes my loaf. if i am sick, all that a physician can do, i will do for myself, and all that a nurse can perform, i expect to be performed by _austin_. "come with me, drink some coffee, rest a while on my mattress, and then fly, with my benedictions on your head." these words were accompanied by features disembarrassed and benevolent. my temper is alive to social impulses, and i accepted his invitation, not so much because i wished to eat or to sleep, but because i felt reluctance to part so soon with a being who possessed so much fortitude and virtue. he was surrounded by neatness and plenty. austin added dexterity to submissiveness. my companion, whose name i now found to be medlicote, was prone to converse, and commented on the state of the city like one whose reading had been extensive and experience large. he combated an opinion which i had casually formed respecting the origin of this epidemic, and imputed it, not to infected substances imported from the east or west, but to a morbid constitution of the atmosphere, owing wholly or in part to filthy streets, airless habitations, and squalid persons. as i talked with this man, the sense of danger was obliterated, i felt confidence revive in my heart, and energy revisit my stomach. though far from my wonted health, my sensation grew less comfortless, and i found myself to stand in no need of repose. breakfast being finished, my friend pleaded his daily engagements as reasons for leaving me. he counselled me to strive for some repose, but i was conscious of incapacity to sleep. i was desirous of escaping, as soon as possible, from this tainted atmosphere, and reflected whether any thing remained to be done respecting wallace. it now occurred to me that this youth must have left some clothes and papers, and, perhaps, books. the property of these was now vested in the hadwins. i might deem myself, without presumption, their representative or agent. might i not take some measures for obtaining possession, or at least for the security, of these articles? the house and its furniture were tenantless and unprotected. it was liable to be ransacked and pillaged by those desperate ruffians of whom many were said to be hunting for spoil even at a time like this. if these should overlook this dwelling, thetford's unknown successor or heir might appropriate the whole. numberless accidents might happen to occasion the destruction or embezzlement of what belonged to wallace, which might be prevented by the conduct which i should now pursue. immersed in these perplexities, i remained bewildered and motionless. i was at length roused by some one knocking at the door. austin obeyed the signal, and instantly returned, leading in--mr. hadwin! i know not whether this unlooked-for interview excited on my part most grief or surprise. the motive of his coming was easily divined. his journey was on two accounts superfluous. he whom he sought was dead. the duty of ascertaining his condition i had assigned to myself. i now perceived and deplored the error of which i had been guilty, in concealing my intended journey from my patron. ignorant of the part i had acted, he had rushed into the jaws of this pest, and endangered a life unspeakably valuable to his children and friends. i should doubtless have obtained his grateful consent to the project which i had conceived; but my wretched policy had led me into this clandestine path. secrecy may seldom be a crime. a virtuous intention may produce it; but surely it is always erroneous and pernicious. my friend's astonishment at the sight of me was not inferior to my own. the causes which led to this unexpected interview were mutually explained. to soothe the agonies of his child, he consented to approach the city, and endeavour to procure intelligence of wallace. when he left his house, he intended to stop in the environs, and hire some emissary, whom an ample reward might tempt to enter the city, and procure the information which was needed. no one could be prevailed upon to execute so dangerous a service. averse to return without performing his commission, he concluded to examine for himself. thetford's removal to this street was known to him; but, being ignorant of my purpose, he had not mentioned this circumstance to me, during our last conversation. i was sensible of the danger which hadwin had incurred by entering the city. perhaps my knowledge of the inexpressible importance of his life to the happiness of his daughters made me aggravate his danger. i knew that the longer he lingered in this tainted air, the hazard was increased. a moment's delay was unnecessary. neither wallace nor myself were capable of being benefited by his presence. i mentioned the death of his nephew as a reason for hastening his departure. i urged him in the most vehement terms to remount his horse and to fly; i endeavoured to preclude all inquiries respecting myself or wallace; promising to follow him immediately, and answer all his questions at _malverton_. my importunities were enforced by his own fears, and, after a moment's hesitation, he rode away. the emotions produced by this incident were, in the present critical state of my frame, eminently hurtful. my morbid indications suddenly returned. i had reason to ascribe my condition to my visit to the chamber of maravegli; but this and its consequences to myself, as well as the journey of hadwin, were the fruits of my unhappy secrecy. i had always been accustomed to perform my journeys on foot. this, on ordinary occasions, was the preferable method, but now i ought to have adopted the easiest and swiftest means. if hadwin had been acquainted with my purpose he would not only have approved, but would have allowed me, the use of a horse. these reflections were rendered less pungent by the recollection that my motives were benevolent, and that i had endeavoured the benefit of others by means which appeared to me most suitable. meanwhile, how was i to proceed? what hindered me from pursuing the footsteps of hadwin with all the expedition which my uneasiness, of brain and stomach, would allow? i conceived that to leave any thing undone, with regard to wallace, would be absurd. his property might be put under the care of my new friend. but how was it to be distinguished from the property of others? it was, probably, contained in trunks, which were designated by some label or mark. i was unacquainted with his chamber, but, by passing from one to the other, i might finally discover it. some token, directing my footsteps, might occur, though at present unforeseen. actuated by these considerations, i once more entered thetford's habitation. i regretted that i had not procured the counsel or attendance of my new friend; but some engagements, the nature of which he did not explain, occasioned him to leave me as soon as breakfast was finished. chapter xviii. i wandered over this deserted mansion, in a considerable degree, at random. effluvia of a pestilential nature assailed me from every corner. in the front room of the second story, i imagined that i discovered vestiges of that catastrophe which the past night had produced. the bed appeared as if some one had recently been dragged from it. the sheets were tinged with yellow, and with that substance which is said to be characteristic of this disease, the gangrenous or black vomit. the floor exhibited similar stains. there are many who will regard my conduct as the last refinement of temerity, or of heroism. nothing, indeed, more perplexes me than a review of my own conduct. not, indeed, that death is an object always to be dreaded, or that my motive did not justify my actions; but of all dangers, those allied to pestilence, by being mysterious and unseen, are the most formidable. to disarm them of their terrors requires the longest familiarity. nurses and physicians soonest become intrepid or indifferent; but the rest of mankind recoil from the scene with unconquerable loathing. i was sustained, not by confidence of safety, and a belief of exemption from this malady, or by the influence of habit, which inures us to all that is detestable or perilous, but by a belief that this was as eligible an avenue to death as any other; and that life is a trivial sacrifice in the cause of duty. i passed from one room to the other. a portmanteau, marked with the initials of wallace's name, at length attracted my notice. from this circumstance i inferred that this apartment had been occupied by him. the room was neatly arranged, and appeared as if no one had lately used it. there were trunks and drawers. that which i have mentioned was the only one that bore marks of wallace's ownership. this i lifted in my arms with a view to remove it to medlicote's house. at that moment, methought i heard a footstep slowly and lingeringly ascending the stair. i was disconcerted at this incident. the footstep had in it a ghost-like solemnity and tardiness. this phantom vanished in a moment, and yielded place to more humble conjectures. a human being approached, whose office and commission were inscrutable. that we were strangers to each other was easily imagined; but how would my appearance, in this remote chamber, and loaded with another's property, be interpreted? did he enter the house after me, or was he the tenant of some chamber hitherto unvisited; whom my entrance had awakened from his trance and called from his couch? in the confusion of my mind, i still held my burden uplifted. to have placed it on the floor, and encountered this visitant, without this equivocal token about me, was the obvious proceeding. indeed, time only could decide whether these footsteps tended to this, or to some other, apartment. my doubts were quickly dispelled. the door opened, and a figure glided in. the portmanteau dropped from my arms, and my heart's blood was chilled. if an apparition of the dead were possible, (and that possibility i could not deny,) this was such an apparition. a hue, yellowish and livid; bones, uncovered with flesh; eyes, ghastly, hollow, woe-begone, and fixed in an agony of wonder upon me; and locks, matted and negligent, constituted the image which i now beheld. my belief of somewhat preternatural in this appearance was confirmed by recollection of resemblances between these features and those of one who was dead. in this shape and visage, shadowy and death-like as they were, the lineaments of wallace, of him who had misled my rustic simplicity on my first visit to this city, and whose death i had conceived to be incontestably ascertained, were forcibly recognised. this recognition, which at first alarmed my superstition, speedily led to more rational inferences. wallace had been dragged to the hospital. nothing was less to be suspected than that he would return alive from that hideous receptacle, but this was by no means impossible. the figure that stood before me had just risen from the bed of sickness, and from the brink of the grave. the crisis of his malady had passed, and he was once more entitled to be ranked among the living. this event, and the consequences which my imagination connected with it, filled me with the liveliest joy. i thought not of his ignorance of the causes of my satisfaction, of the doubts to which the circumstances of our interview would give birth, respecting the integrity of my purpose. i forgot the artifices by which i had formerly been betrayed, and the embarrassments which a meeting with the victim of his artifices would excite in him; i thought only of the happiness which his recovery would confer upon his uncle and his cousins. i advanced towards him with an air of congratulation, and offered him my hand. he shrunk back, and exclaimed, in a feeble voice, "who are you? what business have you here?" "i am the friend of wallace, if he will allow me to be so. i am a messenger from your uncle and cousins at _malverton_. i came to know the cause of your silence, and to afford you any assistance in my power." he continued to regard me with an air of suspicion and doubt. these i endeavoured to remove by explaining the motives that led me hither. it was with difficulty that he seemed to credit my representations. when thoroughly convinced of the truth of my assertions, he inquired with great anxiety and tenderness concerning his relations; and expressed his hope that they were ignorant of what had befallen him. i could not encourage his hopes. i regretted my own precipitation in adopting the belief of his death. this belief had been uttered with confidence, and without stating my reasons for embracing it, to mr. hadwin. these tidings would be borne to his daughters, and their grief would be exasperated to a deplorable and perhaps to a fatal degree. there was but one method of repairing or eluding this mischief. intelligence ought to be conveyed to them of his recovery. but where was the messenger to be found? no one's attention could be found disengaged from his own concerns. those who were able or willing to leave the city had sufficient motives for departure, in relation to themselves. if vehicle or horse were procurable for money, ought it not to be secured for the use of wallace himself, whose health required the easiest and speediest conveyance from this theatre of death? my companion was powerless in mind as in limbs. he seemed unable to consult upon the means of escaping from the inconveniences by which he was surrounded. as soon as sufficient strength was regained, he had left the hospital. to repair to _malverton_ was the measure which prudence obviously dictated; but he was hopeless of effecting it. the city was close at hand; this was his usual home; and hither his tottering and almost involuntary steps conducted him. he listened to my representations and counsels, and acknowledged their propriety. he put himself under my protection and guidance, and promised to conform implicitly to my directions. his strength had sufficed to bring him thus far, but was now utterly exhausted. the task of searching for a carriage and horse devolved upon me. in effecting this purpose, i was obliged to rely upon my own ingenuity and diligence. wallace, though so long a resident in the city, knew not to whom i could apply, or by whom carriages were let to hire. my own reflections taught me, that this accommodation was most likely to be furnished by innkeepers, or that some of those might at least inform me of the best measures to be taken. i resolved to set out immediately on this search. meanwhile, wallace was persuaded to take refuge in medlicote's apartments; and to make, by the assistance of austin, the necessary preparation for his journey. the morning had now advanced. the rays of a sultry sun had a sickening and enfeebling influence beyond any which i had ever experienced. the drought of unusual duration had bereft the air and the earth of every particle of moisture. the element which i breathed appeared to have stagnated into noxiousness and putrefaction. i was astonished at observing the enormous diminution of my strength. my brows were heavy, my intellects benumbed, my sinews enfeebled, and my sensations universally unquiet. these prognostics were easily interpreted. what i chiefly dreaded was, that they would disable me from executing the task which i had undertaken. i summoned up all my resolution, and cherished a disdain of yielding to this ignoble destiny. i reflected that the source of all energy, and even of life, is seated in thought; that nothing is arduous to human efforts; that the external frame will seldom languish, while actuated by an unconquerable soul. i fought against my dreary feelings, which pulled me to the earth. i quickened my pace, raised my drooping eyelids, and hummed a cheerful and favourite air. for all that i accomplished during this day, i believe myself indebted to the strenuousness and ardour of my resolutions. i went from one tavern to another. one was deserted; in another the people were sick, and their attendants refused to hearken to my inquiries or offers; at a third, their horses were engaged. i was determined to prosecute my search as long as an inn or a livery-stable remained unexamined, and my strength would permit. to detail the events of this expedition, the arguments and supplications which i used to overcome the dictates of avarice and fear, the fluctuation of my hopes and my incessant disappointments, would be useless. having exhausted all my expedients ineffectually, i was compelled to turn my weary steps once more to medlicote's lodgings. my meditations were deeply engaged by the present circumstances of my situation. since the means which were first suggested were impracticable, i endeavoured to investigate others. wallace's debility made it impossible for him to perform this journey on foot; but would not his strength and his resolution suffice to carry him beyond schuylkill? a carriage or horse, though not to be obtained in the city, could, without difficulty, be procured in the country. every farmer had beasts for burden and draught. one of these might be hired, at no immoderate expense, for half a day. this project appeared so practicable and so specious, that i deeply regretted the time and the efforts which had already been so fruitlessly expended. if my project, however, had been mischievous, to review it with regret was only to prolong and to multiply its mischiefs. i trusted that time and strength would not be wanting to the execution of this new design. on entering medlicote's house, my looks, which, in spite of my languors, were sprightly and confident, flattered wallace with the belief that my exertions had succeeded. when acquainted with their failure, he sunk as quickly into hopelessness. my new expedient was heard by him with no marks of satisfaction. it was impossible, he said, to move from this spot by his own strength. all his powers were exhausted by his walk from bush hill. i endeavoured, by arguments and railleries, to revive his courage. the pure air of the country would exhilarate him into new life. he might stop at every fifty yards, and rest upon the green sod. if overtaken by the night, we would procure a lodging, by address and importunity; but, if every door should be shut against us, we should at least enjoy the shelter of some barn, and might diet wholesomely upon the new-laid eggs that we should find there. the worst treatment we could meet with was better than continuance in the city. these remonstrances had some influence, and he at length consented to put his ability to the test. first, however, it was necessary to invigorate himself by a few hours' rest. to this, though with infinite reluctance, i consented. this interval allowed him to reflect upon the past, and to inquire into the fate of thetford and his family. the intelligence which medlicote had enabled me to afford him was heard with more satisfaction than regret. the ingratitude and cruelty with which he had been treated seemed to have extinguished every sentiment but hatred and vengeance. i was willing to profit by this interval to know more of thetford than i already possessed. i inquired why wallace had so perversely neglected the advice of his uncle and cousin, and persisted to brave so many dangers when flight was so easy. "i cannot justify my conduct," answered he. "it was in the highest degree thoughtless and perverse. i was confident and unconcerned as long as our neighbourhood was free from disease, and as long as i forbore any communication with the sick; yet i should have withdrawn to malverton, merely to gratify my friends, if thetford had not used the most powerful arguments to detain me. he laboured to extenuate the danger. "'why not stay,' said he, 'as long as i and my family stay? do you think that we would linger here, if the danger were imminent? as soon as it becomes so, we will fly. you know that we have a country-house prepared for our reception. when we go, you shall accompany us. your services at this time are indispensable to my affairs. if you will not desert me, your salary next year shall be double; and that will enable you to marry your cousin immediately. nothing is more improbable than that any of us should be sick; but, if this should happen to you, i plight my honour that you shall be carefully and faithfully attended.' "these assurances were solemn and generous. to make susan hadwin my wife was the scope of all my wishes and labours. by staying, i should hasten this desirable event, and incur little hazard. by going, i should alienate the affections of thetford; by whom, it is but justice to acknowledge, that i had hitherto been treated with unexampled generosity and kindness; and blast all the schemes i had formed for rising into wealth. "my resolution was by no means steadfast. as often as a letter from _malverton_ arrived, i felt myself disposed to hasten away; but this inclination was combated by new arguments and new entreaties of thetford. "in this state of suspense, the girl by whom mrs. thetford's infant was nursed fell sick. she was an excellent creature, and merited better treatment than she received. like me, she resisted the persuasions of her friends, but her motives for remaining were disinterested and heroic. "no sooner did her indisposition appear, than she was hurried to the hospital. i saw that no reliance could be placed upon the assurances of thetford. every consideration gave way to his fear of death. after the girl's departure, though he knew that she was led by his means to execution, yet he consoled himself by repeating and believing her assertions, that her disease was not _the fever_. "i was now greatly alarmed for my own safety. i was determined to encounter his anger and repel his persuasions; and to depart with the market-man next morning. that night, however, i was seized with a violent fever. i knew in what manner patients were treated at the hospital, and removal thither was to the last degree abhorred. "the morning arrived, and my situation was discovered. at the first intimation, thetford rushed out of the house, and refused to re-enter it till i was removed. i knew not my fate, till three ruffians made their appearance at my bedside, and communicated their commission. "i called on the name of thetford and his wife. i entreated a moment's delay, till i had seen these persons, and endeavoured to procure a respite from my sentence. they were deaf to my entreaties, and prepared to execute their office by force. i was delirious with rage and terror. i heaped the bitterest execrations on my murderer; and by turns, invoked the compassion of, and poured a torrent of reproaches on, the wretches whom he had selected for his ministers. my struggles and outcries were vain. "i have no perfect recollection of what passed till my arrival at the hospital. my passions combined with my disease to make me frantic and wild. in a state like mine, the slightest motion could not be endured without agony. what then must i have felt, scorched and dazzled by the sun, sustained by hard boards, and borne for miles over a rugged pavement? "i cannot make you comprehend the anguish of my feelings. to be disjointed and torn piecemeal by the rack was a torment inexpressibly inferior to this. nothing excites my wonder but that i did not expire before the cart had moved three paces. "i knew not how, or by whom, i was moved from this vehicle. insensibility came at length to my relief. after a time i opened my eyes, and slowly gained some knowledge of my situation. i lay upon a mattress, whose condition proved that a half-decayed corpse had recently been dragged from it. the room was large, but it was covered with beds like my own. between each, there was scarcely the interval of three feet. each sustained a wretch, whose groans and distortions bespoke the desperateness of his condition. "the atmosphere was loaded by mortal stenches. a vapour, suffocating and malignant, scarcely allowed me to breathe. no suitable receptacle was provided for the evacuations produced by medicine or disease. my nearest neighbour was struggling with death, and my bed, casually extended, was moist with the detestable matter which had flowed from his stomach. "you will scarcely believe that, in this scene of horrors, the sound of laughter should be overheard. while the upper rooms of this building are filled with the sick and the dying, the lower apartments are the scene of carousals and mirth. the wretches who are hired, at enormous wages, to tend the sick and convey away the dead, neglect their duty, and consume the cordials which are provided for the patients, in debauchery and riot. "a female visage, bloated with malignity and drunkenness, occasionally looked in. dying eyes were cast upon her, invoking the boon, perhaps, of a drop of cold water, or her assistance to change a posture which compelled him to behold the ghastly writhings or deathful _smile_ of his neighbour. "the visitant had left the banquet for a moment, only to see who was dead. if she entered the room, blinking eyes and reeling steps showed her to be totally unqualified for ministering the aid that was needed. presently she disappeared, and others ascended the staircase, a coffin was deposited at the door, the wretch, whose heart still quivered, was seized by rude hands, and dragged along the floor into the passage. "oh! how poor are the conceptions which are formed, by the fortunate few, of the sufferings to which millions of their fellow-beings are condemned. this misery was more frightful, because it was seen to flow from the depravity of the attendants. my own eyes only would make me credit the existence of wickedness so enormous. no wonder that to die in garrets, and cellars, and stables, unvisited and unknown, had, by so many, been preferred to being brought hither. "a physician cast an eye upon my state. he gave some directions to the person who attended him. i did not comprehend them, they were never executed by the nurses, and, if the attempt had been made, i should probably have refused to receive what was offered. recovery was equally beyond my expectations and my wishes. the scene which was hourly displayed before me, the entrance of the sick, most of whom perished in a few hours, and their departure to the graves prepared for them, reminded me of the fate to which i, also, was reserved. "three days passed away, in which every hour was expected to be the last. that, amidst an atmosphere so contagious and deadly, amidst causes of destruction hourly accumulating, i should yet survive, appears to me nothing less than miraculous. that of so many conducted to this house the only one who passed out of it alive should be myself almost surpasses my belief. "some inexplicable principle rendered harmless those potent enemies of human life. my fever subsided and vanished. my strength was revived, and the first use that i made of my limbs was to bear me far from the contemplation and sufferance of those evils." chapter xix. having gratified my curiosity in this respect, wallace proceeded to remind me of the circumstances of our first interview. he had entertained doubts whether i was the person whom he had met at lesher's. i acknowledged myself to be the same, and inquired, in my turn, into the motives of his conduct on that occasion. "i confess," said he, with some hesitation, "i meant only to sport with your simplicity and ignorance. you must not imagine, however, that my stratagem was deep-laid and deliberately executed. my professions at the tavern were sincere. i meant not to injure but to serve you. it was not till i reached the head of the staircase that the mischievous contrivance occurred. i foresaw nothings at the moment, but ludicrous mistakes and embarrassment. the scheme was executed almost at the very moment it occurred. "after i had returned to the parlour, thetford charged me with the delivery of a message in a distant quarter of the city. it was not till i had performed this commission, and had set out on my return, that i fully revolved the consequences likely to flow from my project. "that thetford and his wife would detect you in their bedchamber was unquestionable. perhaps, weary of my long delay, you would have fairly undressed and gone to bed. the married couple would have made preparation to follow you, and, when the curtain was undrawn, would discover a robust youth, fast asleep, in their place. these images, which had just before excited my laughter, now produced a very different emotion. i dreaded some fatal catastrophe from the fiery passions of thetford. in the first transports of his fury he might pistol you, or, at least, might command you to be dragged to prison. "i now heartily repented of my jest, and hastened home, that i might prevent, as far as possible, the evil effects that might flow from it. the acknowledgment of my own agency in this affair would, at least, transfer thetford's indignation to myself, to whom it was equitably due. "the married couple had retired to their chamber, and no alarm or confusion had followed. this was an inexplicable circumstance. i waited with impatience till the morning should furnish a solution of the difficulty. the morning arrived. a strange event had, indeed, taken place in their bedchamber. they found an infant asleep in their bed. thetford had been roused twice in the night, once by a noise in the closet, and afterwards by a noise at the door. "some connection between these sounds and the foundling was naturally suspected. in the morning the closet was examined, and a coarse pair of shoes was found on the floor. the chamber door, which thetford had locked in the evening, was discovered to be open, as likewise a window in the kitchen. "these appearances were a source of wonder and doubt to others, but were perfectly intelligible to me. i rejoiced that my stratagem had no more dangerous consequence, and admired the ingenuity and perseverance with which you had extricated yourself from so critical a state." this narrative was only the verification of my own guesses. its facts were quickly supplanted in my thoughts by the disastrous picture he had drawn of the state of the hospital. i was confounded and shocked by the magnitude of this evil. the cause of it was obvious. the wretches whom money could purchase were, of course, licentious and unprincipled. superintended and controlled, they might be useful instruments; but that superintendence could not be bought. what qualities were requisite in the governor of such an institution? he must have zeal, diligence, and perseverance. he must act from lofty and pure motives. he must be mild and firm, intrepid and compliant. one perfectly qualified for the office it is desirable, but not possible, to find. a dispassionate and honest zeal in the cause of duty and humanity may be of eminent utility. am i not endowed with this zeal? cannot my feeble efforts obviate some portion of this evil? no one has hitherto claimed this disgustful and perilous situation. my powers and discernment are small, but if they be honestly exerted they cannot fail to be somewhat beneficial. the impulse produced by these reflections was to hasten to the city hall, and make known my wishes. this impulse was controlled by recollections of my own indisposition, and of the state of wallace. to deliver this youth to his friends was the strongest obligation. when this was discharged, i might return to the city, and acquit myself of more comprehensive duties. wallace had now enjoyed a few hours' rest, and was persuaded to begin the journey. it was now noonday, and the sun darted insupportable rays. wallace was more sensible than i of their unwholesome influence. we had not reached the suburbs, when his strength was wholly exhausted, and, had i not supported him, he would have sunk upon the pavement. my limbs were scarcely less weak, but my resolutions were much more strenuous than his. i made light of his indisposition, and endeavoured to persuade him that his vigour would return in proportion to his distance from the city. the moment we should reach a shade, a short respite would restore us to health and cheerfulness. nothing could revive his courage or induce him to go on. to return or to proceed was equally impracticable. but, should he be able to return, where should he find a retreat? the danger of relapse was imminent; his own chamber at thetford's was unoccupied. if he could regain this house, might i not procure him a physician and perform for him the part of nurse? his present situation was critical and mournful. to remain in the street, exposed to the malignant fervours of the sun, was not to be endured. to carry him in my arms exceeded my strength. should i not claim the assistance of the first passenger that appeared? at that moment a horse and chaise passed us. the vehicle proceeded at a quick pace. he that rode in it might afford us the succour that we needed. he might be persuaded to deviate from his course and convey the helpless wallace to the house we had just left. this thought instantly impelled me forward. feeble as i was, i even ran with speed, in order to overtake the vehicle. my purpose was effected with the utmost difficulty. it fortunately happened that the carriage contained but one person, who stopped at my request. his countenance and guise was mild and encouraging. "good friend," i exclaimed, "here is a young man too indisposed to walk. i want him carried to his lodgings. will you, for money or for charity, allow him a place in your chaise, and set him down where i shall direct?" observing tokens of hesitation, i continued, "you need have no fears to perform this office. he is not sick, but merely feeble. i will not ask twenty minutes, and you may ask what reward you think proper." still he hesitated to comply. his business, he said, had not led him into the city. he merely passed along the skirts of it, whence he conceived that no danger would arise. he was desirous of helping the unfortunate; but he could not think of risking his own life in the cause of a stranger, when he had a wife and children depending on his existence and exertions for bread. it gave him pain to refuse, but he thought his duty to himself and to others required that he should not hazard his safety by compliance. this plea was irresistible. the mildness of his manner showed that he might have been overpowered by persuasion or tempted by reward. i would not take advantage of his tractability; but should have declined his assistance, even if it had been spontaneously offered. i turned away from him in silence, and prepared to return to the spot where i had left my friend. the man prepared to resume his way. in this perplexity, the thought occurred to me that, since this person was going into the country, he might, possibly, consent to carry wallace along with him. i confided greatly in the salutary influence of rural airs. i believed that debility constituted the whole of his complaint; that continuance in the city might occasion his relapse, or, at least, procrastinate his restoration. i once more addressed myself to the traveller, and inquired in what direction and how far he was going. to my unspeakable satisfaction, his answer informed me that his home lay beyond mr. hadwin's, and that this road carried him directly past that gentleman's door. he was willing to receive wallace into his chaise, and to leave him at his uncle's. this joyous and auspicious occurrence surpassed my fondest hopes. i hurried with the pleasing tidings to wallace, who eagerly consented to enter the carriage. i thought not at the moment of myself, or how far the same means of escaping from my danger might be used. the stranger could not be anxious on my account; and wallace's dejection and weakness may apologize for his not soliciting my company, or expressing his fears for my safety. he was no sooner seated, than the traveller hurried away. i gazed after them, motionless and mute, till the carriage, turning a corner, passed beyond my sight. i had now leisure to revert to my own condition, and to ruminate on that series of abrupt and diversified events that had happened during the few hours which had been passed in the city: the end of my coming was thus speedily and satisfactorily accomplished. my hopes and fears had rapidly fluctuated; but, respecting this young man, had now subsided into calm and propitious certainty. before the decline of the sun, he would enter his paternal roof, and diffuse ineffable joy throughout that peaceful and chaste asylum. this contemplation, though rapturous and soothing, speedily gave way to reflections on the conduct which my duty required, and the safe departure of wallace afforded me liberty, to pursue. to offer myself as a superintendent of the hospital was still my purpose. the languors of my frame might terminate in sickness, but this event it was useless to anticipate. the lofty site and pure airs of bush hill might tend to dissipate my languors and restore me to health. at least while i had power, i was bound to exert it to the wisest purposes. i resolved to seek the city hall immediately, and, for that end, crossed the intermediate fields which separated sassafras from chestnut street. more urgent considerations had diverted my attention from the money which i bore about me, and from the image of the desolate lady to whom it belonged. my intentions, with regard to her, were the same as ever; but now it occurred to me, with new force, that my death might preclude an interview between us, and that it was prudent to dispose, in some useful way, of the money which would otherwise be left to the sport of chance. the evils which had befallen this city were obvious and enormous. hunger and negligence had exasperated the malignity and facilitated the progress of the pestilence. could this money be more usefully employed than in alleviating these evils? during my life, i had no power over it, but my death would justify me in prescribing the course which it should take. how was this course to be pointed out? how might i place it, so that i should effect my intentions without relinquishing the possession during my life? these thoughts were superseded by a tide of new sensations. the weight that incommoded my brows and my stomach was suddenly increased. my brain was usurped by some benumbing power, and my limbs refused to support me. my pulsations were quickened, and the prevalence of fever could no longer be doubted. till now, i had entertained a faint hope that my indisposition would vanish of itself. this hope was at an end. the grave was before me, and my projects of curiosity or benevolence were to sink into oblivion. i was not bereaved of the powers of reflection. the consequences of lying in the road, friendless and unprotected, were sure. the first passenger would notice me, and hasten to summon one of those carriages which are busy night and day in transporting its victims to the hospital. this fate was, beyond all others, abhorrent to my imagination. to hide me under some roof, where my existence would be unknown and unsuspected, and where i might perish unmolested and in quiet, was my present wish. thetford's or medlicote's might afford me such an asylum, if it were possible to reach it. i made the most strenuous exertions; but they could not carry me forward more than a hundred paces. here i rested on steps, which, on looking up, i perceived to belong to welbeck's house. this incident was unexpected. it led my reflections into a new train. to go farther, in the present condition of my frame, was impossible. i was well acquainted with this dwelling. all its avenues were closed. whether it had remained unoccupied since my flight from it, i could not decide. it was evident that, at present, it was without inhabitants. possibly it might have continued in the same condition in which welbeck had left it. beds or sofas might be found, on which a sick man might rest, and be fearless of intrusion. this inference was quickly overturned by the obvious supposition that every avenue was bolted and locked. this, however, might not be the condition of the bath-house, in which there was nothing that required to be guarded with unusual precautions. i was suffocated by inward and scorched by external heat; and the relief of bathing and drinking appeared inestimable. the value of this prize, in addition to my desire to avoid the observation of passengers, made me exert all my remnant of strength. repeated efforts at length enabled me to mount the wall; and placed me, as i imagined, in security. i swallowed large draughts of water as soon as i could reach the well. the effect was, for a time, salutary and delicious. my fervours were abated, and my faculties relieved from the weight which had lately oppressed them. my present condition was unspeakably more advantageous than the former. i did not believe that it could be improved, till, casting my eye vaguely over the building, i happened to observe the shutters of a lower window partly opened. whether this was occasioned by design or by accident there was no means of deciding. perhaps, in the precipitation of the latest possessor, this window had been overlooked. perhaps it had been unclosed by violence, and afforded entrance to a robber. by what means soever it had happened, it undoubtedly afforded ingress to me. i felt no scruple in profiting by this circumstance. my purposes were not dishonest. i should not injure or purloin any thing. it was laudable to seek a refuge from the well-meant persecutions of those who governed the city. all i sought was the privilege of dying alone. having gotten in at the window, i could not but remark that the furniture and its arrangements had undergone no alteration in my absence. i moved softly from one apartment to another, till at length i entered that which had formerly been welbeck's bedchamber. the bed was naked of covering. the cabinets and closets exhibited their fastenings broken. their contents were gone. whether these appearances had been produced by midnight robbers, or by the ministers of law and the rage of the creditors of welbeck, was a topic of fruitless conjecture. my design was now effected. this chamber should be the scene of my disease and my refuge from the charitable cruelty of my neighbours. my new sensations conjured up the hope that my indisposition might prove a temporary evil. instead of pestilential or malignant fever, it might be a harmless intermittent. time would ascertain its true nature; meanwhile, i would turn the carpet into a coverlet, supply my pitcher with water, and administer without sparing, and without fear, that remedy which was placed within my reach. chapter xx. i laid myself on the bed and wrapped my limbs in the folds of the carpet. my thoughts were restless and perturbed. i was once more busy in reflecting on the conduct which i ought to pursue with regard to the bank-bills. i weighed, with scrupulous attention, every circumstance that might influence my decision. i could not conceive any more beneficial application of this property than to the service of the indigent, at this season of multiplied distress; but i considered that, if my death were unknown, the house would not be opened or examined till the pestilence had ceased, and the benefits of this application would thus be partly or wholly precluded. this season of disease, however, would give place to a season of scarcity. the number and wants of the poor, during the ensuing winter, would be deplorably aggravated. what multitudes might be rescued from famine and nakedness by the judicious application of this sum! but how should i secure this application? to enclose the bills in a letter, directed to some eminent citizen or public officer, was the obvious proceeding. both of these conditions were fulfilled in the person of the present chief-magistrate. to him, therefore, the packet was to be sent. paper and the implements of writing were necessary for this end. would they be found, i asked, in the upper room? if that apartment, like the rest which i had seen, and its furniture, had remained untouched, my task would be practicable; but, if the means of writing were not to be immediately procured, my purpose, momentous and dear as it was, must be relinquished. the truth, in this respect, was easily and ought immediately to be ascertained. i rose from the bed which i had lately taken, and proceeded to the _study_. the entries and staircases were illuminated by a pretty strong twilight. the rooms, in consequence of every ray being excluded by the closed shutters, were nearly as dark as if it had been midnight. the rooms into which i had already passed were locked, but its key was in each lock. i flattered myself that the entrance into the _study_ would be found in the same condition. the door was shut, but no key was to be seen. my hopes were considerably damped by this appearance, but i conceived it to be still possible to enter, since, by chance or by design, the door might be unlocked. my fingers touched the lock, when a sound was heard as if a bolt, appending to the door on the inside, had been drawn. i was startled by this incident. it betokened that the room was already occupied by some other, who desired to exclude a visitor. the unbarred shutter below was remembered, and associated itself with this circumstance. that this house should be entered by the same avenue, at the same time, and this room should be sought, by two persons, was a mysterious concurrence. i began to question whether i had heard distinctly. numberless inexplicable noises are apt to assail the ear in an empty dwelling. the very echoes of our steps are unwonted and new. this, perhaps, was some such sound. resuming courage, i once more applied to the lock. the door, in spite of my repeated efforts, would not open. my design was too momentous to be readily relinquished. my curiosity and my fears likewise were awakened. the marks of violence, which i had seen on the closets and cabinets below, seemed to indicate the presence of plunderers. here was one who laboured for seclusion and concealment. the pillage was not made upon my property. my weakness would disable me from encountering or mastering a man of violence. to solicit admission into this room would be useless. to attempt to force my way would be absurd. these reflections prompted me to withdraw from the door; but the uncertainty of the conclusions i had drawn, and the importance of gaining access to this apartment, combined to check my steps. perplexed as to the means i should employ, i once more tried the lock. the attempt was fruitless as the former. though hopeless of any information to be gained by that means, i put my eye to the keyhole. i discovered a light different from what was usually met with at this hour. it was not the twilight which the sun, imperfectly excluded, produces, but gleams, as from a lamp; yet its gleams were fainter and obscurer than a lamp generally imparts. was this a confirmation of my first conjecture? lamplight at noonday, in a mansion thus deserted, and in a room which had been the scene of memorable and disastrous events, was ominous. hitherto no direct proof had been given of the presence of a human being. how to ascertain his presence, or whether it were eligible by any means to ascertain it, were points on which i had not deliberated. i had no power to deliberate. my curiosity impelled me to call,--"is there any one within? speak." these words were scarcely uttered, when some one exclaimed, in a voice vehement but half-smothered, "good god!"-a deep pause succeeded. i waited for an answer; for somewhat to which this emphatic invocation might be a prelude. whether the tones were expressive of surprise, or pain, or grief, was, for a moment, dubious. perhaps the motives which led me to this house suggested the suspicion which presently succeeded to my doubts,--that the person within was disabled by sickness. the circumstances of my own condition took away the improbability from this belief. why might not another be induced like me to hide himself in this desolate retreat? might not a servant, left to take care of the house, a measure usually adopted by the opulent at this time, be seized by the reigning malady? incapacitated for exertion, or fearing to be dragged to the hospital, he has shut himself in this apartment. the robber, it may be, who came to pillage, was overtaken and detained by disease. in either case, detection or intrusion would be hateful, and would be assiduously eluded. these thoughts had no tendency to weaken or divert my efforts to obtain access to this room. the person was a brother in calamity, whom it was my duty to succour and cherish to the utmost of my power. once more i spoke:-"who is within? i beseech you answer me. whatever you be, i desire to do you good and not injury. open the door and let me know your condition. i will try to be of use to you." i was answered by a deep groan, and by a sob counteracted and devoured as it were by a mighty effort. this token of distress thrilled to my heart. my terrors wholly disappeared, and gave place to unlimited compassion. i again entreated to be admitted, promising all the succour or consolation which my situation allowed me to afford. answers were made in tones of anger and impatience, blended with those of grief:--"i want no succour; vex me not with your entreaties and offers. fly from this spot; linger not a moment, lest you participate my destiny and rush upon your death." these i considered merely as the effusions of delirium, or the dictates of despair. the style and articulation denoted the speaker to be superior to the class of servants. hence my anxiety to see and to aid him was increased. my remonstrances were sternly and pertinaciously repelled. for a time, incoherent and impassioned exclamations flowed from him. at length, i was only permitted to hear strong aspirations and sobs, more eloquent and more indicative of grief than any language. this deportment filled me with no less wonder than commiseration. by what views this person was led hither, by what motives induced to deny himself to my entreaties, was wholly incomprehensible. again, though hopeless of success, i repeated my request to be admitted. my perseverance seemed now to have exhausted all his patience, and he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, "arthur mervyn! begone. linger but a moment, and my rage, tiger-like, will rush upon you and rend you limb from limb." this address petrified me. the voice that uttered this sanguinary menace was strange to my ears. it suggested no suspicion of ever having heard it before. yet my accents had betrayed me to him. he was familiar with my name. notwithstanding the improbability of my entrance into this dwelling, i was clearly recognized and unhesitatingly named! my curiosity and compassion were in no wise diminished, but i found myself compelled to give up my purpose. i withdrew reluctantly from the door, and once more threw myself upon my bed. nothing was more necessary, in the present condition of my frame; than sleep; and sleep had, perhaps, been possible, if the scene around me had been less pregnant with causes of wonder and panic. once more i tasked memory in order to discover, in the persons with whom i had hitherto conversed, some resemblance, in voice or tones, to him whom i had just heard. this process was effectual. gradually my imagination called up an image which, now that it was clearly seen, i was astonished had not instantly occurred. three years ago, a man, by name colvill, came on foot, and with a knapsack on his back, into the district where my father resided. he had learning and genius, and readily obtained the station for which only he deemed himself qualified; that of a schoolmaster. his demeanour was gentle and modest; his habits, as to sleep, food, and exercise, abstemious and regular. meditation in the forest, or reading in his closet, seemed to constitute, together with attention to his scholars, his sole amusement and employment. he estranged himself from company, not because society afforded no pleasure, but because studious seclusion afforded him chief satisfaction. no one was more idolized by his unsuspecting neighbours. his scholars revered him as a father, and made under his tuition a remarkable proficiency. his character seemed open to boundless inspection, and his conduct was pronounced by all to be faultless. at the end of a year the scene was changed. a daughter of one of his patrons, young, artless, and beautiful, appeared to have fallen a prey to the arts of some detestable seducer. the betrayer was gradually detected, and successive discoveries showed that the same artifices had been practised, with the same success, upon many others. colvill was the arch-villain. he retired from the storm of vengeance that was gathering over him, and had not been heard of since that period. i saw him rarely, and for a short time, and i was a mere boy. hence the failure to recollect his voice, and to perceive that the voice of him immured in the room above was the same with that of colvill. though i had slight reasons for recognising his features or accents, i had abundant cause to think of him with detestation, and pursue him with implacable revenge, for the victim of his acts, she whose ruin was first detected, was--_my sister_. this unhappy girl escaped from the upbraidings of her parents, from the contumelies of the world, from the goadings of remorse, and the anguish flowing from the perfidy and desertion of colvill, in a voluntary death. she was innocent and lovely. previous to this evil, my soul was linked with hers by a thousand resemblances and sympathies, as well as by perpetual intercourse from infancy, and by the fraternal relation. she was my sister, my preceptress and friend; but she died--her end was violent, untimely, and criminal! i cannot think of her without heart-bursting grief; of her destroyer, without a rancour which i know to be wrong, but which i cannot subdue. when the image of colvill rushed, upon this occasion, on my thought, i almost started on my feet. to meet him, after so long a separation, here, and in these circumstances, was so unlooked-for and abrupt an event, and revived a tribe of such hateful impulses and agonizing recollections, that a total revolution seemed to have been effected in my frame. his recognition of my person, his aversion to be seen, his ejaculation of terror and surprise on first hearing my voice, all contributed to strengthen my belief. how was i to act? my feeble frame could but ill second my vengeful purposes; but vengeance, though it sometimes occupied my thoughts, was hindered by my reason from leading me, in any instance, to outrage or even to upbraiding. all my wishes with regard to this man were limited to expelling his image from my memory, and to shunning a meeting with him. that he had not opened the door at my bidding was now a topic of joy. to look upon some bottomless pit, into which i was about to be cast headlong, and alive, was less to be abhorred than to look upon the face of colvill. had i known that he had taken refuge in this house, no power should have compelled me to enter it. to be immersed in the infection of the hospital, and to be hurried, yet breathing and observant, to my grave, was a more supportable fate. i dwell, with self-condemnation and shame, upon this part of my story. to feel extraordinary indignation at vice, merely because we have partaken in an extraordinary degree of its mischiefs, is unjustifiable. to regard the wicked with no emotion but pity, to be active in reclaiming them, in controlling their malevolence, and preventing or repairing the ills which they produce, is the only province of duty. this lesson, as well as a thousand others, i have yet to learn; but i despair of living long enough for that or any beneficial purpose. my emotions with regard to colvill were erroneous, but omnipotent. i started from my bed, and prepared to rush into the street. i was careless of the lot that should befall me, since no fate could be worse than that of abiding under the same roof with a wretch spotted with so many crimes. i had not set my feet upon the floor before my precipitation was checked by a sound from above. the door of the study was cautiously and slowly opened. this incident admitted only of one construction, supposing all obstructions removed. colvill was creeping from his hiding-place, and would probably fly with speed from the house. my belief of his sickness was now confuted. an illicit design was congenial with his character and congruous with those appearances already observed. i had no power or wish to obstruct his flight. i thought of it with transport, and once more threw myself upon the bed, and wrapped my averted face in the carpet. he would probably pass this door, unobservant of me, and my muffled face would save me from the agonies connected with the sight of him. the footsteps above were distinguishable, though it was manifest that they moved with lightsomeness and circumspection. they reached the stair and descended. the room in which i lay was, like the rest, obscured by the closed shutters. this obscurity now gave way to a light, resembling that glimmering and pale reflection which i had noticed in the study. my eyes, though averted from the door, were disengaged from the folds which covered the rest of my head, and observed these tokens of colvill's approach, flitting on the wall. my feverish perturbations increased as he drew nearer. he reached the door, and stopped. the light rested for a moment. presently he entered the apartment. my emotions suddenly rose to a height that would not be controlled. i imagined that he approached the bed, and was gazing upon me. at the same moment, by an involuntary impulse, i threw off my covering, and, turning my face, fixed my eyes upon my visitant. it was as i suspected. the figure, lifting in his right hand a candle, and gazing at the bed, with lineaments and attitude bespeaking fearful expectation and tormenting doubts, was now beheld. one glance communicated to my senses all the parts of this terrific vision. a sinking at my heart, as if it had been penetrated by a dagger, seized me. this was not enough: i uttered a shriek, too rueful and loud not to have startled the attention of the passengers, if any had, at that moment, been passing the street. heaven seemed to have decreed that this period should be filled with trials of my equanimity and fortitude. the test of my courage was once more employed to cover me with humiliation and remorse. this second time, my fancy conjured up a spectre, and i shuddered as if the grave were forsaken and the unquiet dead haunted my pillow. the visage and the shape had indeed preternatural attitudes, but they belonged, not to colvill, but to--welbeck. chapter xxi. he whom i had accompanied to the midst of the river; whom i had imagined that i saw sink to rise no more, was now before me. though incapable of precluding the groundless belief of preternatural visitations, i was able to banish the phantom almost at the same instant at which it appeared. welbeck had escaped from the stream alive; or had, by some inconceivable means, been restored to life. the first was the most plausible conclusion. it instantly engendered a suspicion, that his plunging into the water was an artifice, intended to establish a belief of his death. his own tale had shown him to be versed in frauds, and flexible to evil. but was he not associated with colvill? and what, but a compact in iniquity, could bind together such men? while thus musing, welbeck's countenance and gesture displayed emotions too vehement for speech. the glances that he fixed upon me were unsteadfast and wild. he walked along the floor, stopping at each moment, and darting looks of eagerness upon me. a conflict of passions kept him mute. at length, advancing to the bed, on the side of which i was now sitting, he addressed me:-"what is this? are you here? in defiance of pestilence, are you actuated by some demon to haunt me, like the ghost of my offences, and cover me with shame? what have i to do with that dauntless yet guiltless front? with that foolishly-confiding and obsequious, yet erect and unconquerable, spirit? is there no means of evading your pursuit? must i dip my hands, a second time, in blood; and dig for you a grave by the side of watson?" these words were listened to with calmness. i suspected and pitied the man, but i did not fear him. his words and his looks were indicative less of cruelty than madness. i looked at him with an air compassionate and wistful. i spoke with mildness and composure:-"mr. welbeck, you are unfortunate and criminal. would to god i could restore you to happiness and virtue! but, though my desire be strong, i have no power to change your habits or rescue you from misery. "i believed you to be dead. i rejoice to find myself mistaken. while you live, there is room to hope that your errors will be cured; and the turmoils and inquietudes that have hitherto beset your guilty progress will vanish by your reverting into better paths. "from me you have nothing to fear. if your welfare will be promoted by my silence on the subject of your history, my silence shall be inviolate. i deem not lightly of my promises. they are given, and shall not be recalled. "this meeting was casual. since i believed you to be dead, it could not be otherwise. you err, if you suppose that any injury will accrue to you from my life; but you need not discard that error. since my death is coming, i am not averse to your adopting the belief that the event is fortunate to you. "death is the inevitable and universal lot. when or how it comes, is of little moment. to stand, when so many thousands are falling around me, is not to be expected. i have acted an humble and obscure part in the world, and my career has been short; but i murmur not at the decree that makes it so. "the pestilence is now upon me. the chances of recovery are too slender to deserve my confidence. i came hither to die unmolested, and at peace. all i ask of you is to consult your own safety by immediate flight; and not to disappoint my hopes of concealment, by disclosing my condition to the agents of the hospital." welbeck listened with the deepest attention. the wildness of his air disappeared, and gave place to perplexity and apprehension. "you are sick," said he, in a tremulous tone, in which terror was mingled with affection. "you know this, and expect not to recover. no mother, nor sister, nor friend, will be near to administer food, or medicine, or comfort; yet you can talk calmly; can be thus considerate of others--of me; whose guilt has been so deep, and who has merited so little at your hands! "wretched coward! thus miserable as i am and expect to be, i cling to life. to comply with your heroic counsel, and to fly; to leave you thus desolate and helpless, is the strongest impulse. fain would i resist it, but cannot. "to desert you would be flagitious and dastardly beyond all former acts; yet to stay with you is to contract the disease, and to perish after you. "life, burdened as it is with guilt and ignominy, is still dear--yet you exhort me to go; you dispense with my assistance. indeed, i could be of no use; i should injure myself and profit you nothing. i cannot go into the city and procure a physician or attendant. i must never more appear in the streets of this city. i must leave you, then." he hurried to the door. again, he hesitated. i renewed my entreaties that he would leave me; and encouraged his belief that his presence might endanger himself without conferring the slightest benefit upon me. "whither should i fly? the wide world contains no asylum for me. i lived but on one condition. i came hither to find what would save me from ruin,--from death. i find it not. it has vanished. some audacious and fortunate hand has snatched it from its place, and now my ruin is complete. my last hope is extinct. "yes, mervyn! i will stay with you. i will hold your head. i will put water to your lips. i will watch night and day by your side. when you die, i will carry you by night to the neighbouring field; will bury you, and water your grave with those tears that are due to your incomparable worth and untimely destiny. then i will lay myself in your bed, and wait for the same oblivion." welbeck seemed now no longer to be fluctuating between opposite purposes. his tempestuous features subsided into calm. he put the candle, still lighted, on the table, and paced the floor with less disorder than at his first entrance. his resolution was seen to be the dictate of despair. i hoped that it would not prove invincible to my remonstrances. i was conscious that his attendance might preclude, in some degree, my own exertions, and alleviate the pangs of death; but these consolations might be purchased too dear. to receive them at the hazard of his life would be to make them odious. but, if he should remain, what conduct would his companion pursue? why did he continue in the study when welbeck had departed? by what motives were those men led hither? i addressed myself to welbeck:-"your resolution to remain is hasty and rash. by persisting in it, you will add to the miseries of my condition; you will take away the only hope that i cherished. but, however you may act, colvill or i must be banished from this roof. what is the league between you? break it, i conjure you, before his frauds have involved you in inextricable destruction." welbeck looked at me with some expression of doubt. "i mean," continued i, "the man whose voice i heard above. he is a villain and betrayer. i have manifold proofs of his guilt. why does he linger behind you? however you may decide, it is fitting that he should vanish." "alas!" said welbeck, "i have no companion, none to partake with me in good or evil. i came hither alone." "how?" exclaimed i. "whom did i hear in the room above? some one answered my interrogations and entreaties, whom i too certainly recognised. why does he remain?" "you heard no one but myself. the design that brought me hither was to be accomplished without a witness. i desired to escape detection, and repelled your solicitations for admission in a counterfeited voice. "that voice belonged to one from whom i had lately parted. what his merits or demerits are, i know not. he found me wandering in the forests of new jersey. he took me to his home. when seized by a lingering malady, he nursed me with fidelity and tenderness. when somewhat recovered, i speeded hither; but our ignorance of each other's character and views was mutual and profound. "i deemed it useful to assume a voice different from my own. this was the last which i had heard, and this arbitrary and casual circumstance decided my choice." this imitation was too perfect, and had influenced my fears too strongly, to be easily credited. i suspected welbeck of some new artifice to baffle my conclusions and mislead my judgment. this suspicion, however, yielded to his earnest and repeated declarations. if colvill were not here, where had he made his abode? how came friendship and intercourse between welbeck and him? by what miracle escaped the former from the river, into which i had imagined him forever sunk? "i will answer you," said he, with candour. "you know already too much for me to have any interest in concealing any part of my life. you have discovered my existence, and the causes that rescued me from destruction may be told without detriment to my person or fame. "when i leaped into the river, i intended to perish. i harboured no previous doubts of my ability to execute my fatal purpose. in this respect i was deceived. suffocation would not come at my bidding. my muscles and limbs rebelled against my will. there was a mechanical repugnance to the loss of life, which i could not vanquish. my struggles might thrust me below the surface, but my lips were spontaneously shut, and excluded the torrent from my lungs. when my breath was exhausted, the efforts that kept me at the bottom were involuntarily remitted, and i rose to the surface. "i cursed my own pusillanimity. thrice i plunged to the bottom, and as often rose again. my aversion to life swiftly diminished, and at length i consented to make use of my skill in swimming, which has seldom been exceeded, to prolong my existence. i landed in a few minutes on the jersey shore. "this scheme being frustrated, i sunk into dreariness and inactivity. i felt as if no dependence could be placed upon my courage, as if any effort i should make for self-destruction would be fruitless; yet existence was as void as ever of enjoyment and embellishment. my means of living were annihilated. i saw no path before me. to shun the presence of mankind was my sovereign wish. since i could not die by my own hands, i must be content to crawl upon the surface, till a superior fate should permit me to perish. "i wandered into the centre of the wood. i stretched myself on the mossy verge of a brook, and gazed at the stars till they disappeared. the next day was spent with little variation. the cravings of hunger were felt, and the sensation was a joyous one, since it afforded me the practicable means of death. to refrain from food was easy, since some efforts would be needful to procure it, and these efforts should not be made. thus was the sweet oblivion for which i so earnestly panted placed within my reach. "three days of abstinence, and reverie, and solitude, succeeded. on the evening of the fourth, i was seated on a rock, with my face buried in my hands. some one laid his hand upon my shoulder. i started and looked up. i beheld a face beaming with compassion and benignity. he endeavoured to extort from me the cause of my solitude and sorrow. i disregarded his entreaties, and was obstinately silent. "finding me invincible in this respect, he invited me to his cottage, which was hard by. i repelled him at first with impatience and anger, but he was not to be discouraged or intimidated. to elude his persuasions i was obliged to comply. my strength was gone, and the vital fabric was crumbling into pieces. a fever raged in my veins, and i was consoled by reflecting that my life was at once assailed by famine and disease. "meanwhile, my gloomy meditations experienced no respite. i incessantly ruminated on the events of my past life. the long series of my crimes arose daily and afresh to my imagination. the image of lodi was recalled, his expiring looks and the directions which were mutually given respecting his sister's and his property. "as i perpetually revolved these incidents, they assumed new forms, and were linked with new associations. the volume written by his father, and transferred to me by tokens which were now remembered to be more emphatic than the nature of the composition seemed to justify, was likewise remembered. it came attended by recollections respecting a volume which i filled, when a youth, with extracts from the roman and greek poets. besides this literary purpose, i likewise used to preserve in it the bank-bills with the keeping or carriage of which i chanced to be entrusted. this image led me back to the leather case containing lodi's property, which was put into my hands at the same time with the volume. "these images now gave birth to a third conception, which darted on my benighted understanding like an electrical flash. was it not possible that part of lodi's property might be enclosed within the leaves of this volume? in hastily turning it over, i recollected to have noticed leaves whose edges by accident or design adhered to each other. lodi, in speaking of the sale of his father's west-india property, mentioned that the sum obtained for it was forty thousand dollars. half only of this sum had been discovered by me. how had the remainder been appropriated? surely this volume contained it. "the influence of this thought was like the infusion of a new soul into my frame. from torpid and desperate, from inflexible aversion to medicine and food, i was changed in a moment into vivacity and hope, into ravenous avidity for whatever could contribute to my restoration to health. "i was not without pungent regrets and racking fears. that this volume would be ravished away by creditors or plunderers was possible. every hour might be that which decided my fate. the first impulse was to seek my dwelling and search for this precious deposit. "meanwhile, my perturbations and impatience only exasperated my disease. while chained to my bed, the rumour of pestilence was spread abroad. this event, however, generally calamitous, was propitious to me, and was hailed with satisfaction. it multiplied the chances that my house and its furniture would be unmolested. "my friend was assiduous and indefatigable in his kindness. my deportment, before and subsequent to the revival of my hopes, was incomprehensible, and argued nothing less than insanity. my thoughts were carefully concealed from him, and all that he witnessed was contradictory and unintelligible. "at length, my strength was sufficiently restored. i resisted all my protector's importunities to postpone my departure till the perfect confirmation of my health. i designed to enter the city at midnight, that prying eyes might be eluded; to bear with me a candle and the means of lighting it, to explore my way to my ancient study, and to ascertain my future claim to existence and felicity. "i crossed the river this morning. my impatience would not suffer me to wait till evening. considering the desolation of the city, i thought i might venture to approach thus near, without hazard of detection. the house, at all its avenues, was closed. i stole into the back court. a window-shutter proved to be unfastened. i entered, and discovered closets and cabinets unfastened and emptied of all their contents. at this spectacle my heart sunk. my books, doubtless, had shared the common destiny. my blood throbbed with painful vehemence as i approached the study and opened the door. "my hopes, that languished for a moment, were revived by the sight of my shelves, furnished as formerly. i had lighted my candle below, for i desired not to awaken observation and suspicion by unclosing the windows. my eye eagerly sought the spot where i remembered to have left the volume. its place was empty. the object of all my hopes had eluded my grasp, and disappeared forever. "to paint my confusion, to repeat my execrations on the infatuation which had rendered, during so long a time that it was in my possession, this treasure useless to me, and my curses of the fatal interference which had snatched away the prize, would be only aggravations of my disappointment and my sorrow. you found me in this state, and know what followed." chapter xxii. this narrative threw new light on the character of welbeck. if accident had given him possession of this treasure, it was easy to predict on what schemes of luxury and selfishness it would have been expended. the same dependence on the world's erroneous estimation, the same devotion to imposture, and thoughtlessness of futurity, would have constituted the picture of his future life, as had distinguished the past. this money was another's. to retain it for his own use was criminal. of this crime he appeared to be as insensible as ever. his own gratification was the supreme law of his actions. to be subjected to the necessity of honest labour was the heaviest of all evils, and one from which he was willing to escape by the commission of suicide. the volume which he sought was mine. it was my duty to restore it to the rightful owner, or, if the legal claimant could not be found, to employ it in the promotion of virtue and happiness. to give it to welbeck was to consecrate it to the purpose of selfishness and misery. my right, legally considered, was as valid as his. but, if i intended not to resign it to him, was it proper to disclose the truth and explain by whom the volume was purloined from the shelf? the first impulse was to hide this truth; but my understanding had been taught, by recent occurrences, to question the justice and deny the usefulness of secrecy in any case. my principles were true; my motives were pure: why should i scruple to avow my principles and vindicate my actions? welbeck had ceased to be dreaded or revered. that awe which was once created by his superiority of age, refinement of manners, and dignity of garb, had vanished. i was a boy in years, an indigent and uneducated rustic; but i was able to discern the illusions of power and riches, and abjured every claim to esteem that was not founded on integrity. there was no tribunal before which i should falter in asserting the truth, and no species of martyrdom which i would not cheerfully embrace in its cause. after some pause, i said, "cannot you conjecture in what way this volume has disappeared?" "no," he answered, with a sigh. "why, of all his volumes, this only should have vanished, was an inexplicable enigma." "perhaps," said i, "it is less important to know how it was removed, than by whom it is now possessed." "unquestionably; and yet, unless that knowledge enables me to regain the possession, it will be useless." "useless then it will be, for the present possessor will never return it to you." "indeed," replied he, in a tone of dejection, "your conjecture is most probable. such a prize is of too much value to be given up." "what i have said flows not from conjecture, but from knowledge. i know that it will never be restored to you." at these words, welbeck looked at me with anxiety and doubt:--"you _know_ that it will not! have you any knowledge of the book? can you tell me what has become of it?" "yes. after our separation on the river, i returned to this house. i found this volume and secured it. you rightly suspected its contents. the money was there." welbeck started as if he had trodden on a mine of gold. his first emotion was rapturous, but was immediately chastened by some degree of doubt:--"what has become of it? have you got it? is it entire? have you it with you?" "it is unimpaired. i have got it, and shall hold it as a sacred trust for the rightful proprietor." the tone with which this declaration was accompanied shook the new-born confidence of welbeck. "the rightful proprietor! true, but i am he. to me only it belongs, and to me you are, doubtless, willing to restore it." "mr. welbeck! it is not my desire to give you perplexity or anguish; to sport with your passions. on the supposition of your death, i deemed it no infraction of justice to take this manuscript. accident unfolded its contents. i could not hesitate to choose my path. the natural and legal successor of vincentio lodi is his sister. to her, therefore, this property belongs, and to her only will i give it." "presumptuous boy! and this is your sage decision. i tell you that i am the owner, and to me you shall render it. who is this girl? childish and ignorant! unable to consult and to act for herself on the most trivial occasion. am i not, by the appointment of her dying brother, her protector and guardian? her age produces a legal incapacity of property. do you imagine that so obvious an expedient as that of procuring my legal appointment as her guardian was overlooked by me? if it were neglected, still my title to provide her subsistence and enjoyment is unquestionable. "did i not rescue her from poverty, and prostitution, and infamy? have i not supplied all her wants with incessant solicitude? whatever her condition required has been plenteously supplied. the dwelling and its furniture was hers, as far a rigid jurisprudence would permit. to prescribe her expenses and govern her family was the province of her guardian. "you have heard the tale of my anguish and despair. whence did they flow but from the frustration of schemes projected for her benefit, as they were executed with her money and by means which the authority of her guardian fully justified? why have i encountered this contagious atmosphere, and explored my way, like a thief, to this recess, but with a view to rescue her from poverty and restore to her her own? "your scruples are ridiculous and criminal. i treat them with less severity, because your youth is raw and your conceptions crude. but if, after this proof of the justice of my claim, you hesitate to restore the money, i shall treat you as a robber, who has plundered my cabinet and refused to refund his spoil." these reasonings were powerful and new. i was acquainted with the rights of guardianship. welbeck had, in some respects, acted as the friend of this lady. to vest himself with this office was the conduct which her youth and helplessness prescribed to her friend. his title to this money, as her guardian, could not be denied. but how was this statement compatible with former representations? no mention had then been made of guardianship. by thus acting, he would have thwarted all his schemes for winning the esteem of mankind and fostering the belief which the world entertained of his opulence and independence. i was thrown, by these thoughts, into considerable perplexity. if his statement were true, his claim to this money was established; but i questioned its truth. to intimate my doubts of his veracity would be to provoke abhorrence and outrage. his last insinuation was peculiarly momentous. suppose him the fraudulent possessor of this money: shall i be justified in taking it away by violence under pretence of restoring it to the genuine proprietor, who, for aught i know, may be dead, or with whom, at least, i may never procure a meeting? but will not my behaviour on this occasion be deemed illicit? i entered welbeck's habitation at midnight, proceeded to his closet, possessed myself of portable property, and retired unobserved. is not guilt imputable to an action like this? welbeck waited with impatience for a conclusion to my pause. my perplexity and indecision did not abate, and my silence continued. at length, he repeated his demands, with new vehemence. i was compelled to answer. i told him, in few words, that his reasonings had not convinced me of the equity of his claim, and that my determination was unaltered. he had not expected this inflexibility from one in my situation. the folly of opposition, when my feebleness and loneliness were contrasted with his activity and resources, appeared to him monstrous and glaring; but his contempt was converted into rage and fear when he reflected that this folly might finally defeat his hopes. he had probably determined to obtain the money, let the purchase cost what it would, but was willing to exhaust pacific expedients before he should resort to force. he might likewise question whether the money was within his reach. i had told him that i had it, but whether it was now about me was somewhat dubious; yet, though he used no direct inquiries, he chose to proceed on the supposition of its being at hand. his angry tones were now changed into those of remonstrance and persuasion:-"your present behaviour, mervyn, does not justify the expectation i had formed of you. you have been guilty of a base theft. to this you have added the deeper crime of ingratitude, but your infatuation and folly are, at least, as glaring as your guilt. do you think i can credit your assertions that you keep this money for another, when i recollect that six weeks have passed since you carried it off? why have you not sought the owner and restored it to her? if your intentions had been honest, would you have suffered so long a time to elapse without doing this? it is plain that you designed to keep it for your own use. "but, whether this were your purpose or not, you have no longer power to restore it or retain it. you say that you came hither to die. if so, what is to be the fate of the money? in your present situation you cannot gain access to the lady. some other must inherit this wealth. next to _signora lodi_, whose right can be put in competition with mine? but, if you will not give it to me on my own account, let it be given in trust for her. let me be the bearer of it to her own hands. i have already shown you that my claim to it, as her guardian, is legal and incontrovertible, but this claim i waive. i will merely be the executor of your will. i will bind myself to comply with your directions by any oath, however solemn and tremendous, which you shall prescribe." as long as my own heart acquitted me, these imputations of dishonesty affected me but little. they excited no anger, because they originated in ignorance, and were rendered plausible to welbeck by such facts as were known to him. it was needless to confute the charge by elaborate and circumstantial details. it was true that my recovery was, in the highest degree, improbable, and that my death would put an end to my power over this money; but had i not determined to secure its useful application in case of my death? this project was obstructed by the presence of welbeck; but i hoped that his love of life would induce him to fly. he might wrest this volume from me by violence, or he might wait till my death should give him peaceable possession. but these, though probable events, were not certain, and would, by no means, justify the voluntary surrender. his strength, if employed for this end, could not be resisted; but then it would be a sacrifice, not a choice, but necessity. promises were easily given, but were surely not to be confided in. welbeck's own tale, in which it could not be imagined that he had aggravated his defects, attested the frailty of his virtue. to put into his hands a sum like this, in expectation of his delivering it to another, when my death would cover the transaction with impenetrable secrecy, would be, indeed, a proof of that infatuation which he thought proper to impute to me. these thoughts influenced my resolutions, but they were revolved in silence. to state them verbally was useless. they would not justify my conduct in his eyes. they would only exasperate dispute, and impel him to those acts of violence which i was desirous of preventing. the sooner this controversy should end, and i in any measure be freed from the obstruction of his company, the better. "mr. welbeck," said i, "my regard to your safety compels me to wish that this interview should terminate. at a different time, i should not be unwilling to discuss this matter. now it will be fruitless. my conscience points out to me too clearly the path i should pursue for me to mistake it. as long as i have power over this money, i shall keep it for the use of the unfortunate lady whom i have seen in this house. i shall exert myself to find her; but, if that be impossible, i shall appropriate it in a way in which you shall have no participation." i will not repeat the contest that succeeded between my forbearance and his passions. i listened to the dictates of his rage and his avarice in silence. astonishment at my inflexibility was blended with his anger. by turns he commented on the guilt and on the folly of my resolutions. sometimes his emotions would mount into fury, and he would approach me in a menacing attitude, and lift his hand as if he would exterminate me at a blow. my languid eyes, my cheeks glowing and my temples throbbing with fever, and my total passiveness, attracted his attention and arrested his stroke. compassion would take the place of rage, and the belief be revived that remonstrances and arguments would answer his purpose. chapter xxiii. this scene lasted i know not how long. insensibly the passions and reasonings of welbeck assumed a new form. a grief, mingled with perplexity, overspread his countenance. he ceased to contend or to speak. his regards were withdrawn from me, on whom they had hitherto been fixed; and, wandering or vacant, testified a conflict of mind terrible beyond any that my young imagination had ever conceived. for a time he appeared to be unconscious of my presence. he moved to and fro with unequal steps, and with gesticulations that possessed a horrible but indistinct significance. occasionally he struggled for breath, and his efforts were directed to remove some choking impediment. no test of my fortitude had hitherto occurred equal to that to which it was now subjected. the suspicion which this deportment suggested was vague and formless. the tempest which i witnessed was the prelude of horror. these were throes which would terminate in the birth of some gigantic and sanguinary purpose. did he meditate to offer a bloody sacrifice? was his own death or was mine to attest the magnitude of his despair or the impetuosity of his vengeance? suicide was familiar to his thoughts. he had consented to live but on one condition; that of regaining possession of this money. should i be justified in driving him, by my obstinate refusal, to this fatal consummation of his crimes? yet my fear of this catastrophe was groundless. hitherto he had argued and persuaded; but this method was pursued because it was more eligible than the employment of force, or than procrastination. no. these were tokens that pointed to me. some unknown instigation was at work within him, to tear away his remnant of humanity and fit him for the office of my murderer. i knew not how the accumulation of guilt could contribute to his gratification or security. his actions had been partially exhibited and vaguely seen. what extenuations or omissions had vitiated his former or recent narrative; how far his actual performances were congenial with the deed which was now to be perpetrated, i knew not. these thoughts lent new rapidity to my blood. i raised my head from the pillow, and watched the deportment of this man with deeper attention. the paroxysm which controlled him at length, in some degree, subsided. he muttered, "yes. it must come. my last humiliation must cover me. my last confession must be made. to die, and leave behind me this train of enormous perils, must not be. "o clemenza! o mervyn! ye have not merited that i should leave you a legacy of persecution and death. your safety must be purchased at what price my malignant destiny will set upon it. the cord of the executioner, the note of everlasting infamy, is better than to leave you beset by the consequences of my guilt. it must not be." saying this, welbeck cast fearful glances at the windows and door. he examined every avenue and listened. thrice he repeated this scrutiny. having, as it seemed, ascertained that no one lurked within audience, he approached the bed. he put his mouth close to my face. he attempted to speak, but once more examined the apartment with suspicious glances. he drew closer, and at length, in a tone scarcely articulate, and suffocated with emotion, he spoke:--"excellent but fatally-obstinate youth! know at least the cause of my importunity. know at least the depth of my infatuation and the enormity of my guilt. "the bills--surrender them to me, and save yourself from persecution and disgrace. save the woman whom you wish to benefit, from the blackest imputations; from hazard to her life and her fame; from languishing in dungeons; from expiring on the gallows! "the bills--oh, save me from the bitterness of death! let the evils to which my miserable life has given birth terminate here and in myself. surrender them to me, for----" there he stopped. his utterence was choked by terror. rapid glances were again darted at the windows and door. the silence was uninterrupted, except by far-off sounds, produced by some moving carriage. once more he summoned resolution, and spoke:-"surrender them to me--for--_they are forged_! "formerly i told you, that a scheme of forgery had been conceived. shame would not suffer me to add, that my scheme was carried into execution. the bills were fashioned, but my fears contended against my necessities, and forbade me to attempt to exchange them. the interview with lodi saved me from the dangerous experiment. i enclosed them in that volume, as the means of future opulence, to be used when all other and less hazardous resources should fail. "in the agonies of my remorse at the death of watson, they were forgotten. they afterwards recurred to recollection. my wishes pointed to the grave; but the stroke that should deliver me from life was suspended only till i could hasten hither, get possession of these papers, and destroy them. "when i thought upon the chances that should give them an owner; bring them into circulation; load the innocent with suspicion; and lead them to trial, and, perhaps, to death, my sensations were fraught with agony; earnestly as i panted for death, it was necessarily deferred till i had gained possession of and destroyed these papers. "what now remains? you have found them. happily they have not been used. give them, therefore, to me, that i may crush at once the brood of mischiefs which they could not but generate." this disclosure was strange. it was accompanied with every token of sincerity. how had i tottered on the brink of destruction! if i had made use of this money, in what a labyrinth of misery might i not have been involved! my innocence could never have been proved. an alliance with welbeck could not have failed to be inferred. my career would have found an ignominious close; or, if my punishment had been transmuted into slavery and toil, would the testimony of my conscience have supported me? i shuddered at the view of those disasters from which i was rescued by the miraculous chance which led me to this house. welbeck's request was salutary to me and honourable to himself. i could not hesitate a moment in compliance. the notes were enclosed in paper, and deposited in a fold of my clothes. i put my hand upon them. my motion and attention were arrested, at the instant, by a noise which arose in the street. footsteps were heard upon the pavement before the door, and voices, as if busy in discourse. this incident was adapted to infuse the deepest alarm into myself and my companion. the motives of our trepidation were, indeed, different, and were infinitely more powerful in my case than in his. it portended to me nothing less than the loss of my asylum, and condemnation to an hospital. welbeck hurried to the door, to listen to the conversation below. this interval was pregnant with thought. that impulse which led my reflections from welbeck to my own state passed away in a moment, and suffered me to meditate anew upon the terms of that confession which had just been made. horror at the fate which this interview had enabled me to shun was uppermost in my conceptions. i was eager to surrender these fatal bills. i held them for that purpose in my hand, and was impatient for welbeck's return. he continued at the door; stooping, with his face averted, and eagerly attentive to the conversation in the street. all the circumstances of my present situation tended to arrest the progress of thought and chain my contemplations to one image; but even now there was room for foresight and deliberation. welbeck intended to destroy these bills. perhaps he had not been sincere; or, if his purpose had been honestly disclosed, this purpose might change when the bills were in his possession. his poverty and sanguineness of temper might prompt him to use them. that this conduct was evil, and would only multiply his miseries, could not be questioned. why should i subject his frailty to this temptation? the destruction of these bills was the loudest injunction of my duty; was demanded by every sanction which bound me to promote the welfare of mankind. the means of destruction was easy. a lighted candle stood on a table, at the distance of a few yards. why should i hesitate a moment to annihilate so powerful a cause of error and guilt? a passing instant was sufficient. a momentary lingering might change the circumstances that surrounded me, and frustrate my project. my languors were suspended by the urgencies of this occasion. i started from my bed and glided to the table. seizing the notes with my right hand, i held them in the flame of the candle, and then threw them, blazing, on the floor. the sudden illumination was perceived by welbeck. the cause of it appeared to suggest itself as soon. he turned, and, marking the paper where it lay, leaped to the spot, and extinguished the fire with his foot. his interposition was too late. only enough of them remained to inform him of the nature of the sacrifice. welbeck now stood, with limbs trembling, features aghast, and eyes glaring upon me. for a time he was without speech. the storm was gathering in silence, and at length burst upon me. in a tone menacing and loud, he exclaimed,-"wretch! what have you done?" "i have done justly. these notes were false. you desired to destroy them, that they might not betray the innocent. i applauded your purpose, and have saved you from the danger of temptation by destroying them myself." "maniac! miscreant! to be fooled by so gross an artifice! the notes were genuine. the tale of their forgery was false and meant only to wrest them from you. execrable and perverse idiot! your deed has sealed my perdition. it has sealed your own. you shall pay for it with your blood. i will slay you by inches. i will stretch you, as you have stretched me, on the rack." during this speech, all was frenzy and storm in the countenance and features of welbeck. nothing less could be expected than that the scene would terminate in some bloody catastrophe. i bitterly regretted the facility with which i had been deceived, and the precipitation of my sacrifice. the act, however lamentable, could not be revoked. what remained but to encounter or endure its consequences with unshrinking firmness? the contest was too unequal. it is possible that the frenzy which actuated welbeck might have speedily subsided. it is more likely that his passions would have been satiated with nothing but my death. this event was precluded by loud knocks at the street door, and calls by some one on the pavement without, of--"who is within? is any one within?" these noises gave a new direction to welbeck's thoughts. "they are coming," said he. "they will treat you as a sick man and a thief. i cannot desire you to suffer a worse evil than they will inflict. i leave you to your fate." so saying, he rushed out of the room. though confounded and stunned by this rapid succession of events, i was yet able to pursue measures for eluding these detested visitants. i first extinguished the light, and then, observing that the parley in the street continued and grew louder, i sought an asylum in the remotest corner of the house. during my former abode here, i noticed that a trap-door opened in the ceiling of the third story, to which you were conducted by a movable stair or ladder. i considered that this, probably, was an opening into a narrow and darksome nook formed by the angle of the roof. by ascending, drawing after me the ladder, and closing the door, i should escape the most vigilant search. enfeebled as i was by my disease, my resolution rendered me strenuous. i gained the uppermost room, and, mounting the ladder, found myself at a sufficient distance from suspicion. the stair was hastily drawn up, and the door closed. in a few minutes, however, my new retreat proved to be worse than any for which it was possible to change it. the air was musty, stagnant, and scorchingly hot. my breathing became difficult, and i saw that to remain here ten minutes would unavoidably produce suffocation. my terror of intruders had rendered me blind to the consequences of immuring myself in this cheerless recess. it was incumbent on me to extricate myself as speedily as possible. i attempted to lift the door. my first effort was successless. every inspiration was quicker and more difficult than the former. as my terror, so my strength and my exertions increased. finally my trembling hand lighted on a nail that was imperfectly driven into the wood, and which, by affording me a firmer hold, enabled me at length to raise it, and to inhale the air from beneath. relieved from my new peril by this situation, i bent an attentive ear through the opening, with a view to ascertain if the house had been entered or if the outer door was still beset, but could hear nothing. hence i was authorized to conclude that the people had departed, and that i might resume my former station without hazard. before i descended, however, i cast a curious eye over this recess. it was large enough to accommodate a human being. the means by which it was entered were easily concealed. though narrow and low, it was long, and, were it possible to contrive some inlet for the air, one studious of concealment might rely on its protection with unbounded confidence. my scrutiny was imperfect by reason of the faint light which found its way through the opening; yet it was sufficient to set me afloat on a sea of new wonders and subject my fortitude to a new test.-here mervyn paused in his narrative. a minute passed in silence and seeming indecision. his perplexities gradually disappeared, and he continued:- * * * * * i have promised to relate the momentous incidents of my life, and have hitherto been faithful in my enumeration. there is nothing which i more detest than equivocation and mystery. perhaps, however, i shall now incur some imputation of that kind. i would willingly escape the accusation, but confess that i am hopeless of escaping it. i might, indeed, have precluded your guesses and surmises by omitting to relate what befell me from the time of my leaving my chamber till i regained it. i might deceive you by asserting that nothing remarkable occurred; but this would be false, and every sacrifice is trivial which is made upon the altar of sincerity. besides, the time may come when no inconvenience will arise from minute descriptions of the objects which i now saw, and of the reasonings and inferences which they suggested to my understanding. at present, it appears to be my duty to pass them over in silence; but it would be needless to conceal from you that the interval, though short, and the scrutiny, though hasty, furnished matter which my curiosity devoured with unspeakable eagerness, and from which consequences may hereafter flow, deciding on my peace and my life. nothing, however, occurred which could detain me long in this spot. i once more sought the lower story and threw myself on the bed which i had left. my mind was thronged with the images flowing from my late adventure. my fever had gradually increased, and my thoughts were deformed by inaccuracy and confusion. my heart did not sink when i reverted to my own condition. that i should quickly be disabled from moving, was readily perceived. the foresight of my destiny was steadfast and clear. to linger for days in this comfortless solitude, to ask in vain, not for powerful restoratives or alleviating cordials, but for water to moisten my burning lips and abate the torments of thirst; ultimately to expire in torpor or frenzy, was the fate to which i looked forward; yet i was not terrified. i seemed to be sustained by a preternatural energy. i felt as if the opportunity of combating such evils was an enviable privilege, and, though none would witness my victorious magnanimity, yet to be conscious that praise was my due was all that my ambition required. these sentiments were doubtless tokens of delirium. the excruciating agonies which now seized upon my head, and the cord which seemed to be drawn across my breast, and which, as my fancy imagined, was tightened by some forcible hand, with a view to strangle me, were incompatible with sober and coherent views. thirst was the evil which chiefly oppressed me. the means of relief was pointed out by nature and habit. i rose, and determined to replenish my pitcher at the well. it was easier, however, to descend than to return. my limbs refused to bear me, and i sat down upon the lower step of the staircase. several hours had elapsed since my entrance into this dwelling, and it was now night. my imagination now suggested a new expedient. medlicote was a generous and fearless spirit. to put myself under his protection, if i could walk as far as his lodgings, was the wisest proceeding which i could adopt. from this design, my incapacity to walk thus far, and the consequences of being discovered in the street, had hitherto deterred me. these impediments were now, in the confusion of my understanding, overlooked or despised, and i forthwith set out upon this hopeless expedition. the doors communicating with the court, and, through the court, with the street, were fastened by inside bolts. these were easily withdrawn, and i issued forth with alacrity and confidence. my perturbed senses and the darkness hindered me from discerning the right way. i was conscious of this difficulty, but was not disheartened. i proceeded, as i have since discovered, in a direction different from the true, but hesitated not till my powers were exhausted and i sunk upon the ground. i closed my eyes, and dismissed all fear, and all foresight of futurity. in this situation i remained some hours, and should probably have expired on this spot, had not i attracted your notice, and been provided, under this roof, with all that medical skill, that the tenderest humanity could suggest. in consequence of your care, i have been restored to life and to health. your conduct was not influenced by the prospect of pecuniary recompense, of service, or of gratitude. it is only in one way that i am able to heighten the gratification which must flow from reflection on your conduct:--by showing that the being whose life you have prolonged, though uneducated, ignorant, and poor, is not profligate and worthless, and will not dedicate that life which your bounty has given, to mischievous or contemptible purposes. end of vol i. arthur mervyn; or, memoirs of the year 1793. vol. ii. arthur mervyn. chapter xxiv. here ended the narrative of mervyn. surely its incidents were of no common kind. during this season of pestilence, my opportunities of observation had been numerous, and i had not suffered them to pass unimproved. the occurrences which fell within my own experience bore a general resemblance to those which had just been related, but they did not hinder the latter from striking on my mind with all the force of novelty. they served no end, but as vouchers for the truth of the tale. surely the youth had displayed inimitable and heroic qualities. his courage was the growth of benevolence and reason, and not the child of insensibility and the nursling of habit. he had been qualified for the encounter of gigantic dangers by no laborious education. he stepped forth upon the stage, unfurnished, by anticipation or experience, with the means of security against fraud; and yet, by the aid of pure intentions, had frustrated the wiles of an accomplished and veteran deceiver. i blessed the chance which placed the youth under my protection. when i reflected on that tissue of nice contingencies which led him to my door, and enabled me to save from death a being of such rare endowments, my heart overflowed with joy, not unmingled with regrets and trepidation. how many have been cut off by this disease, in their career of virtue and their blossom-time of genius! how many deeds of heroism and self-devotion are ravished from existence, and consigned to hopeless oblivion! i had saved the life of this youth. this was not the limit of my duty or my power. could i not render that life profitable to himself and to mankind? the gains of my profession were slender; but these gains were sufficient for his maintenance as well as my own. by residing with me, partaking my instructions, and reading my books, he would, in a few years, be fitted for the practice of physic. a science whose truths are so conducive to the welfare of mankind, and which comprehends the whole system of nature, could not but gratify a mind so beneficent and strenuous as his. this scheme occurred to me as soon as the conclusion of his tale allowed me to think. i did not immediately mention it, since the approbation of my wife, of whose concurrence, however, i entertained no doubt, was previously to be obtained. dismissing it, for the present, from my thoughts, i reverted to the incidents of his tale. the lady whom welbeck had betrayed and deserted was not unknown to me. i was but too well acquainted with her fate. if she had been single in calamity, her tale would have been listened to with insupportable sympathy; but the frequency of the spectacle of distress seems to lessen the compassion with which it is reviewed. now that those scenes are only remembered, my anguish is greater than when they were witnessed. then every new day was only a repetition of the disasters of the foregoing. my sensibility, if not extinguished, was blunted; and i gazed upon the complicated ills of poverty and sickness with a degree of unconcern on which i should once have reflected with astonishment. the fate of clemenza lodi was not, perhaps, more signal than many which have occurred. it threw detestable light upon the character of welbeck, and showed him to be more inhuman than the tale of mervyn had evinced him to be. that man, indeed, was hitherto imperfectly seen. the time had not come which should fully unfold the enormity of his transgressions and the complexity of his frauds. there lived in a remote quarter of the city a woman, by name villars, who passed for the widow of an english officer. her manners and mode of living were specious. she had three daughters, well trained in the school of fashion, and elegant in person, manners, and dress. they had lately arrived from europe, and, for a time, received from their neighbours that respect to which their education and fortune appeared to lay claim. the fallacy of their pretensions slowly appeared. it began to be suspected that their subsistence was derived not from pension or patrimony, but from the wages of pollution. their habitation was clandestinely frequented by men who were unfaithful to their secret; one of these was allied to me by ties which authorized me in watching his steps and detecting his errors, with a view to his reformation. from him i obtained a knowledge of the genuine character of these women. a man like welbeck, who was the slave of depraved appetites, could not fail of being quickly satiated with innocence and beauty. some accident introduced him to the knowledge of this family, and the youngest daughter found him a proper subject on which to exercise her artifices. it was to the frequent demands made upon his purse, by this woman, that part of the embarrassments in which mervyn found him involved are to be ascribed. to this circumstance must likewise be imputed his anxiety to transfer to some other the possession of the unhappy stranger. why he concealed from mervyn his connection with lucy villars may be easily imagined. his silence with regard to clemenza's asylum will not create surprise, when it was told that she was placed with mrs. villars. on what conditions she was received under this roof, cannot be so readily conjectured. it is obvious, however, to suppose that advantage was to be taken of her ignorance and weakness, and that they hoped, in time, to make her an associate in their profligate schemes. the appearance of pestilence, meanwhile, threw them into panic, and they hastened to remove from danger. mrs. villars appears to have been a woman of no ordinary views. she stooped to the vilest means of amassing money; but this money was employed to secure to herself and her daughters the benefits of independence. she purchased the house which she occupied in the city, and a mansion in the environs, well built and splendidly furnished. to the latter, she and her family, of which the italian girl was now a member, retired at the close of july. i have mentioned that the source of my intelligence was a kinsman, who had been drawn from the paths of sobriety and rectitude by the impetuosity of youthful passions. he had power to confess and deplore, but none to repair, his errors. one of these women held him by a spell which he struggled in vain to dissolve, and by which, in spite of resolutions and remorses, he was drawn to her feet, and made to sacrifice to her pleasure his reputation and his fortune. my house was his customary abode during those intervals in which he was persuaded to pursue his profession. some time before the infection began its progress, he had disappeared. no tidings were received of him, till a messenger arrived, entreating my assistance. i was conducted to the house of mrs. villars, in which i found no one but my kinsman. here, it seems, he had immured himself from my inquiries, and, on being seized by the reigning malady, had been deserted by the family, who, ere they departed, informed me by a messenger of his condition. despondency combined with his disease to destroy him. before he died, he informed me fully of the character of his betrayers. the late arrival, name, and personal condition of clemenza lodi were related. welbeck was not named, but was described in terms which, combined with the narrative of mervyn, enabled me to recognise the paramour of lucy villars in the man whose crimes had been the principal theme of our discourse. mervyn's curiosity was greatly roused when i intimated my acquaintance with the fate of clemenza. in answer to his eager interrogations, i related what i knew. the tale plunged him into reverie. recovering, at length, from his thoughtfulness, he spoke:-"her condition is perilous. the poverty of welbeck will drive him far from her abode. her profligate protectors will entice her or abandon her to ruin. cannot she be saved?" "i know not," answered i, "by what means." "the means are obvious. let her remove to some other dwelling. let her be apprized of the vices of those who surround her. let her be entreated to fly. the will need only be inspired, the danger need only be shown, and she is safe, for she will remove beyond its reach." "thou art an adventurous youth. who wilt thou find to undertake the office? who will be persuaded to enter the house of a stranger, seek without an introduction the presence of this girl, tell her that the house she inhabits is a house of prostitution, prevail on her to believe the tale, and persuade her to accompany him? who will open his house to the fugitive? whom will you convince that her illicit intercourse with welbeck, of which the opprobrious tokens cannot be concealed, has not fitted her for the company of prostitutes, and made her unworthy of protection? who will adopt into their family a stranger whose conduct has incurred infamy, and whose present associates have, no doubt, made her worthy of the curse?" "true. these are difficulties which i did not foresee. must she then perish? shall not something be done to rescue her from infamy and guilt?" "it is neither in your power nor in mine to do any thing." the lateness of the hour put an end to our conversation and summoned us to repose. i seized the first opportunity of imparting to my wife the scheme which had occurred, relative to our guest; with which, as i expected, she readily concurred. in the morning, i mentioned it to mervyn. i dwelt upon the benefits that adhered to the medical profession, the power which it confers of lightening the distresses of our neighbours, the dignity which popular opinion annexes to it, the avenue which it opens to the acquisition of competence, the freedom from servile cares which attends it, and the means of intellectual gratification with which it supplies us. as i spoke, his eyes sparkled with joy. "yes," said he, with vehemence, "i willingly embrace your offer. i accept this benefit, because i know that, if my pride should refuse it, i should prove myself less worthy than you think, and give you pain, instead of that pleasure which i am bound to confer. i would enter on the duties and studies of my new profession immediately; but somewhat is due to mr. hadwin and his daughters. i cannot vanquish my inquietudes respecting them, but by returning to malverton and ascertaining their state with my own eyes. you know in what circumstances i parted with wallace and mr. hadwin. i am not sure that either of them ever reached home, or that they did not carry the infection along with them. i now find myself sufficiently strong to perform the journey, and purposed to have acquainted you, at this interview, with my intentions. an hour's delay is superfluous, and i hope you will consent to my setting out immediately. rural exercise and air, for a week or fortnight, will greatly contribute to my health." no objection could be made to this scheme. his narrative had excited no common affection in our bosoms for the hadwins. his visit could not only inform us of their true state, but would dispel that anxiety which they could not but entertain respecting our guest. it was a topic of some surprise that neither wallace nor hadwin had returned to the city, with a view to obtain some tidings of their friend. it was more easy to suppose them to have been detained by some misfortune, than by insensibility or indolence. in a few minutes mervyn bade us adieu, and set out upon his journey, promising to acquaint us with the state of affairs as soon as possible after his arrival. we parted from him with reluctance, and found no consolation but in the prospect of his speedy return. during his absence, conversation naturally turned upon those topics which were suggested by the narrative and deportment of this youth. different conclusions were formed by his two auditors. they had both contracted a deep interest in his welfare, and an ardent curiosity as to those particulars which his unfinished story had left in obscurity. the true character and actual condition of welbeck were themes of much speculation. whether he were dead or alive, near or distant from his ancient abode, was a point on which neither mervyn, nor any of those with whom i had means of intercourse, afforded any information. whether he had shared the common fate, and had been carried by the collectors of the dead from the highway or the hovel to the pits opened alike for the rich and the poor, the known and the unknown; whether he had escaped to a foreign shore, or were destined to reappear upon this stage, were questions involved in uncertainty. the disappearance of watson would, at a different time, have excited much inquiry and suspicion; but, as this had taken place on the eve of the epidemic, his kindred and friends would acquiesce, without scruple, in the belief that he had been involved in the general calamity, and was to be numbered among the earliest victims. those of his profession usually resided in the street where the infection began, and where its ravages had been most destructive; and this circumstance would corroborate the conclusions of his friends. i did not perceive any immediate advantage to flow from imparting the knowledge i had lately gained to others. shortly after mervyn's departure to malverton, i was visited by wortley. inquiring for my guest, i told him that, having recovered his health, he had left my house. he repeated his invectives against the villany of welbeck, his suspicions of mervyn, and his wishes for another interview with the youth. why had i suffered him to depart, and whither had he gone? "he has gone for a short time into the country. i expect him to return in less than a week, when you will meet with him here as often as you please, for i expect him to take up his abode in this house." much astonishment and disapprobation were expressed by my friend. i hinted that the lad had made disclosures to me, which justified my confidence in his integrity. these proofs of his honesty were not of a nature to be indiscriminately unfolded. mervyn had authorized me to communicate so much of his story to wortley, as would serve to vindicate him from the charge of being welbeck's co-partner in fraud; but this end would only be counteracted by an imperfect tale, and the full recital, though it might exculpate mervyn, might produce inconveniences by which this advantage would be outweighed. wortley, as might be naturally expected, was by no means satisfied with this statement. he suspected that mervyn was a wily impostor; that he had been trained in the arts of fraud, under an accomplished teacher; that the tale which he had told to me was a tissue of ingenious and plausible lies; that the mere assertions, however plausible and solemn, of one like him, whose conduct had incurred such strong suspicions, were unworthy of the least credit. "it cannot be denied," continued my friend, "that he lived with welbeck at the time of his elopement; that they disappeared together; that they entered a boat, at pine street wharf, at midnight; that this boat was discovered by the owner in the possession of a fisherman at redbank, who affirmed that he had found it stranded near his door, the day succeeding that on which they disappeared. of all this i can supply you with incontestable proof. if, after this proof, you can give credit to his story, i shall think you made of very perverse and credulous materials." "the proof you mention," said i, "will only enhance his credibility. all the facts which you have stated have been admitted by him. they constitute an essential portion of his narrative." "what then is the inference? are not these evidences of a compact between them? has he not acknowledged this compact in confessing that he knew welbeck was my debtor; that he was apprized of his flight, but that (what matchless effrontery!) he had promised secrecy, and would, by no means, betray him? you say he means to return; but of that i doubt. you will never see his face more. he is too wise to thrust himself again into the noose; but i do not utterly despair of lighting upon welbeck. old thetford, jamieson, and i, have sworn to hunt him through the world. i have strong hopes that he has not strayed far. some intelligence has lately been received, which has enabled us to place our hounds upon his scent. he may double and skulk; but, if he does not fall into our toils at last, he will have the agility and cunning, as well as the malignity, of devils." the vengeful disposition thus betrayed by wortley was not without excuse. the vigour of his days had been spent in acquiring a slender capital; his diligence and honesty had succeeded, and he had lately thought his situation such as to justify marriage with an excellent woman, to whom he had for years been betrothed, but from whom his poverty had hitherto compelled him to live separate. scarcely had this alliance taken place, and the full career of nuptial enjoyments begun, when his ill fate exposed him to the frauds of welbeck, and brought him, in one evil hour, to the brink of insolvency. jamieson and thetford, however, were rich, and i had not till now been informed that they had reasons for pursuing welbeck with peculiar animosity. the latter was the uncle of him whose fate had been related by mervyn, and was one of those who employed money, not as the medium of traffic, but as in itself a commodity. he had neither wines nor cloths, to transmute into silver. he thought it a tedious process to exchange to-day one hundred dollars for a cask or bale, and to-morrow exchange the bale or cask for one hundred _and ten_ dollars. it was better to give the hundred for a piece of paper, which, carried forthwith to the money-changers, he could procure a hundred twenty-three and three-fourths. in short, this man's coffers were supplied by the despair of honest men and the stratagems of rogues. i did not immediately suspect how this man's prudence and indefatigable attention to his own interest should allow him to become the dupe of welbeck. "what," said i, "is old thetford's claim upon welbeck?" "it is a claim," he replied, "that, if it ever be made good, will doom welbeck to imprisonment and wholesome labour for life." "how? surely it is nothing more than debt." "have you not heard? but that is no wonder. happily you are a stranger to mercantile anxieties and revolutions. your fortune does not rest on a basis which an untoward blast may sweep away, or four strokes of a pen may demolish. that hoary dealer in suspicions was persuaded to put his hand to three notes for eight hundred dollars each. the _eight_ was then dexterously prolonged to eigh_teen_; they were duly deposited in time and place, and the next day welbeck was credited for fifty-three hundred and seventy-three, which, an hour after, were _told out_ to his messenger. hard to say whether the old man's grief, shame, or rage, be uppermost. he disdains all comfort but revenge, and that he will procure at any price. jamieson, who deals in the same _stuff_ with thetford, was outwitted in the same manner, to the same amount, and on the same day. "this welbeck must have powers above the common rate of mortals. grown gray in studying the follies and the stratagems of men, these veterans were overreached. no one pities them. 'twere well if his artifices had been limited to such, and he had spared the honest and the poor. it is for his injuries to men who have earned their scanty subsistence without forfeiting their probity, that i hate him, and shall exult to see him suffer all the rigours of the law." here wortley's engagements compelled him to take his leave. chapter xxv. while musing upon these facts, i could not but reflect with astonishment on the narrow escapes which mervyn's virtue had experienced. i was by no means certain that his fame or his life was exempt from all danger, or that the suspicions which had already been formed respecting him could possibly be wiped away. nothing but his own narrative, repeated with that simple but nervous eloquence which we had witnessed, could rescue him from the most heinous charges. was there any tribunal that would not acquit him on merely hearing his defence? surely the youth was honest. his tale could not be the fruit of invention; and yet, what are the bounds of fraud? nature has set no limits to the combinations of fancy. a smooth exterior, a show of virtue, and a specious tale, are, a thousand times, exhibited in human intercourse by craft and subtlety. motives are endlessly varied, while actions continue the same; and an acute penetration may not find it hard to select and arrange motives, suited to exempt from censure any action that a human being can commit. had i heard mervyn's story from another, or read it in a book, i might, perhaps, have found it possible to suspect the truth; but, as long as the impression made by his tones, gestures, and looks, remained in my memory, this suspicion was impossible. wickedness may sometimes be ambiguous, its mask may puzzle the observer; our judgment may be made to falter and fluctuate, but the face of mervyn is the index of an honest mind. calm or vehement, doubting or confident, it is full of benevolence and candour. he that listens to his words may question their truth, but he that looks upon his countenance when speaking cannot withhold his faith. it was possible, however, to find evidence supporting or confuting his story. i chanced to be acquainted with a family, by name althorpe, who were natives of that part of the country where his father resided. i paid them a visit, and, after a few preliminaries, mentioned, as if by accident, the name of mervyn. they immediately recognised this name as belonging to one of their ancient neighbours. the death of the wife and sons, and the seduction of the only daughter by colvill, with many pathetic incidents connected with the fate of this daughter, were mentioned. this intelligence induced me to inquire of mrs. althorpe, a sensible and candid woman, if she were acquainted with the recent or present situation of this family. "i cannot say much," she answered, "of my own knowledge. since my marriage, i am used to spend a few weeks of summer at my father's, but am less inquisitive than i once was into the concerns of my old neighbours. i recollect, however, when there, last year, during _the fever_, to have heard that sawny mervyn had taken a second wife; that his only son, a youth of eighteen, had thought proper to be highly offended with his father's conduct, and treated the new mistress of the house with insult and contempt. i should not much wonder at this, seeing children are so apt to deem themselves unjustly treated by a second marriage of their parent; but it was hinted that the boy's jealousy and discontent were excited by no common cause. the new mother was not much older than himself, had been a servant of the family, and a criminal intimacy had subsisted between her, while in that condition, and the son. her marriage with his father was justly accounted by their neighbours a most profligate and odious transaction. the son, perhaps, had, in such a case, a right to scold, but he ought not to have carried his anger to such extremes as have been imputed to him. he is said to have grinned upon her with contempt, and even to have called her _strumpet_ in the presence of his father and of strangers. "it was impossible for such a family to keep together. arthur took leave one night to possess himself of all his father's cash, mount the best horse in his meadow, and elope. for a time, no one knew whither he had gone. at last, one was said to have met with him in the streets of this city, metamorphosed from a rustic lad into a fine gentleman. nothing could be quicker than this change, for he left the country on a saturday morning, and was seen in a french frock and silk stockings, going into christ's church the next day. i suppose he kept it up with a high hand, as long as his money lasted. "my lather paid us a visit last week, and, among other country-news, told us that sawny mervyn had sold his place. his wife had persuaded him to try his fortune in the western country. the price of his hundred acres here would purchase a thousand there, and the man, being very gross and ignorant, and, withal, quite a simpleton, found no difficulty in perceiving that a thousand are ten times more than a hundred. he was not aware that a rood of ground upon schuylkill is tenfold better than an acre on the tennessee. "the woman turned out to be an artful profligate. having sold his ground and gotten his money, he placed it in her keeping, and she, to enjoy it with the more security, ran away to the city; leaving him to prosecute his journey to kentucky moneyless and alone. some time after, mr. althorpe and i were at the play, when he pointed out to me a group of females in an upper box, one of whom was no other than betty lawrence. it was not easy to recognise, in her present gaudy trim, all flaunting with ribbons and shining with trinkets, the same betty who used to deal out pecks of potatoes and superintend her basket of cantaloupes in the jersey market, in pasteboard bonnet and linsey petticoat. her companions were of the infamous class. if arthur were still in the city, there is no doubt that the mother and son might renew the ancient terms of their acquaintance. "the old man, thus robbed and betrayed, sought consolation in the bottle, of which he had been at all times over-fond. he wandered from one tavern to another till his credit was exhausted, and then was sent to jail, where, i believe, he is likely to continue till his death. such, my friend, is the history of the mervyns." "what proof," said i, "have you of the immoral conduct of the son? of his mistreatment of his mother, and his elopement with his father's horse and money?" "i have no proof but the unanimous report of mervyn's neighbours. respectable and honest men have affirmed, in my hearing, that they had been present when the boy treated his mother in the way that i have described. i was, besides, once in company with the old man, and heard him bitterly inveigh against his son, and charge him with the fact of stealing his horse and money. i well remember that tears rolled from his eyes while talking on the subject. as to his being seen in the city the next day after his elopement, dressed in a most costly and fashionable manner, i can doubt that as little as the rest, for he that saw him was my father, and you, who know my father, know what credit is due to his eyes and his word. he had seen arthur often enough not to be mistaken, and described his appearance with great exactness. the boy is extremely handsome, give him his due; has dark hazel eyes, auburn hair, and very elegant proportions. his air and gait have nothing of the clown in them. take away his jacket and trousers, and you have as spruce a fellow as ever came from dancing-school or college. he is the exact picture of his mother, and the most perfect contrast to the sturdy legs, squat figure, and broad, unthinking, sheepish face of the father that can be imagined. you must confess that his appearance here is a pretty strong proof of the father's assertions. the money given for these clothes could not possibly have been honestly acquired. it is to be presumed that they were bought or stolen, for how else should they have been gotten?" "what was this lad's personal deportment during the life of his mother, and before his father's second marriage?" "very little to the credit of his heart or his intellects. being the youngest son, the only one who at length survived, and having a powerful resemblance to herself, he became the mother's favourite. his constitution was feeble, and he loved to stroll in the woods more than to plough or sow. this idleness was much against his father's inclination and judgment; and, indeed, it was the foundation of all his vices. when he could be prevailed upon to do any thing it was in a bungling manner, and so as to prove that his thoughts were fixed on any thing except his business. when his assistance was wanted he was never to be found at hand. they were compelled to search for him among the rocks and bushes, and he was generally discovered sauntering along the bank of a river, or lolling in the shade of a tree. this disposition to inactivity and laziness, in so young a man, was very strange. persons of his age are rarely fond of work, but then they are addicted to company, and sports, and exercises. they ride, or shoot, or frolic; but this being moped away his time in solitude, never associated with other young people, never mounted a horse but when he could not help it, and never fired a gun or angled for a fish in his life. some people supposed him to be half an idiot, or, at least, not to be right in his mind; and, indeed, his conduct was so very perverse and singular, that i do not wonder at those who accounted for it in this way." "but surely," said i, "he had some object of pursuit. perhaps he was addicted to books." "far from it. on the contrary, his aversion to school was as great as his hatred of the plough. he never could get his lessons or bear the least constraint. he was so much indulged by his mother at home, that tasks and discipline of any kind were intolerable. he was a perpetual truant; till, the master one day attempting to strike him, he ran out of the room and never entered it more. the mother excused and countenanced his frowardness, and the foolish father was obliged to give way. i do not believe he had two months' schooling in his life." "perhaps," said i, "he preferred studying by himself, and at liberty. i have known boys endowed with great curiosity and aptitude to learning, who never could endure set tasks, and spurned at the pedagogue and his rod." "i have known such likewise, but this was not one of them. i know not whence he could derive his love of knowledge or the means of acquiring it. the family were totally illiterate. the father was a scotch peasant, whose ignorance was so great that he could not sign his name. his wife, i believe, could read, and might sometimes decipher the figures in an almanac; but that was all. i am apt to think that the son's ability was not much greater. you might as well look for silver platters or marble tables in his house, as for a book or a pen. "i remember calling at their house one evening in the winter before last. it was intensely cold; and my father, who rode with me, having business with sawny mervyn, we stopped a minute at his gate; and, while the two old men were engaged in conversation, i begged leave to warm myself by the kitchen fire. here, in the chimney-corner, seated on a block, i found arthur busily engaged in _knitting stockings_! i thought this a whimsical employment for a young active man. i told him so, for i wanted to put him to the blush; but he smiled in my face, and answered, without the least discomposure, 'just as whimsical a business for a young active woman. pray, did you never knit a stocking?' "'yes; but that was from necessity. were i of a different sex, or did i possess the strength of a man, i should rather work in my field or study my book.' "'rejoice that you are a woman, then, and are at liberty to pursue that which costs least labour and demands most skill. you see, though a man, i use your privilege, and prefer knitting yarn to threshing my brain with a book or the barn-floor with a flail.' "'i wonder,' said i, contemptuously, 'you do not put on the petticoat as well as handle the needle.' "'do not wonder,' he replied; 'it is because i hate a petticoat encumbrance as much as i love warm feet. look there,' (offering the stocking to my inspection:) 'is it not well done?' "i did not touch it, but sneeringly said, 'excellent! i wonder you do not apprentice yourself to a tailor.' "he looked at me with an air of ridiculous simplicity, and said, 'how prone the woman is to _wonder_! you call the work excellent, and yet _wonder_ that i do not make myself a slave to improve my skill! did you learn needlework from seven years' squatting on a tailor's board? had you come to me, i would have taught you in a day.' "'i was taught at school.' "'and paid your instructor?' "'to-be-sure.' "''twas liberty and money thrown away. send your sister, if you have one, to me, and i will teach her without either rod or wages. will you?' "'you have an old and a violent antipathy, i believe, to any thing like a school.' "'true. it was early and violent. had not you?' "'no. i went to school with pleasure; for i thought to read and write were accomplishments of some value.' "'indeed? then i misunderstood you just now. i thought you said that, had you the strength of a man, you should prefer the plough and the book to the needle. whence, supposing you a female, i inferred that you had a woman's love for the needle and a fool's hatred of books.' "my father calling me from without, i now made a motion to go. 'stay,' continued he, with great earnestness, throwing aside his knitting-apparatus, and beginning in great haste to pull off his stockings. 'draw these stockings over your shoes. they will save your feet from the snow while walking to your horse.' "half angry, and half laughing, i declined the offer. he had drawn them off, however, and, holding them in his hand, 'be persuaded,' said he; 'only lift your feet, and i will slip them on in a trice.' "finding me positive in my refusal, he dropped the stockings; and, without more ado, caught me up in his arms, rushed out of the room, and, running barefoot through the snow, set me fairly on my horse. all was done in a moment, and before i had time to reflect on his intentions. he then seized my hand, and, kissing it with great fervour, exclaimed, 'a thousand thanks to you for not accepting my stockings. you have thereby saved yourself and me the time and toil of drawing on and drawing off. since you have taught me to wonder, let me practise the lesson in wondering at your folly, in wearing worsted shoes and silk stockings at a season like this. take my counsel, and turn your silk to worsted and your worsted to leather. then may you hope for warm feet and dry. what! leave the gate without a blessing on your counsellor?' "i spurred my horse into a gallop, glad to escape from so strange a being. i could give you many instances of behaviour equally singular, and which betrayed a mixture of shrewdness and folly, of kindness and impudence, which justified, perhaps, the common notion that his intellects were unsound. nothing was more remarkable than his impenetrability to ridicule and censure. you might revile him for hours, and he would listen to you with invincible composure. to awaken anger or shame in him was impossible. he would answer, but in such a way as to show him totally unaware of your true meaning. he would afterwards talk to you with all the smiling affability and freedom of an old friend. every one despised him for his idleness and folly, no less conspicuous in his words than his actions; but no one feared him, and few were angry with him, till after the detection of his commerce with _betty_, and his inhuman treatment of his father." "have you good reasons for supposing him to have been illicitly connected with that girl?" "yes. such as cannot be discredited. it would not be proper for me to state these proofs. nay, he never denied it. when reminded, on one occasion, of the inference which every impartial person would draw from appearances, he acknowledged, with his usual placid effrontery, that the inference was unavoidable. he even mentioned other concurring and contemporary incidents, which had eluded the observation of his censurer, and which added still more force to the conclusion. he was studious to palliate the vices of this woman, as long as he was her only paramour; but, after her marriage with his father, the tone was changed. he confessed that she was tidy, notable, industrious; but, then, she was a prostitute. when charged with being instrumental in making her such, and when his companions dwelt upon the depravity of reviling her for vices which she owed to him, 'true,' he would say, 'there is depravity and folly in the conduct you describe. make me out, if you please, to be a villain. what then? i was talking, not of myself, but of betty. still this woman is a prostitute. if it were i that made her such, with more confidence may i make the charge. but think not that i blame betty. place me in her situation, and i should have acted just so. i should have formed just such notions of my interest, and pursued it by the same means. still, say i, i would fain have a different woman for my father's wife, and the mistress of his family.'" chapter xxvi. this conversation was interrupted by a messenger from my wife, who desired my return immediately. i had some hopes of meeting with mervyn, some days having now elapsed since his parting from us, and not being conscious of any extraordinary motives for delay. it was wortley, however, and not mervyn, to whom i was called. my friend came to share with me his suspicions and inquietudes respecting welbeck and mervyn. an accident had newly happened which had awakened these suspicions afresh. he desired a patient audience while he explained them to me. these were his words:-"to-day a person presented me a letter from a mercantile friend at baltimore. i easily discerned the bearer to be a sea-captain. he was a man of sensible and pleasing aspect, and was recommended to my friendship and counsel in the letter which he brought. the letter stated, that a man, by name amos watson, by profession a mariner, and a resident at baltimore, had disappeared in the summer of last year, in a mysterious and incomprehensible manner. he was known to have arrived in this city from jamaica, and to have intended an immediate journey to his family, who lived at baltimore; but he never arrived there, and no trace of his existence has since been discovered. the bearer had come to investigate, if possible, the secret of his fate, and i was earnestly entreated to afford him all the assistance and advice in my power, in the prosecution of his search. i expressed my willingness to serve the stranger, whose name was williams; and, after offering him entertainment at my house, which was thankfully accepted, he proceeded to unfold to me the particulars of this affair. his story was this. "'on the 20th of last june, i arrived,' said he, 'from the west indies, in company with captain watson. i commanded the ship in which he came as a passenger, his own ship being taken and confiscated by the english. we had long lived in habits of strict friendship, and i loved him for his own sake, as well as because he had married my sister. we landed in the morning, and went to dine with mr. keysler, since dead, but who then lived in water street. he was extremely anxious to visit his family, and, having a few commissions to perform in the city, which would not demand more than a couple of hours, he determined to set out next morning in the stage. meanwhile, i had engagements which required me to repair with the utmost expedition to new york. i was scarcely less anxious than my brother to reach baltimore, where my friends also reside; but there was an absolute necessity of going eastward. i expected, however, to return hither in three days, and then to follow watson home. shortly after dinner we parted; he to execute his commissions, and i to embark in the mail-stage. "'in the time prefixed i returned. i arrived early in the morning, and prepared to depart again at noon. meanwhile, i called at keysler's. this is an old acquaintance of watson's and mine; and, in the course of talk, he expressed some surprise that watson had so precipitately deserted his house. i stated the necessity there was for watson's immediate departure _southward_, and added, that no doubt my brother had explained this necessity. "'why, (said keysler,) it is true, captain watson mentioned his intention of leaving town early next day; but then he gave me reason to expect that he would sup and lodge with me that night, whereas he has not made his appearance since. besides, his trunk was brought to my house. this, no doubt, he intended to carry home with him, but here it remains still. it is not likely that in the hurry of departure his baggage was forgotten. hence, i inferred that he was still in town, and have been puzzling myself these three days with conjectures as to what is become of him. what surprises me more is, that, on inquiring among the few friends which he has in this city, i find them as ignorant of his motions as myself. i have not, indeed, been wholly without apprehensions that some accident or other has befallen him.' "'i was not a little alarmed by this intimation. i went myself, agreeably to keysler's directions, to watson's friends, and made anxious inquiries, but none of them had seen my brother since his arrival. i endeavoured to recollect the commissions which he designed to execute, and, if possible, to trace him to the spot where he last appeared. he had several packets to deliver, one of which was addressed to walter thetford. him, after some inquiry, i found out, but unluckily he chanced to be in the country. i found, by questioning a clerk, who transacted his business in his absence, that a person, who answered the minute description which i gave of watson, had been there on the day on which i parted with him, and had left papers relative to the capture of one of thetford's vessels by the english. this was the sum of the information he was able to afford me. "'i then applied to three merchants for whom my brother had letters. they all acknowledged the receipt of these letters, but they were delivered through the medium of the post-office. "'i was extremely anxious to reach home. urgent engagements compelled me to go on without delay. i had already exhausted all the means of inquiry within my reach, and was obliged to acquiesce in the belief that watson had proceeded homeward at the time appointed, and left, by forgetfulness or accident, his trunk behind him. on examining the books kept at the stage-offices, his name nowhere appeared, and no conveyance by water had occurred during the last week. still, the only conjecture i could form was that he had gone homeward. "'arriving at baltimore, i found that watson had not yet made his appearance. his wife produced a letter, which, by the postmark, appeared to have been put into the office at philadelphia, on the morning after our arrival, and on which he had designed to commence his journey. this letter had been written by my brother, in my presence, but i had dissuaded him from sending it, since the same coach that should bear the letter was likewise to carry himself. i had seen him put it unwafered in his pocket-book, but this letter, unaltered in any part, and containing money which he had at first intended to enclose in it, was now conveyed to his wife's hand. in this letter he mentioned his design of setting out for baltimore on the _twenty-first_, yet on that day the letter itself had been put into the office. "'we hoped that a short time would clear up this mystery, and bring the fugitive home; but, from that day till the present, no atom of intelligence has been received concerning him. the yellow fever, which quickly followed, in this city, and my own engagements, have hindered me, till now, from coming hither and resuming the search. "'my brother was one of the most excellent of men. his wife loved him to distraction, and, together with his children, depended for subsistence upon his efforts. you will not, therefore, be surprised that his disappearance excited, in us, the deepest consternation and distress; but i have other and peculiar reasons for wishing to know his fate. i gave him several bills of exchange on merchants of baltimore, which i had received in payment of my cargo, in order that they might, as soon as possible, be presented and accepted. these have disappeared with the bearer. there is likewise another circumstance that makes his existence of no small value. "'there is an english family, who formerly resided in jamaica, and possessed an estate of great value, but who, for some years, have lived in the neighbourhood of baltimore. the head of this family died a year ago, and left a widow and three daughters. the lady thought it eligible to sell her husband's property in jamaica, the island becoming hourly more exposed to the chances of war and revolution, and transfer it to the united states, where she purposes henceforth to reside. watson had been her husband's friend, and, his probity and disinterestedness being well known, she intrusted him with legal powers to sell this estate. this commission was punctually performed, and the purchase-money was received. in order to confer on it the utmost possible security, he rolled up four bills of exchange, drawn upon opulent, merchants of london, in a thin sheet of lead, and, depositing this roll in a leathern girdle, fastened it round his waist, and under his clothes; a second set he gave to me, and a third he despatched to mr. keysler, by a vessel which sailed a few days before him. on our arrival in this city, we found that keysler had received those transmitted to him, and which he had been charged to keep till our arrival. they were now produced, and, together with those which i had carried, were delivered to watson. by him they were joined to those in the girdle, which he still wore, conceiving this method of conveyance to be safer than any other, and, at the same time, imagining it needless, in so short a journey as remained to be performed, to resort to other expedients. "'the sum which he thus bore about him was no less than ten thousand pounds sterling. it constituted the whole patrimony of a worthy and excellent family, and the loss of it reduces them to beggary. it is gone with watson, and whither watson has gone it is impossible even to guess. "'you may now easily conceive, sir, the dreadful disasters which may be connected with this man's fate, and with what immeasurable anxiety his family and friends have regarded his disappearance. that he is alive can scarcely be believed; for in what situation could he be placed in which he would not be able and willing to communicate some tidings of his fate to his family? "'our grief has been unspeakably aggravated by the suspicions which mrs. maurice and her friends have allowed themselves to admit. they do not scruple to insinuate that watson, tempted by so great a prize, has secretly embarked for england, in order to obtain payment for these bills and retain the money for his own use. "'no man was more impatient of poverty than watson, but no man's honesty was more inflexible. he murmured at the destiny that compelled him to sacrifice his ease, and risk his life upon the ocean in order to procure the means of subsistence; and all the property which he had spent the best part of his life in collecting had just been ravished away from him by the english; but, if he had yielded to this temptation at any time, it would have been on receiving these bills at jamaica. instead of coming hither, it would have been infinitely more easy and convenient to have embarked directly for london; but none who thoroughly knew him can, for a moment, harbour a suspicion of his truth. "'if he be dead, and if the bills are not to be recovered, yet to ascertain this will, at least, serve to vindicate his character. as long as his fate is unknown, his fame will be loaded with the most flagrant imputations, and, if these bills be ever paid in london, these imputations will appear to be justified. if he has been robbed, the robber will make haste to secure the payment, and the maurices may not unreasonably conclude that the robber was watson himself.' many other particulars were added by the stranger, to show the extent of the evils flowing from the death of his brother, and the loss of the papers which he carried with him. "i was greatly at a loss," continued wortley, "what directions or advice to afford this man. keysler, as you know, died early of the pestilence; but keysler was the only resident in this city with whom williams had any acquaintance. on mentioning the propriety of preventing the sale of these bills in america, by some public notice, he told me that this caution had been early taken; and i now remembered seeing the advertisement, in which the bills had been represented as having been lost or stolen in this city, and a reward of a thousand dollars was offered to any one who should restore them. this caution had been published in september, in all the trading-towns from portsmouth to savannah, but had produced no satisfaction. "i accompanied williams to the mayor's office, in hopes of finding in the records of his proceedings, during the last six months, some traces of watson; but neither these records nor the memory of the magistrate afforded us any satisfaction. watson's friends had drawn up, likewise, a description of the person and dress of the fugitive, an account of the incidents attending his disappearance, and of the papers which he had in his possession, with the manner in which these papers had been secured. these had been already published in the southern newspapers, and have been just reprinted in our own. as the former notice had availed nothing, this second expedient was thought necessary to be employed. "after some reflection, it occurred to me that it might be proper to renew the attempt which williams had made to trace the footsteps of his friend to the moment of his final disappearance. he had pursued watson to thetford's; but thetford himself had not been seen, and he had been contented with the vague information of his clerk. thetford and his family, including his clerk, had perished, and it seemed as if this source of information was dried up. it was possible, however, that old thetford might have some knowledge of his nephew's transactions, by which some light might chance to be thrown upon this obscurity. i therefore called on him, but found him utterly unable to afford me the light that i wished. my mention of the packet which watson had brought to thetford, containing documents respecting the capture of a certain ship, reminded him of the injuries which he had received from welbeck, and excited him to renew his menaces and imputations on that wretch. having somewhat exhausted this rhetoric, he proceeded to tell me what connection there was between the remembrance of his injuries and the capture of this vessel. "this vessel and its cargo were, in fact, the property of welbeck. they had been sent to a good market, and had been secured by an adequate insurance. the value of this ship and cargo, and the validity of the policy, he had taken care to ascertain by means of his two nephews, one of whom had gone out supercargo. this had formed his inducement to lend his three notes to welbeck, in exchange for three other notes, the whole amount of which included the _equitable interest_ of _five per cent. per month_ on his own loan. for the payment of these notes he by no means relied, as the world foolishly imagined, on the seeming opulence and secret funds of welbeck. these were illusions too gross to have any influence on him. he was too old a bird to be decoyed into the net by _such_ chaff. no; his nephew, the supercargo, would of course receive the produce of the voyage, and so much of this produce as would pay his debt he had procured the owner's authority to intercept its passage from the pocket of his nephew to that of welbeck. in case of loss, he had obtained a similar security upon the policy. jamieson's proceedings had been the same with his own, and no affair in which he had ever engaged had appeared to be more free from hazard than this. their calculations, however, though plausible, were defeated. the ship was taken and condemned, for a cause which rendered the insurance ineffectual. "i bestowed no time in reflecting on this tissue of extortions and frauds, and on that course of events which so often disconcerts the stratagems of cunning. the names of welbeck and watson were thus associated together, and filled my thoughts with restlessness and suspicion. welbeck was capable of any weakness. it was possible an interview had happened between these men, and that the fugitive had been someway instrumental in watson's fate. these thoughts were mentioned to williams, whom the name of welbeck threw into the utmost perturbation. on finding that one of this name had dwelt in this city, and that he had proved a villain, he instantly admitted the most dreary forebodings. "'i have heard,' said williams, 'the history of this welbeck a score of times from my brother. there formerly subsisted a very intimate connection between them. my brother had conferred, upon one whom he thought honest, innumerable benefits; but all his benefits had been repaid by the blackest treachery. welbeck's character and guilt had often been made the subject of talk between us, but, on these occasions, my brother's placid and patient temper forsook him. his grief for the calamities which had sprung from this man, and his desire of revenge, burst all bounds, and transported him to a pitch of temporary frenzy. i often inquired in what manner he intended to act if a meeting should take place between them. he answered, that doubtless he should act like a maniac, in defiance of his sober principles, and of the duty which he owed his family. "'what! (said i,) would you stab or pistol him? "'no. i was not born for an assassin. i would upbraid him in such terms as the furious moment might suggest, and then challenge him to a meeting, from which either he or i should not part with life. i would allow time for him to make his peace with heaven, and for me to blast his reputation upon earth, and to make such provision for my possible death as duty and discretion would prescribe. "'now, nothing is more probable than that welbeck and my brother have met. thetford would of course mention his name and interest in the captured ship, and hence the residence of this detested being in this city would be made known. their meeting could not take place without some dreadful consequence. i am fearful that to that meeting we must impute the disappearance of my brother.' chapter xxvii. "here was new light thrown upon the character of welbeck, and new food administered to my suspicions. no conclusion could be more plausible than that which williams had drawn; but how should it be rendered certain? walter thetford, or some of his family, had possibly been witnesses of something, which, added to our previous knowledge, might strengthen or prolong that clue, one end of which seemed now to be put into our hands; but thetford's father-in-law was the only one of his family, who, by seasonable flight from the city, had escaped the pestilence. to him, who still resided in the country, i repaired with all speed, accompanied by williams. "the old man, being reminded, by a variety of circumstances, of the incidents of that eventful period, was, at length, enabled to relate that he had been present at the meeting which took place between watson and his son walter, when certain packets were delivered by the former, relative, as he quickly understood, to the condemnation of a ship in which thomas thetford had gone supercargo. he had noticed some emotion of the stranger, occasioned by his son's mentioning the concern which welbeck had in the vessel. he likewise remembered the stranger's declaring his intention of visiting welbeck, and requesting walter to afford him directions to his house. "'next morning at the breakfast-table,' continued the old man, 'i adverted to yesterday's incidents, and asked my son how welbeck had borne the news of the loss of his ship. "he bore it," said walter, "as a man of his wealth ought to bear so trivial a loss. but there was something very strange in his behaviour," says my son, "when i mentioned the name of the captain who brought the papers; and, when i mentioned the captain's design of paying him a visit, he stared upon me, for a moment, as if he were frighted out of his wits, and then, snatching up his hat, ran furiously out of the house." this was all my son said upon that occasion; but, as i have since heard, it was on that very night that welbeck absconded from his creditors.' "i have this moment returned from this interview with old thetford. i come to you, because i thought it possible that mervyn, agreeably to your expectations, had returned, and i wanted to see the lad once more. my suspicions with regard to him have been confirmed, and a warrant was this day issued for apprehending him as welbeck's accomplice." i was startled by this news. "my friend," said i, "be cautious how you act, i beseech you. you know not in what evils you may involve the innocent. mervyn i know to be blameless; but welbeck is indeed a villain. the latter i shall not be sorry to see brought to justice; but the former, instead of meriting punishment, is entitled to rewards." "so you believe, on the mere assertion of the boy, perhaps, his plausible lies might produce the same effect upon me; but i must stay till he thinks proper to exert his skill. the suspicions to which he is exposed will not easily be obviated; but, if he has any thing to say in his defence, his judicial examination will afford him the suitable opportunity. why are you so much afraid to subject his innocence to this test? it was not till you heard his tale that your own suspicions were removed. allow me the same privilege of unbelief. "but you do me wrong, in deeming me the cause of his apprehension. it is jamieson and thetford's work, and they have not proceeded on shadowy surmises and the impulses of mere revenge. facts have come to light of which you are wholly unaware, and which, when known to you, will conquer even your incredulity as to the guilt of mervyn." "facts? let me know them, i beseech you. if mervyn has deceived me, there is an end to my confidence in human nature. all limits to dissimulation, and all distinctness between vice and virtue, will be effaced. no man's word, nor force of collateral evidence, shall weigh with me a hair." "it was time," replied my friend, "that your confidence in smooth features and fluent accents should have ended long ago. till i gained from my present profession some knowledge of the world, a knowledge which was not gained in a moment, and has not cost a trifle, i was equally wise in my own conceit; and, in order to decide upon the truth of any one's pretensions, needed only a clear view of his face and a distinct hearing of his words. my folly, in that respect, was only to be cured, however, by my own experience, and i suppose your credulity will yield to no other remedy. these are the facts:-"mrs. wentworth, the proprietor of the house in which welbeck lived, has furnished some intelligence respecting mervyn, whose truth cannot be doubted, and which furnishes the strongest evidence of a conspiracy between this lad and his employer. it seems that, some years since, a nephew of this lady left his father's family clandestinely, and has not been heard of since. this nephew was intended to inherit her fortunes, and her anxieties and inquiries respecting him have been endless and incessant. these, however, have been fruitless. welbeck, knowing these circumstances, and being desirous of substituting a girl whom he had moulded for his purpose, in place of the lost youth, in the affections of the lady while living, and in her testament when dead, endeavoured to persuade her that the youth had died in some foreign country. for this end, mervyn was to personate a kinsman of welbeck who had just arrived from europe, and who had been a witness of her nephew's death. a story was, no doubt, to be contrived, where truth should be copied with the most exquisite dexterity; and, the lady being prevailed upon to believe the story, the way was cleared for accomplishing the remainder of the plot. "in due time, and after the lady's mind had been artfully prepared by welbeck, the pupil made his appearance; and, in a conversation full of studied ambiguities, assured the lady that her nephew was dead. for the present he declined relating the particulars of his death, and displayed a constancy and intrepidity in resisting her entreaties that would have been admirable in a better cause. before she had time to fathom this painful mystery, welbeck's frauds were in danger of detection, and he and his pupil suddenly disappeared. "while the plot was going forward, there occurred an incident which the plotters had not foreseen or precluded, and which possibly might have created some confusion or impediment in their designs. a bundle was found one night in the street, consisting of some coarse clothes, and containing, in the midst of it, the miniature portrait of mrs. wentworth's nephew. it fell into the hands of one of that lady's friends, who immediately despatched the bundle to her. mervyn, in his interview with this lady, spied the portrait on the mantel-piece. led by some freak of fancy, or some web of artifice, he introduced the talk respecting her nephew, by boldly claiming it as his; but, when the mode in which it had been found was mentioned, he was disconcerted and confounded, and precipitately withdrew. "this conduct, and the subsequent flight of the lad, afforded ground enough to question the truth of his intelligence respecting her nephew; but it has since been confuted, in a letter just received from her brother in england. in this letter, she is informed that her nephew had been seen by one who knew him well, in charleston; that some intercourse took place between the youth and the bearer of the news, in the course of which the latter had persuaded the nephew to return to his family, and that the youth had given some tokens of compliance. the letter-writer, who was father to the fugitive, had written to certain friends at charleston, entreating them to use their influence with the runaway to the same end, and, at any rate, to cherish and protect him. thus, i hope you will admit that the duplicity of mervyn is demonstrated." "the facts which you have mentioned," said i, after some pause, "partly correspond with mervyn's story; but the last particular is irreconcilably repugnant to it. now, for the first time, i begin to feel that my confidence is shaken. i feel my mind bewildered and distracted by the multitude of new discoveries which have just taken place. i want time to revolve them slowly, to weigh them accurately, and to estimate their consequences fully. i am afraid to speak; fearing that, in the present trouble of my thoughts, i may say something which i may afterwards regret, i want a counsellor; but you, wortley, are unfit for the office. your judgment is unfurnished with the same materials; your sufferings have soured your humanity and biassed your candour. the only one qualified to divide with me these cares, and aid in selecting the best mode of action, is my wife. she is mistress of mervyn's history; an observer of his conduct during his abode with us; and is hindered, by her education and temper, from deviating into rigour and malevolence. will you pardon me, therefore, if i defer commenting on your narrative till i have had an opportunity of reviewing it and comparing it with my knowledge of the lad, collected from himself and from my own observation?" wortley could not but admit the justice of my request, and, after some desultory conversation, we parted. i hastened to communicate to my wife the various intelligence which i had lately received. mrs. althorpe's portrait of the mervyns contained lineaments which the summary detail of arthur did not enable us fully to comprehend. the treatment which the youth is said to have given to his father; the illicit commerce that subsisted between him and his father's wife; the pillage of money and his father's horse, but ill accorded with the tale which we had heard, and disquieted our minds with doubts, though far from dictating our belief. what, however, more deeply absorbed our attention, was the testimony of williams and of mrs. wentworth. that which was mysterious and inscrutable to wortley and the friends of watson was luminous to us. the coincidence between the vague hints laboriously collected by these inquirers, and the narrative of mervyn, afforded the most cogent attestation of the truth of that narrative. watson had vanished from all eyes, but the spot where rested his remains was known to us. the girdle spoken of by williams would not be suspected to exist by his murderer. it was unmolested, and was doubtless buried with him. that which was so earnestly sought, and which constituted the subsistence of the maurices, would probably be found adhering to his body. what conduct was incumbent upon me who possessed this knowledge? it was just to restore these bills to their true owner; but how could this be done without hazardous processes and tedious disclosures? to whom ought these disclosures to be made? by what authority or agency could these half-decayed limbs be dug up, and the lost treasure be taken from amidst the horrible corruption in which it was immersed? this ought not to be the act of a single individual. this act would entangle him in a maze of perils and suspicions, of concealments and evasions, from which he could not hope to escape with his reputation inviolate. the proper method was through the agency of the law. it is to this that mervyn must submit his conduct. the story which he told to me he must tell to the world. suspicions have fixed themselves upon him, which allow him not the privilege of silence and obscurity. while he continued unknown and unthought of, the publication of his story would only give unnecessary birth to dangers; but now dangers are incurred which it may probably contribute to lessen, if not to remove. meanwhile the return of mervyn to the city was anxiously expected. day after day passed, and no tidings were received. i had business of an urgent nature which required my presence in jersey, but which, in the daily expectation of the return of my young friend, i postponed a week longer than rigid discretion allowed. at length i was obliged to comply with the exigence, and left the city, but made such arrangements that i should be apprized by my wife of mervyn's return with all practicable expedition. these arrangements were superfluous, for my business was despatched, and my absence at an end, before the youth had given us any tokens of his approach. i now remembered the warnings of wortley, and his assertions that mervyn had withdrawn himself forever from our view. the event had hitherto unwelcomely coincided with these predictions, and a thousand doubts and misgivings were awakened. one evening, while preparing to shake off gloomy thoughts by a visit to a friend, some one knocked at my door, and left a billet containing these words:-"_dr. stevens is requested to come immediately to the debtors' apartments in prune street._" this billet was without signature. the handwriting was unknown, and the precipitate departure of the bearer left me wholly at a loss with respect to the person of the writer, or the end for which my presence was required. this uncertainty only hastened my compliance with the summons. the evening was approaching,--a time when the prison-doors are accustomed to be shut and strangers to be excluded. this furnished an additional reason for despatch. as i walked swiftly along, i revolved the possible motives that might have prompted this message. a conjecture was soon formed, which led to apprehension and inquietude. one of my friends, by name carlton, was embarrassed with debts which he was unable to discharge. he had lately been menaced with arrest by a creditor not accustomed to remit any of his claims. i dreaded that this catastrophe had now happened, and called to mind the anguish with which this untoward incident would overwhelm his family. i knew his incapacity to take away the claim of his creditor by payment, or to soothe him into clemency by supplication. so prone is the human mind to create for itself distress, that i was not aware of the uncertainty of this evil till i arrived at the prison. i checked myself at the moment when i opened my lips to utter the name of my friend, and was admitted without particular inquiries. i supposed that he by whom i had been summoned hither would meet me in the common room. the apartment was filled with pale faces and withered forms. the marks of negligence and poverty were visible in all; but few betrayed, in their features or gestures, any symptoms of concern on account of their condition. ferocious gayety, or stupid indifference, seemed to sit upon every brow. the vapour from a heated stove, mingled with the fumes of beer and tallow that were spilled upon it, and with the tainted breath of so promiscuous a crowd, loaded the stagnant atmosphere. at my first transition from the cold and pure air without, to this noxious element, i found it difficult to breathe. a moment, however, reconciled me to my situation, and i looked anxiously round to discover some face which i knew. almost every mouth was furnished with a cigar, and every hand with a glass of porter. conversation, carried on with much emphasis of tone and gesture, was not wanting. sundry groups, in different corners, were beguiling the tedious hours at whist. others, unemployed, were strolling to and fro, and testified their vacancy of thought and care by humming or whistling a tune. i fostered the hope that my prognostics had deceived me. this hope was strengthened by reflecting that the billet received was written in a different hand from that of my friend. meanwhile i continued my search. seated on a bench, silent and aloof from the crowd, his eyes fixed upon the floor, and his face half concealed by his hand, a form was at length discovered which verified all my conjectures and fears. carlton was he. my heart drooped and my tongue faltered at this sight. i surveyed him for some minutes in silence. at length, approaching the bench on which he sat, i touched his hand and awakened him from his reverie. he looked up. a momentary gleam of joy and surprise was succeeded by a gloom deeper than before. it was plain that my friend needed consolation. he was governed by an exquisite sensibility to disgrace. he was impatient of constraint. he shrunk, with fastidious abhorrence, from the contact of the vulgar and the profligate. his constitution was delicate and feeble. impure airs, restraint from exercise, unusual aliment, unwholesome or incommodious accommodations, and perturbed thoughts, were, at any time, sufficient to generate disease and to deprive him of life. to these evils he was now subjected. he had no money wherewith to purchase food. he had been dragged hither in the morning. he had not tasted a morsel since his entrance. he had not provided a bed on which to lie; or inquired in what room, or with what companions, the night was to be spent. fortitude was not among my friend's qualities. he was more prone to shrink from danger than encounter it, and to yield to the flood rather than sustain it; but it is just to observe that his anguish, on the present occasion, arose not wholly from selfish considerations. his parents were dead, and two sisters were dependent on him for support. one of these was nearly of his own age. the other was scarcely emerged from childhood. there was an intellectual as well as a personal resemblance between my friend and his sisters. they possessed his physical infirmities, his vehement passions, and refinements of taste; and the misery of his condition was tenfold increased, by reflecting on the feelings which would be awakened in them by the knowledge of his state, and the hardships to which the loss of his succour would expose them. chapter xxviii. it was not in my power to release my friend by the payment of his debt; but, by contracting with the keeper of the prison for his board, i could save him from famine; and, by suitable exertions, could procure him lodging as convenient as the time would admit. i could promise to console and protect his sisters, and, by cheerful tones and frequent visits, dispel some part of the evil which encompassed him. after the first surprise had subsided, he inquired by what accident this meeting had been produced. conscious of my incapacity to do him any essential service, and unwilling to make me a partaker in his miseries, he had forborne to inform me of his condition. this assurance was listened to with some wonder. i showed him the billet. it had not been written by him. he was a stranger to the penmanship. none but the attorney and officer were apprized of his fate. it was obvious to conclude, that this was the interposition of some friend, who, knowing my affection for carlton, had taken this mysterious method of calling me to his succour. conjectures as to the author and motives of this inter position were suspended by more urgent considerations. i requested an interview with the keeper, and inquired how carlton could be best accommodated. he said that all his rooms were full but one, which, in consequence of the dismission of three persons in the morning, had at present but one tenant. this person had lately arrived, was sick, and had with him, at this time, one of his friends. carlton might divide the chamber with this person. no doubt his consent would be readily given; though this arrangement, being the best, must take place whether he consented or not. this consent i resolved immediately to seek, and, for that purpose, desired to be led to the chamber. the door of the apartment was shut. i knocked for admission. it was instantly opened, and i entered. the first person who met my view was--arthur mervyn. i started with astonishment. mervyn's countenance betrayed nothing but satisfaction at the interview. the traces of fatigue and anxiety gave place to tenderness and joy. it readily occurred to me that mervyn was the writer of the note which i had lately received. to meet him within these walls, and at this time, was the most remote and undesirable of all contingencies. the same hour had thus made me acquainted with the kindred and unwelcome fate of two beings whom i most loved. i had scarcely time to return his embrace, when, taking my hand, he led me to a bed that stood in one corner. there was stretched upon it one whom a second glance enabled me to call by his name, though i had never before seen him. the vivid portrait which mervyn had drawn was conspicuous in the sunken and haggard visage before me. this face had, indeed, proportions and lines which could never be forgotten or mistaken. welbeck, when once seen or described, was easily distinguished from the rest of mankind. he had stronger motives than other men for abstaining from guilt, the difficulty of concealment or disguise being tenfold greater in him than in others, by reason of the indelible and eye-attracting marks which nature had set upon him. he was pallid and emaciated. he did not open his eyes on my entrance. he seemed to be asleep; but, before i had time to exchange glances with mervyn, or to inquire into the nature of the scene, he awoke. on seeing me he started, and cast a look of upbraiding on my companion. the latter comprehended his emotion, and endeavoured to appease him. "this person," said he, "is my friend. he is likewise a physician; and, perceiving your state to require medical assistance, i ventured to send for him." welbeck replied, in a contemptuous and indignant tone, "thou mistakest my condition, boy. my disease lies deeper than his scrutiny will ever reach. i had hoped thou wert gone. thy importunities are well meant, but they aggravate my miseries." he now rose from the bed, and continued, in a firm and resolute tone, "you are intruders into this apartment. it is mine, and i desire to be left alone." mervyn returned, at first, no answer to this address. he was immersed in perplexity. at length, raising his eyes from the floor, he said, "my intentions are indeed honest, and i am grieved that i want the power of persuasion. to-morrow, perhaps, i may reason more cogently with your despair, or your present mood may be changed. to aid my own weakness i will entreat the assistance of this friend." these words roused a new spirit in welbeck. his confusion and anger increased. his tongue faltered as he exclaimed, "good god! what mean you? headlong and rash as you are, you will not share with this person your knowledge of me?" here he checked himself, conscious that the words he had already uttered tended to the very end which he dreaded. this consciousness, added to the terror of more ample disclosures, which the simplicity and rectitude of mervyn might prompt him to make, chained up his tongue, and covered him with dismay. mervyn was not long in answering:--"i comprehend your fears and your wishes. i am bound to tell you the truth. to this person your story has already been told. whatever i have witnessed under your roof, whatever i have heard from your lips, have been faithfully disclosed to him." the countenance of welbeck now betrayed a mixture of incredulity and horror. for a time his utterance was stifled by his complicated feelings:-"it cannot be. so enormous a deed is beyond thy power. thy qualities are marvellous. every new act of thine outstrips the last, and belies the newest calculations. but this--this perfidy exceeds--this outrage upon promises, this violation of faith, this blindness to the future, is incredible." there he stopped; while his looks seemed to call upon mervyn for a contradiction of his first assertion. "i know full well how inexpiably stupid or wicked my act will appear to you, but i will not prevaricate or lie. i repeat, that every thing is known to him. your birth; your early fortunes; the incidents at charleston and wilmington; your treatment of the brother and sister; your interview with watson, and the fatal issue of that interview--i have told him all, just as it was told to me." here the shock that was felt by welbeck overpowered his caution and his strength. he sunk upon the side of the bed. his air was still incredulous, and he continued to gaze upon mervyn. he spoke in a tone less vehement:-"and hast thou then betrayed me? hast thou shut every avenue to my return to honour? am i known to be a seducer and assassin? to have meditated all crimes, and to have perpetrated the worst? "infamy and death are my portion. i know they are reserved for me; but i did not think to receive them at thy hands, that under that innocent guise there lurked a heart treacherous and cruel. but go; leave me to myself. this stroke has exterminated my remnant of hope. leave me to prepare my neck for the halter, and my lips for this last and bitterest cup." mervyn struggled with his tears, and replied, "all this was foreseen, and all this i was prepared to endure. my friend and i will withdraw, as you wish; but to-morrow i return; not to vindicate my faith or my humanity; not to make you recant your charges, or forgive the faults which i seem to have committed, but to extricate you from your present evil, or to arm you with fortitude." so saying, he led the way out of the room. i followed him in silence. the strangeness and abruptness of this scene left me no power to assume a part in it. i looked on with new and indescribable sensations. i reached the street before my recollection was perfectly recovered. i then reflected on the purpose that had led me to welbeck's chamber. this purpose was yet unaccomplished. i desired mervyn to linger a moment while i returned into the house. i once more inquired for the keeper, and told him i should leave to him the province of acquainting welbeck with the necessity of sharing his apartment with a stranger. i speedily rejoined mervyn in the street. i lost no time in requiring an explanation of the scene that i had witnessed. "how became you once more the companion of welbeck? why did you not inform me by letter of your arrival at malverton, and of what occurred during your absence? what is the fate of mr. hadwin and of wallace?" "alas!" said he, "i perceive that, though i have written, you have never received my letters. the tale of what has occurred since we parted is long and various. i am not only willing but eager to communicate the story; but this is no suitable place. have patience till we reach your house. i have involved myself in perils and embarrassments from which i depend upon your counsel and aid to release me." i had scarcely reached my own door, when i was overtaken by a servant, whom i knew to belong to the family in which carlton and his sisters resided. her message, therefore, was readily guessed. she came, as i expected, to inquire for my friend, who had left his home in the morning with a stranger, and had not yet returned. his absence had occasioned some inquietude, and his sister had sent this message to me, to procure what information respecting the cause of his detention i was able to give. my perplexity hindered me, for some time, from answering. i was willing to communicate the painful truth with my own mouth. i saw the necessity of putting an end to her suspense, and of preventing the news from reaching her with fallacious aggravations or at an unseasonable time. i told the messenger that i had just parted with mr. carlton, that he was well, and that i would speedily come and acquaint his sister with the cause of his absence. though burning with curiosity respecting mervyn and welbeck, i readily postponed its gratification till my visit to miss carlton was performed. i had rarely seen this lady; my friendship for her brother, though ardent, having been lately formed, and chiefly matured by interviews at my house. i had designed to introduce her to my wife, but various accidents had hindered the execution of my purpose. now consolation and counsel were more needed than ever, and delay or reluctance in bestowing it would have been, in a high degree, unpardonable. i therefore parted with mervyn, requesting him to await my return, and promising to perform the engagement which compelled me to leave him, with the utmost despatch. on entering miss carlton's apartment, i assumed an air of as much tranquillity as possible. i found the lady seated at a desk, with pen in hand and parchment before her. she greeted me with affectionate dignity, and caught from my countenance that cheerfulness of which on my entrance she was destitute. "you come," said she, "to inform me what has made my brother a truant to-day. till your message was received i was somewhat anxious. this day he usually spends in rambling through the fields; but so bleak and stormy an atmosphere, i suppose, would prevent his excursion. i pray, sir, what is it detains him?" to conquer my embarrassment, and introduce the subject by indirect and cautious means, i eluded her question, and, casting an eye at the parchment,--"how now?" said i; "this is strange employment for a lady. i knew that my friend pursued this trade, and lived by binding fast the bargains which others made; but i knew not that the pen was ever usurped by his sister." "the usurpation was prompted by necessity. my brother's impatient temper and delicate frame unfitted him for the trade. he pursued it with no less reluctance than diligence, devoting to the task three nights in the week, and the whole of each day. it would long ago have killed him, had i not bethought myself of sharing his tasks. the pen was irksome and toilsome at first, but use has made it easy, and far more eligible than the needle, which was formerly my only tool. "this arrangement affords my brother opportunities of exercise and recreation, without diminishing our profits; and my time, though not less constantly, is more agreeably, as well as more lucratively, employed than formerly." "i admire your reasoning. by this means provision is made against untoward accidents. if sickness should disable him, you are qualified to pursue the same means of support." at these words the lady's countenance changed. she put her hand on my arm, and said, in a fluttering and hurried accent, "is my brother sick?" "no. he is in perfect health. my observation was a harmless one. i am sorry to observe your readiness to draw alarming inferences. if i were to say that your scheme is useful to supply deficiencies, not only when your brother is disabled by sickness, but when thrown, by some inhuman creditor, into jail, no doubt you would perversely and hastily infer that he is now in prison." i had scarcely ended the sentence, when the piercing eyes of the lady were anxiously fixed upon mine. after a moment's pause, she exclaimed, "the inference, indeed, is too plain. i know his fate. it has long been foreseen and expected, and i have summoned up my equanimity to meet it. would to heaven he may find the calamity as light as i should find it! but i fear his too irritable spirit." when her fears were confirmed, she started out into no vehemence of exclamation. she quickly suppressed a few tears which would not be withheld, and listened to my narrative of what had lately occurred, with tokens of gratitude. formal consolation was superfluous. her mind was indeed more fertile than my own in those topics which take away its keenest edge from affliction. she observed that it was far from being the heaviest calamity which might have happened. the creditor was perhaps vincible by arguments and supplications. if these should succeed, the disaster would not only be removed, but that security from future molestation be gained, to which they had for a long time been strangers. should he be obdurate, their state was far from being hopeless. carlton's situation allowed him to pursue his profession. his gains would be equal, and his expenses would not be augmented. by their mutual industry they might hope to amass sufficient to discharge the debt at no very remote period. what she chiefly dreaded was the pernicious influence of dejection and sedentary labour on her brother's health. yet this was not to be considered as inevitable. fortitude might be inspired by exhortation and example, and no condition precluded us from every species of bodily exertion. the less inclined he should prove to cultivate the means of deliverance and happiness within his reach, the more necessary it became for her to stimulate and fortify his resolution. if i were captivated by the charms of this lady's person and carriage, my reverence was excited by these proofs of wisdom and energy. i zealously promised to concur with her in every scheme she should adopt for her own or her brother's advantage; and, after spending some hours with her, took my leave. i now regretted the ignorance in which i had hitherto remained respecting this lady. that she was, in an eminent degree, feminine and lovely, was easily discovered; but intellectual weakness had been rashly inferred from external frailty. she was accustomed to shrink from observation, and reserve was mistaken for timidity. i called on carlton only when numerous engagements would allow, and when, by some accident, his customary visits had been intermitted. on those occasions, my stay was short, and my attention chiefly confined to her brother. i now resolved to atone for my ancient negligence, not only by my own assiduities, but by those of my wife. on my return home, i found mervyn and my wife in earnest discourse. i anticipated the shock which the sensibility of the latter would receive from the tidings which i had to communicate respecting carlton. i was unwilling, and yet perceived the necessity of disclosing the truth. i desired to bring these women, as soon as possible, to the knowledge of each other, but the necessary prelude to this was an acquaintance with the disaster that had happened. scarcely had i entered the room, when mervyn turned to me, and said, with an air of anxiety and impatience, "pray, my friend, have you any knowledge of francis carlton?" the mention of this name by mervyn produced some surprise. i acknowledged my acquaintance with him. "do you know in what situation he now is?" in answer to this question, i stated by what singular means his situation had been made known to me, and the purpose from the accomplishment of which i had just returned. i inquired in my turn, "whence originated this question?" he had overheard the name of carlton in the prison. two persons were communing in a corner, and accident enabled him to catch this name, though uttered by them in a half whisper, and to discover that the person talked about had lately been conveyed thither. this name was not now heard for the first time. it was connected with remembrances that made him anxious for the fate of him to whom it belonged. in discourse with my wife, this name chanced to be again mentioned, and his curiosity was roused afresh. i was willing to communicate all that i knew, but mervyn's own destiny was too remarkable not to absorb all my attention, and i refused to discuss any other theme till that were fully explained. he postponed his own gratification to mine, and consented to relate the incidents that had happened from the moment of our separation till the present. chapter xxix. at parting with you, my purpose was to reach the abode of the hadwins as speedily as possible. i travelled therefore with diligence. setting out so early, i expected, though on foot, to reach the end of my journey before noon. the activity of muscles is no obstacle to thought. so far from being inconsistent with intense musing, it is, in my own case, propitious to that state of mind. probably no one had stronger motives for ardent meditation than i. my second journey to the city was prompted by reasons, and attended by incidents, that seemed to have a present existence. to think upon them was to view, more deliberately and thoroughly, objects and persons that still hovered in my sight. instead of their attributes being already seen, and their consequences at an end, it seemed as if a series of numerous years and unintermitted contemplation were requisite to comprehend them fully, and bring into existence their most momentous effects. if men be chiefly distinguished from each other by the modes in which attention is employed, either on external and sensible objects, or merely on abstract ideas and the creatures of reflection, i may justly claim to be enrolled in the second class. my existence is a series of thoughts rather than of motions. ratiocination and deduction leave my senses unemployed. the fulness of my fancy renders my eye vacant and inactive. sensations do not precede and suggest, but follow and are secondary to, the acts of my mind. there was one motive, however, which made me less inattentive to the scene that was continually shifting before and without me than i am wont to be. the loveliest form which i had hitherto seen was that of clemenza lodi. i recalled her condition as i had witnessed it, as welbeck had described, and as you had painted it. the past was without remedy; but the future was, in some degree, within our power to create and to fashion. her state was probably dangerous. she might already be forlorn, beset with temptation or with anguish; or danger might only be approaching her, and the worst evils be impending ones. i was ignorant of her state. could i not remove this ignorance? would not some benefit redound to her from beneficent and seasonable interposition? you had mentioned that her abode had lately been with mrs. villars, and that this lady still resided in the country. the residence had been sufficiently described, and i perceived that i was now approaching it. in a short time i spied its painted roof and five chimneys through an avenue of _catalpas_. when opposite the gate which led into this avenue, i paused. it seemed as if this moment were to decide upon the liberty and innocence of this being. in a moment i might place myself before her, ascertain her true condition, and point out to her the path of honour and safety. this opportunity might be the last. longer delay might render interposition fruitless. but how was i to interpose? i was a stranger to her language, and she was unacquainted with mine. to obtain access to her, it was necessary only to demand it. but how should i explain my views and state my wishes when an interview was gained? and what expedient was it in my power to propose? "now," said i, "i perceive the value of that wealth which i have been accustomed to despise. the power of eating and drinking, the nature and limits of existence and physical enjoyment, are not changed or enlarged by the increase of wealth. our corporeal and intellectual wants are supplied at little expense; but our own wants are the wants of others, and that which remains, after our own necessities are obviated, it is always easy and just to employ in relieving the necessities of others. "there are no superfluities in my store. it is not in my power to supply this unfortunate girl with decent raiment and honest bread. i have no house to which to conduct her. i have no means of securing her from famine and cold. "yet, though indigent and feeble, i am not destitute of friends and of home. cannot she be admitted to the same asylum to which i am now going?" this thought was sudden and new. the more it was revolved, the more plausible it seemed. this was not merely the sole expedient, but the best that could have been suggested. the hadwins were friendly, hospitable, unsuspicious. their board, though simple and uncouth, was wholesome and plenteous. their residence was sequestered and obscure, and not obnoxious to impertinent inquiries and malignant animadversion. their frank and ingenuous temper would make them easy of persuasion, and their sympathies were prompt and overflowing. "i am nearly certain," continued i, "that they will instantly afford protection to this desolate girl. why shall i not anticipate their consent, and present myself to their embraces and their welcomes in her company?" slight reflection showed me that this precipitation was improper. whether wallace had ever arrived at malverton, whether mr. hadwin had escaped infection, whether his house were the abode of security and quiet, or a scene of desolation, were questions yet to be determined. the obvious and best proceeding was to hasten forward, to afford the hadwins, if in distress, the feeble consolations of my friendship; or, if their state were happy, to procure their concurrence to my scheme respecting clemenza. actuated by these considerations, i resumed my journey. looking forward, i perceived a chaise and horse standing by the left-hand fence, at the distance of some hundred yards. this object was not uncommon or strange, and, therefore, it was scarcely noticed. when i came near, however, methought i recognised in this carriage the same in which my importunities had procured a seat for the languishing wallace, in the manner which i have formerly related. it was a crazy vehicle and old-fashioned. when once seen it could scarcely be mistaken or forgotten. the horse was held by his bridle to a post, but the seat was empty. my solicitude with regard to wallace's destiny, of which he to whom the carriage belonged might possibly afford me some knowledge, made me stop and reflect on what measures it was proper to pursue. the rider could not be at a great distance from this spot. his absence would probably be short. by lingering a few minutes an interview might be gained, and the uncertainty and suspense of some hours be thereby precluded. i therefore waited, and the same person whom i had formerly encountered made his appearance, in a short time, from under a copse that skirted the road. he recognised me with more difficulty than attended my recognition of him. the circumstances, however, of our first meeting were easily recalled to his remembrance. i eagerly inquired when and where he had parted with the youth who had been, on that occasion, intrusted to his care. he answered that, on leaving the city and inhaling the purer air of the fields and woods, wallace had been, in a wonderful degree, invigorated and refreshed. an instantaneous and total change appeared to have been wrought in him. he no longer languished with fatigue or fear, but became full of gayety and talk. the suddenness of this transition; the levity with which he related and commented on his recent dangers and evils, excited the astonishment of his companion, to whom he not only communicated the history of his disease, but imparted many anecdotes of a humorous kind. some of these my companion repeated. i heard them with regret and dissatisfaction. they betokened a mind vitiated by intercourse with the thoughtless and depraved of both sexes, and particularly with infamous and profligate women. my companion proceeded to mention that wallace's exhilaration lasted but for a short time, and disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. he was seized with deadly sickness, and insisted upon leaving the carriage, whose movements shocked his stomach and head to an insupportable degree. his companion was not void of apprehensions on his own account, but was unwilling to desert him, and endeavoured to encourage him. his efforts were vain. though the nearest house was at the distance of some hundred yards, and though it was probable that the inhabitants of this house would refuse to accommodate one in his condition, yet wallace could not be prevailed on to proceed; and, in spite of persuasion and remonstrance, left the carriage and threw himself on the grassy bank beside the road. this person was not unmindful of the hazard which he incurred by contact with a sick man. he conceived himself to have performed all that was consistent with duty to himself and to his family; and wallace, persisting in affirming that, by attempting to ride farther, he should merely hasten his death, was at length left to his own guidance. these were unexpected and mournful tidings. i had fondly imagined that his safety was put beyond the reach of untoward accidents. now, however, there was reason to suppose him to have perished by a lingering and painful disease, rendered fatal by the selfishness of mankind, by the want of seasonable remedies, and exposure to inclement airs. some uncertainty, however, rested on his fate. it was my duty to remove it, and to carry to the hadwins no mangled and defective tale. where, i asked, had wallace and his companion parted? it was about three miles farther onward. the spot, and the house within view from the spot, were accurately described. in this house it was possible that wallace had sought an asylum, and some intelligence respecting him might be gained from its inhabitants. my informant was journeying to the city, so that we were obliged to separate. in consequence of this man's description of wallace's deportment, and the proofs of a dissolute and thoughtless temper which he had given, i began to regard his death as an event less deplorable. such a one was unworthy of a being so devoutly pure, so ardent in fidelity and tenderness, as susan hadwin. if he loved, it was probable that, in defiance of his vows, he would seek a different companion. if he adhered to his first engagements, his motives would be sordid, and the disclosure of his latent defects might produce more exquisite misery to his wife than his premature death or treacherous desertion. the preservation of this man was my sole motive for entering the infected city, and subjecting my own life to the hazards from which my escape may almost be esteemed miraculous. was not the end disproportioned to the means? was there arrogance in believing my life a price too great to be given for his? i was not, indeed, sorry for the past. my purpose was just, and the means which i selected were the best my limited knowledge supplied. my happiness should be drawn from reflecting on the equity of my intentions. that these intentions were frustrated by the ignorance of others, or my own, was the consequence of human frailty. honest purposes, though they may not bestow happiness on others, will, at least, secure it to him who fosters them. by these reflections my regrets were dissipated, and i prepared to rejoice alike, whether wallace should be found to have escaped or to have perished. the house to which i had been directed was speedily brought into view. i inquired for the master or mistress of the mansion, and was conducted to a lady of a plain and housewifely appearance. my curiosity was fully gratified. wallace, whom my description easily identified, had made his appearance at her door on the evening of the day on which he left the city. the dread of _the fever_ was descanted on with copious and rude eloquence. i supposed her eloquence on this theme to be designed to apologize to me for her refusing entrance to the sick man. the peroration, however, was different. wallace was admitted, and suitable attention paid to his wants. happily, the guest had nothing to struggle with but extreme weakness. repose, nourishing diet, and salubrious airs restored him in a short time to health. he lingered under this roof for three weeks, and then, without any professions of gratitude, or offers of pecuniary remuneration, or information of the course which he determined to take, he left them. these facts, added to that which i had previously known, threw no advantageous light upon the character of wallace. it was obvious to conclude that he had gone to malverton, and thither there was nothing to hinder me from following him. perhaps one of my grossest defects is a precipitate temper. i choose my path suddenly, and pursue it with impetuous expedition. in the present instance, my resolution was conceived with unhesitating zeal, and i walked the faster that i might the sooner execute it. miss hadwin deserved to be happy. love was in her heart the all-absorbing sentiment. a disappointment there was a supreme calamity. depravity and folly must assume the guise of virtue before it can claim her affection. this disguise might be maintained for a time, but its detection must inevitably come, and the sooner this detection takes place the more beneficial it must prove. i resolved to unbosom myself, with equal and unbounded confidence, to wallace and his mistress. i would choose for this end, not the moment when they were separate, but that in which they were together. my knowledge, and the sources of my knowledge, relative to wallace, should be unfolded to the lady with simplicity and truth. the lover should be present, to confute, to extenuate, or to verify the charges. during the rest of the day these images occupied the chief place in my thoughts. the road was miry and dark, and my journey proved to be more tedious and fatiguing than i expected. at length, just as the evening closed, the well-known habitation appeared in view. since my departure, winter had visited the world, and the aspect of nature was desolate and dreary. all around this house was vacant, negligent, forlorn. the contrast between these appearances and those which i had noticed on my first approach to it, when the ground and the trees were decked with the luxuriance and vivacity of summer, was mournful, and seemed to foretoken ill. my spirits drooped as i noticed the general inactivity and silence. i entered, without warning, the door that led into the parlour. no face was to be seen or voice heard. the chimney was ornamented, as in summer, with evergreen shrubs. though it was now the second month of frost and snow, fire did not appear to have been lately kindled on this hearth. this was a circumstance from which nothing good could be deduced. had there been those to share its comforts who had shared them on former years, this was the place and hour at which they commonly assembled. a door on one side led, through a narrow entry, into the kitchen. i opened this door, and passed towards the kitchen. no one was there but an old man, squatted in the chimney-corner. his face, though wrinkled, denoted undecayed health and an unbending spirit. a homespun coat, leathern breeches wrinkled with age, and blue yarn hose, were well suited to his lean and shrivelled form. on his right knee was a wooden bowl, which he had just replenished from a pipkin of hasty pudding still smoking on the coals; and in his left hand a spoon, which he had, at that moment, plunged into a bottle of molasses that stood beside him. this action was suspended by my entrance. he looked up and exclaimed, "heyday! who's this that comes into other people's houses without so much as saying 'by your leave'? what's thee business? who's thee want?" i had never seen this personage before. i supposed it to be some new domestic, and inquired for mr. hadwin. "ah!" replied he, with a sigh, "william hadwin. is it him thee wants? poor man! he is gone to rest many days since." my heart sunk within me at these tidings. "dead!" said i; "do you mean that he is dead?"--this exclamation was uttered in a tone of some vehemence. it attracted the attention of some one who was standing without, who immediately entered the kitchen. it was eliza hadwin. the moment she beheld me she shrieked aloud, and, rushing into my arms, fainted away. the old man dropped his bowl; and, starting from his seat, stared alternately at me and at the breathless girl. my emotion, made up of joy, and sorrow, and surprise, rendered me for a moment powerless as she. at length he said, "i understand this. i know who thee is, and will tell her thee's come." so saying, he hastily left the room. chapter xxx. in a short time this gentle girl recovered her senses. she did not withdraw herself from my sustaining arm, but, leaning on my bosom, she resigned herself to passionate weeping. i did not endeavour to check this effusion, believing that its influence would be salutary. i had not forgotten the thrilling sensibility and artless graces of this girl. i had not forgotten the scruples which had formerly made me check a passion whose tendency was easily discovered. these new proofs of her affection were, at once, mournful and delightful. the untimely fate of her father and my friend pressed with new force upon my heart, and my tears, in spite of my fortitude, mingled with hers. the attention of both was presently attracted by a faint scream, which proceeded from above. immediately tottering footsteps were heard in the passage, and a figure rushed into the room, pale, emaciated, haggard, and wild. she cast a piercing glance at me, uttered a feeble exclamation, and sunk upon the floor without signs of life. it was not difficult to comprehend this scene. i now conjectured, what subsequent inquiry confirmed, that the old man had mistaken me for wallace, and had carried to the elder sister the news of his return. this fatal disappointment of hopes that had nearly been extinct, and which were now so powerfully revived, could not be endured by a frame verging to dissolution. this object recalled all the energies of eliza, and engrossed all my solicitude. i lifted the fallen girl in my arms; and, guided by her sister, carried her to her chamber. i had now leisure to contemplate the changes which a few months had made in this lovely frame. i turned away from the spectacle with anguish, but my wandering eyes were recalled by some potent fascination, and fixed in horror upon a form which evinced the last stage of decay. eliza knelt on one side, and, leaning her face upon the bed, endeavoured in vain to smother her sobs. i sat on the other motionless, and holding the passive and withered hand of the sufferer. i watched with ineffable solicitude the return of life. it returned at length, but merely to betray symptoms that it would speedily depart forever. for a time my faculties were palsied, and i was made an impotent spectator of the ruin that environed me. this pusillanimity quickly gave way to resolutions and reflections better suited to the exigencies of the time. the first impulse was to summon a physician; but it was evident that the patient had been sinking by slow degrees to this state, and that the last struggle had begun. nothing remained but to watch her while expiring, and perform for her, when dead, the rites of interment. the survivor was capable of consolation and of succour. i went to her and drew her gently into another apartment. the old man, tremulous and wonder-struck, seemed anxious to perform some service. i directed him to kindle a fire in eliza's chamber. meanwhile i persuaded my gentle friend to remain in this chamber, and resign to me the performance of every office which her sister's condition required. i sat beside the bed of the dying till the mortal struggle was past. i perceived that the house had no inhabitant besides the two females and the old man. i went in search of the latter, and found him crouched, as before, at the kitchen-fire, smoking his pipe. i placed myself on the same bench, and entered into conversation with him. i gathered from him that he had, for many years, been mr. hadwin's servant. that lately he had cultivated a small farm in this neighbourhood for his own advantage. stopping one day in october, at the tavern, he heard that his old master had lately been in the city, had caught _the fever_, and after his return had died with it. the moment he became sick, his servants fled from the house, and the neighbours refused to approach it. the task of attending his sick-bed was allotted to his daughters, and it was by their hands that his grave was dug and his body covered with earth. the same terror of infection existed after his death as before, and these hapless females were deserted by all mankind. old caleb was no sooner informed of these particulars, than he hurried to the house, and had since continued in their service. his heart was kind, but it was easily seen that his skill extended only to execute the directions of another. grief for the death of wallace and her father preyed upon the health of the eldest daughter. the younger became her nurse, and caleb was always at hand to execute any orders the performance of which was on a level with his understanding. their neighbours had not withheld their good offices, but they were still terrified and estranged by the phantoms of pestilence. during the last week susan had been too weak to rise from her bed; yet such was the energy communicated by the tidings that wallace was alive, and had returned, that she leaped upon her feet and rushed down-stairs. how little did that man deserve so strenuous and immortal an affection! i would not allow myself to ponder on the sufferings of these women. i endeavoured to think only of the best expedients for putting an end to these calamities. after a moment's deliberation i determined to go to a house at some miles' distance; the dwelling of one who, though not exempt from the reigning panic, had shown more generosity towards these unhappy girls than others. during my former abode in this district, i had ascertained his character, and found him to be compassionate and liberal. overpowered by fatigue and watching, eliza was no sooner relieved, by my presence, of some portion of her cares, than she sunk into profound slumber. i directed caleb to watch the house till my return, which should be before midnight, and then set out for the dwelling of mr. ellis. the weather was temperate and moist, and rendered the footing of the meadows extremely difficult. the ground, that had lately been frozen and covered with snow, was now changed into gullies and pools, and this was no time to be fastidious in the choice of paths. a brook, swelled by the recent _thaw_, was likewise to be passed. the rail which i had formerly placed over it by way of bridge had disappeared, and i was obliged to wade through it. at length i approached the house to which i was going. at so late an hour, farmers and farmers' servants are usually abed, and their threshold is intrusted to their watch-dogs. two belonged to mr. ellis, whose ferocity and vigilance were truly formidable to a stranger; but i hoped that in me they would recognise an old acquaintance, and suffer me to approach. in this i was not mistaken. though my person could not be distinctly seen by starlight, they seemed to scent me from afar, and met me with a thousand caresses. approaching the house, i perceived that its tenants were retired to their repose. this i expected, and hastened to awaken mr. ellis, by knocking briskly at the door. presently he looked out of a window above, and, in answer to his inquiries, in which impatience at being so unseasonably disturbed was mingled with anxiety, i told him my name, and entreated him to come down and allow me a few minutes' conversation. he speedily dressed himself, and, opening the kitchen door, we seated ourselves before the fire. my appearance was sufficiently adapted to excite his wonder; he had heard of my elopement from the house of mr. hadwin, he was a stranger to the motives that prompted my departure, and to the events that had befallen me, and no interview was more distant from his expectations than the present. his curiosity was written in his features, but this was no time to gratify his curiosity. the end that i now had in view was to procure accommodation for eliza hadwin in this man's house. for this purpose it was my duty to describe, with simplicity and truth, the inconveniences which at present surrounded her, and to relate all that had happened since my arrival. i perceived that my tale excited his compassion, and i continued with new zeal to paint to him the helplessness of this girl. the death of her father and sister left her the property of this farm. her sex and age disqualified her for superintending the harvest-field and the threshing-floor; and no expedient was left but to lease the land to another, and, taking up her abode in the family of some kinsman or friend, to subsist, as she might easily do, upon the rent. meanwhile her continuance in this house was equally useless and dangerous, and i insinuated to my companion the propriety of immediately removing her to his own. some hesitation and reluctance appeared in him, which i immediately ascribed to an absurd dread of infection. i endeavoured, by appealing to his reason as well as to his pity, to conquer this dread. i pointed out the true cause of the death of the elder daughter, and assured him the youngest knew no indisposition but that which arose from distress. i offered to save him from any hazard that might attend his approaching the house, by accompanying her hither myself. all that her safety required was that his doors should not be shut against her when she presented herself before them. still he was fearful and reluctant; and, at length, mentioned that her uncle resided not more than sixteen miles farther; that he was her natural protector, and, he dared to say, would find no difficulty in admitting her into his house. for his part, there might be reason in what i said, but he could not bring himself to think but that there was still some danger of _the fever_. it was right to assist people in distress, to-be-sure; but to risk his own life he did not think to be his duty. he was no relation of the family, and it was the duty of relations to help each other. her uncle was the proper person to assist her, and no doubt he would be as willing as able. the marks of dubiousness and indecision which accompanied these words encouraged me in endeavouring to subdue his scruples. the increase of his aversion to my scheme kept pace with my remonstrances, and he finally declared that he would, on no account, consent to it. ellis was by no means hard of heart. his determination did not prove the coldness of his charity, but merely the strength of his fears. he was himself an object more of compassion than of anger; and he acted like the man whose fear of death prompts him to push his companion from the plank which saved him from drowning, but which is unable to sustain both. finding him invincible to my entreaties, i thought upon the expedient which he suggested of seeking the protection of her uncle. it was true that the loss of parents had rendered her uncle her legal protector. his knowledge of the world; his house and property and influence, would, perhaps, fit him for this office in a more eminent degree than i was fitted. to seek a different asylum might, indeed, be unjust to both; and, after some reflection, i not only dismissed the regret which ellis's refusal had given me, but even thanked him for the intelligence and counsel which he had afforded me. i took leave of him, and hastened back to hadwin's. eliza, by caleb's report, was still asleep. there was no urgent necessity for awakening her; but something was forthwith to be done with regard to the unhappy girl that was dead. the proceeding incumbent on us was obvious. all that remained was to dig a grave, and to deposit the remains with as much solemnity and decency as the time would permit. there were two methods of doing this. i might wait till the next day; till a coffin could be made and conveyed hither; till the woman, whose trade it was to make and put on the habiliments assigned by custom to the dead, could be sought out and hired to attend; till kindred, friends, and neighbours could be summoned to the obsequies; till a carriage were provided to remove the body to a burying-ground, belonging to a meeting-house, and five miles distant; till those whose trade it was to dig graves had prepared one, within the sacred enclosure, for her reception; or, neglecting this toilsome, tedious, and expensive ceremonial, i might seek the grave of hadwin, and lay the daughter by the side of her parent. perhaps i was strong in my preference of the latter mode. the customs of burial may, in most cases, be in themselves proper. if the customs be absurd, yet it may be generally proper to adhere to them; but doubtless there are cases in which it is our duty to omit them. i conceived the present case to be such a one. the season was bleak and inclement. much time, labour, and expense would be required to go through the customary rites. there was none but myself to perform these, and i had not the suitable means. the misery of eliza would only be prolonged by adhering to these forms, and her fortune be needlessly diminished by the expenses unavoidably to be incurred. after musing upon these ideas for some time, i rose from my seat, and desired caleb to follow me. we proceeded to an outer shed where farmers' tools used to be kept. i supplied him and myself with a spade, and requested him to lead me to the spot where mr. hadwin was laid. he betrayed some hesitation to comply, and appeared struck with some degree of alarm, as if my purpose had been to molest, instead of securing, the repose of the dead. i removed his doubts by explaining my intentions; but he was scarcely less shocked, on discovering the truth, than he had been alarmed by his first suspicions. he stammered out his objections to my scheme. there was but one mode of burial, he thought, that was decent and proper, and he could not be free to assist me in pursuing any other mode. perhaps caleb's aversion to the scheme might have been easily overcome; but i reflected that a mind like his was at once flexible and obstinate. he might yield to arguments and entreaties, and act by their immediate impulse; but the impulse passed away in a moment, old and habitual convictions were resumed, and his deviation from the beaten track would be merely productive of compunction. his aid, on the present occasion, though of some use, was by no means indispensable. i forbore to solicit his concurrence, or even to vanquish the scruples he entertained against directing me to the grave of hadwin. it was a groundless superstition that made one spot more suitable for this purpose than another. i desired caleb, in a mild tone, to return to the kitchen, and leave me to act as i thought proper. i then proceeded to the orchard. one corner of this field was somewhat above the level of the rest. the tallest tree of the group grew there, and there i had formerly placed a bench, and made it my retreat at periods of leisure. it had been recommended by its sequestered situation, its luxuriant verdure, and profound quiet. on one side was a potato-field, on the other a _melon-patch_; and before me, in rows, some hundreds of apple-trees. here i was accustomed to seek the benefits of contemplation and study the manuscripts of lodi. a few months had passed since i had last visited this spot. what revolutions had since occurred, and how gloomily contrasted was my present purpose with what had formerly led me hither! in this spot i had hastily determined to dig the grave of susan. the grave was dug. all that i desired was a cavity of sufficient dimensions to receive her. this being made, i returned to the house, lifted the corpse in my arms, and bore it without delay to the spot. caleb, seated in the kitchen, and eliza, asleep in her chamber, were wholly unapprized of my motions. the grave was covered, the spade reposited under the shed, and my seat by the kitchen-fire resumed in a time apparently too short for so solemn and momentous a transaction. i look back upon this incident with emotions not easily described. it seems as if i acted with too much precipitation; as if insensibility, and not reason, had occasioned that clearness of conceptions, and bestowed that firmness of muscles, which i then experienced. i neither trembled nor wavered in my purpose. i bore in my arms the being whom i had known and loved, through the whistling gale and intense darkness of a winter's night; i heaped earth upon her limbs, and covered them from human observation, without fluctuations or tremors, though not without feelings that were awful and sublime. perhaps some part of my steadfastness was owing to my late experience, and some minds may be more easily inured to perilous emergencies than others. if reason acquires strength only by the diminution of sensibility, perhaps it is just for sensibility to be diminished. chapter xxxi. the safety of eliza was the object that now occupied my cares. to have slept, after her example, had been most proper; but my uncertainty with regard to her fate, and my desire to conduct her to some other home, kept my thoughts in perpetual motion. i waited with impatience till she should awake and allow me to consult with her on plans for futurity. her sleep terminated not till the next day had arisen. having recovered the remembrance of what had lately happened, she inquired for her sister. she wanted to view once more the face and kiss the lips of her beloved susan. some relief to her anguish she expected to derive from this privilege. when informed of the truth, when convinced that susan had disappeared forever, she broke forth into fresh passion. it seemed as if her loss was not hopeless or complete as long as she was suffered to behold the face of her friend and to touch her lips. she accused me of acting without warrant and without justice; of defrauding her of her dearest and only consolation; and of treating her sister's sacred remains with barbarous indifference and rudeness. i explained in the gentlest terms the reasons of my conduct. i was not surprised or vexed that she, at first, treated them as futile, and as heightening my offence. such was the impulse of a grief which was properly excited by her loss. to be tranquil and steadfast, in the midst of the usual causes of impetuosity and agony, is either the prerogative of wisdom that sublimes itself above all selfish considerations, or the badge of giddy and unfeeling folly. the torrent was at length exhausted. upbraiding was at an end; and gratitude, and tenderness, and implicit acquiescence in any scheme which my prudence should suggest, succeeded. i mentioned her uncle as one to whom it would be proper, in her present distress, to apply. she started and betrayed uneasiness at this name. it was evident that she by no means concurred with me in my notions of propriety; that she thought with aversion of seeking her uncle's protection. i requested her to state her objections to this scheme, or to mention any other which she thought preferable. she knew nobody. she had not a friend in the world but myself. she had never been out of her father's house. she had no relation but her uncle philip, and he--she could not live with him. i must not insist upon her going to his house. it was not the place for her. she should never be happy there. i was, at first, inclined to suspect in my friend some capricious and groundless antipathy. i desired her to explain what in her uncle's character made him so obnoxious. she refused to be more explicit, and persisted in thinking that his house was no suitable abode for her. finding her, in this respect, invincible, i sought for some other expedient. might she not easily be accommodated as a boarder in the city, or some village, or in a remote quarter of the country? ellis, her nearest and most opulent neighbour, had refused to receive her; but there were others who had not his fears. there were others, within the compass of a day's journey, who were strangers to the cause of hadwin's death; but would it not be culpable to take advantage of that ignorance? their compliance ought not to be the result of deception. while thus engaged, the incidents of my late journey recurred to my remembrance, and i asked, "is not the honest woman, who entertained wallace, just such a person as that of whom i am in search? her treatment of wallace shows her to be exempt from chimerical fears, proves that she has room in her house for an occasional inmate." encouraged by these views, i told my weeping companion that i had recollected a family in which she would be kindly treated; and that, if she chose, we would not lose a moment in repairing thither. horses, belonging to the farm, grazed in the meadows, and a couple of these would carry us in a few hours to the place which i had selected for her residence. on her eagerly assenting to this proposal, i inquired in whose care, and in what state, our present habitation should be left. the father's property now belonged to the daughter. eliza's mind was quick, active, and sagacious; but her total inexperience gave her sometimes the appearance of folly. she was eager to fly from this house, and to resign herself and her property, without limitation or condition, to my control. our intercourse had been short, but she relied on my protection and counsel as absolutely as she had been accustomed to do upon her father's. she knew not what answer to make to my inquiry. whatever i pleased to do was the best. what did i think ought to be done? "ah!" thought i, "sweet, artless, and simple girl! how wouldst thou have fared, if heaven had not sent me to thy succour? there are beings in the world who would make a selfish use of thy confidence; who would beguile thee at once of innocence and property. such am not i. thy welfare is a precious deposit, and no father or brother could watch over it with more solicitude than i will do." i was aware that mr. hadwin might have fixed the destination of his property, and the guardianship of his daughters, by will. on suggesting this to my friend, it instantly reminded her of an incident that took place after his last return from the city. he had drawn up his will, and gave it into susan's possession, who placed it in a drawer, whence it was now taken by my friend. by this will his property was now found to be bequeathed to his two daughters; and his brother, philip hadwin, was named executor, and guardian to his daughters till they should be twenty years old. this name was no sooner heard by my friend, than she exclaimed, in a tone of affright, "executor! my uncle! what is that? what power does that give him?" "i know not exactly the power of executors. he will, doubtless, have possession of your property till you are twenty years of age. your person will likewise be under his care till that time." "must he decide where i am to live?" "he is vested with all the power of a father." this assurance excited the deepest consternation. she fixed her eyes on the ground, and was lost, for a time, in the deepest reverie. recovering, at length, she said, with a sigh, "what if my father had made no will?" "in that case, a guardian could not be dispensed with, but the right of naming him would belong to yourself." "and my uncle would have nothing to do with my affairs?" "i am no lawyer," said i; "but i presume all authority over your person and property would devolve upon the guardian of your own choice." "then i am free." saying this, with a sudden motion, she tore in several pieces the will, which, during this dialogue, she had held in her hand, and threw the fragments into the fire. no action was more unexpected to me than this. my astonishment hindered me from attempting to rescue the paper from the flames. it was consumed in a moment. i was at a loss in what manner to regard this sacrifice. it denoted a force of mind little in unison with that simplicity and helplessness which this girl had hitherto displayed. it argued the deepest apprehensions of mistreatment from her uncle. whether his conduct had justified this violent antipathy, i had no means of judging. mr. hadwin's choice of him, as his executor, was certainly one proof of his integrity. my abstraction was noticed by eliza with visible anxiety. it was plain that she dreaded the impression which this act of seeming temerity had made upon me. "do not be angry with me," said she; "perhaps i have been wrong, but i could not help it. i will have but one guardian and one protector." the deed was irrevocable. in my present ignorance of the domestic history of the hadwins, i was unqualified to judge how far circumstances might extenuate or justify the act. on both accounts, therefore, it was improper to expatiate upon it. it was concluded to leave the care of the house to honest caleb; to fasten closets and drawers, and, carrying away the money which was found in one of them, and which amounted to no inconsiderable sum, to repair to the house formerly mentioned. the air was cold; a heavy snow began to fall in the night; the wind blew tempestuously; and we were compelled to confront it. in leaving her dwelling, in which she had spent her whole life, the unhappy girl gave way afresh to her sorrow. it made her feeble and helpless. when placed upon the horse, she was scarcely able to maintain her seat. already chilled by the cold, blinded by the drifting snow, and cut by the blast, all my remonstrances were needed to inspire her with resolution. i am not accustomed to regard the elements, or suffer them to retard or divert me from any design that i have formed. i had overlooked the weak and delicate frame of my companion, and made no account of her being less able to support cold and fatigue than myself. it was not till we had made some progress in our way, that i began to view, in their true light, the obstacles that were to be encountered. i conceived it, however, too late to retreat, and endeavoured to push on with speed. my companion was a skilful rider, but her steed was refractory and unmanageable. she was able, however, to curb his spirit till we had proceeded ten or twelve miles from malverton. the wind and the cold became too violent to be longer endured, and i resolved to stop at the first house which should present itself to my view, for the sake of refreshment and warmth. we now entered a wood of some extent, at the termination of which i remembered that a dwelling stood. to pass this wood, therefore, with expedition, was all that remained before we could reach a hospitable asylum. i endeavoured to sustain, by this information, the sinking spirits of my companion. while busy in conversing with her, a blast of irresistible force twisted off the highest branch of a tree before us. it fell in the midst of the road, at the distance of a few feet from her horse's head. terrified by this accident, the horse started from the path, and, rushing into the wood, in a moment threw himself and his rider on the ground, by encountering the rugged stock of an oak. i dismounted and flew to her succour. the snow was already dyed with the blood which flowed from some wound in her head, and she lay without sense or motion. my terrors did not hinder me from anxiously searching for the hurt which was received, and ascertaining the extent of the injury. her forehead was considerably bruised; but, to my unspeakable joy, the blood flowed from the nostrils, and was, therefore, to be regarded as no mortal symptom. i lifted her in my arms, and looked around me for some means of relief. the house at which i proposed to stop was upwards of a mile distant. i remembered none that was nearer. to place the wounded girl on my own horse, and proceed gently to the house in question, was the sole expedient; but, at present, she was senseless, and might, on recovering, be too feeble to sustain her own weight. to recall her to life was my first duty; but i was powerless, or unacquainted with the means. i gazed upon her features, and endeavoured, by pressing her in my arms, to inspire her with some warmth. i looked towards the road, and listened for the wished-for sound of some carriage that might be prevailed on to stop and receive her. nothing was more improbable than that either pleasure or business would induce men to encounter so chilling and vehement a blast. to be lighted on by some traveller was, therefore, a hopeless event. meanwhile, eliza's swoon continued, and my alarm increased. what effect her half-frozen blood would have in prolonging this condition, or preventing her return to life, awakened the deepest apprehensions. i left the wood, still bearing her in my arms, and re-entered the road, from the desire of descrying, as soon as possible, the coming passenger. i looked this way and that, and again listened. nothing but the sweeping blast, rent and fallen branches, and snow that filled and obscured the air, were perceivable. each moment retarded the course of my own blood and stiffened my sinews, and made the state of my companion more desperate. how was i to act? to perish myself, or see her perish, was an ignoble fate; courage and activity were still able to avert it. my horse stood near, docile and obsequious; to mount him and to proceed on my way, holding my lifeless burden in my arms, was all that remained. at this moment my attention was called by several voices issuing from the wood. it was the note of gayety and glee. presently a sleigh, with several persons of both sexes, appeared, in a road which led through the forest into that in which i stood. they moved at a quick pace, but their voices were hushed, and they checked the speed of their horses, on discovering us. no occurrence was more auspicious than this; for i relied with perfect confidence on the benevolence of these persons, and, as soon as they came near, claimed their assistance. my story was listened to with sympathy, and one of the young men, leaping from the sleigh, assisted me in placing eliza in the place which he had left. a female, of sweet aspect and engaging manners, insisted upon turning back and hastening to the house, where it seems her father resided, and which the party had just left. i rode after the sleigh, which in a few minutes arrived at the house. the dwelling was spacious and neat, and a venerable man and woman, alarmed by the quick return of the young people, came forth to know the cause. they received their guest with the utmost tenderness, and provided her with all the accommodations which her condition required. their daughter relinquished the scheme of pleasure in which she had been engaged, and, compelling her companions to depart without her, remained to nurse and console the sick. a little time showed that no lasting injury had been suffered. contusions, more troublesome than dangerous, and easily curable by such applications as rural and traditional wisdom has discovered, were the only consequences of the fall. my mind, being relieved from apprehensions on this score, had leisure to reflect upon the use which might be made of the present state of things. when i remarked the structure of this house, and the features and deportment of its inhabitants, methought i discerned a powerful resemblance between this family and hadwin's. it seemed as if some benignant power had led us hither as to the most suitable asylum that could be obtained; and, in order to supply to the forlorn eliza the place of those parents and that sister she had lost, i conceived that, if their concurrence could be gained, no abode was more suitable than this. no time was to be lost in gaining this concurrence. the curiosity of our host and hostess, whose name was curling, speedily afforded me an opportunity to disclose the history and real situation of my friend. there were no motives to reserve or prevarication. there was nothing which i did not faithfully and circumstantially relate. i concluded with stating my wishes that they would admit my friend as a boarder into their house. the old man was warm in his concurrence. his wife betrayed some scruples; which, however, her husband's arguments and mine removed. i did not even suppress the tenor and destruction of the will, and the antipathy which eliza had conceived for her uncle, and which i declared myself unable to explain. it presently appeared that mr. curling had some knowledge of philip hadwin, and that the latter had acquired the repute of being obdurate and profligate. he employed all means to accomplish his selfish ends, and would probably endeavour to usurp the property which his brother had left. to provide against his power and his malice would be particularly incumbent on us, and my new friend readily promised his assistance in the measures which we should take to that end. chapter xxxii. the state of my feelings may be easily conceived to consist of mixed, but, on the whole, of agreeable, sensations. the death of hadwin and his elder daughter could not be thought upon without keen regrets. these it was useless to indulge, and were outweighed by reflections on the personal security in which the survivor was now placed. it was hurtful to expend my unprofitable cares upon the dead, while there existed one to whom they could be of essential benefit, and in whose happiness they would find an ample compensation. this happiness, however, was still incomplete. it was still exposed to hazard, and much remained to be done before adequate provision was made against the worst of evils, poverty. i now found that eliza, being only fifteen years old, stood in need of a guardian, and that the forms of law required that some one should make himself her father's administrator. mr. curling, being tolerably conversant with these subjects, pointed out the mode to be pursued, and engaged to act on this occasion as eliza's friend. there was another topic on which my happiness, as well as that of my friend, required us to form some decision. i formerly mentioned, that, during my abode at malverton, i had not been insensible to the attractions of this girl. an affection had stolen upon me, for which it was easily discovered that i should not have been denied a suitable return. my reasons for stifling these emotions, at that time, have been mentioned. it may now be asked, what effect subsequent events had produced on my feelings, and how far partaking and relieving her distresses had revived a passion which may readily be supposed to have been, at no time, entirely extinguished. the impediments which then existed were removed. our union would no longer risk the resentment or sorrow of her excellent parent. she had no longer a sister to divide with her the property of the farm, and make what was sufficient for both, when living together, too little for either separately. her youth and simplicity required, beyond most others, a legal protector, and her happiness was involved in the success of those hopes which she took no pains to conceal. as to me, it seemed at first view as if every incident conspired to determine my choice. omitting all regard to the happiness of others, my own interest could not fail to recommend a scheme by which the precious benefits of competence and independence might be honestly obtained. the excursions of my fancy had sometimes carried me beyond the bounds prescribed by my situation, but they were, nevertheless, limited to that field to which i had once some prospect of acquiring a title. all i wanted for the basis of my gaudiest and most dazzling structures was a hundred acres of plough-land and meadow. here my spirit of improvement, my zeal to invent and apply new maxims of household luxury and convenience, new modes and instruments of tillage, new arts connected with orchard, garden, and cornfield, were supplied with abundant scope. though the want of these would not benumb my activity, or take away content, the possession would confer exquisite and permanent enjoyments. my thoughts have ever hovered over the images of wife and children with more delight than over any other images. my fancy was always active on this theme, and its reveries sufficiently ecstatic and glowing; but, since my intercourse with this girl, my scattered visions were collected and concentrated. i had now a form and features before me; a sweet and melodious voice vibrated in my ear; my soul was filled, as it were, with her lineaments and gestures, actions and looks. all ideas, possessing any relation to beauty or sex, appeared to assume this shape. they kept an immovable place in my mind, they diffused around them an ineffable complacency. love is merely of value as a prelude to a more tender, intimate, and sacred union. was i not in love? and did i not pant after the irrevocable bounds, the boundless privileges, of wedlock? the question which others might ask, i have asked myself:--was i not in love? i am really at a loss for an answer. there seemed to be irresistible weight in the reasons why i should refuse to marry, and even forbear to foster love in my friend. i considered my youth, my defective education, and my limited views. i had passed from my cottage into the world. i had acquired, even in my transient sojourn among the busy haunts of men, more knowledge than the lucubrations and employments of all my previous years had conferred. hence i might infer the childlike immaturity of my understanding, and the rapid progress i was still capable of making. was this an age to form an irrevocable contract; to choose the companion of my future life, the associate of my schemes of intellectual and benevolent activity? i had reason to contemn my own acquisitions; but were not those of eliza still more slender? could i rely upon the permanence of her equanimity and her docility to my instructions? what qualities might not time unfold, and how little was i qualified to estimate the character of one whom no vicissitude or hardship had approached before the death of her father,--whose ignorance was, indeed, great, when it could justly be said even to exceed my own! should i mix with the world, enroll myself in different classes of society, be a witness to new scenes; might not my modes of judging undergo essential variations? might i not gain the knowledge of beings whose virtue was the gift of experience and the growth of knowledge? who joined to the modesty and charms of woman the benefits of education, the maturity and steadfastness of age, and with whose character and sentiments my own would be much more congenial than they could possibly be with the extreme youth, rustic simplicity, and mental imperfections of eliza hadwin? to say truth, i was now conscious of a revolution in my mind. i can scarcely assign its true cause. no tokens of it appeared during my late retreat to malverton. subsequent incidents, perhaps, joined with the influence of meditation, had generated new views. on my first visit to the city, i had met with nothing but scenes of folly, depravity, and cunning. no wonder that the images connected with the city were disastrous and gloomy; but my second visit produced somewhat different impressions. maravegli, estwick, medlicote, and you, were beings who inspired veneration and love. your residence appeared to beautify and consecrate this spot, and gave birth to an opinion that, if cities are the chosen seats of misery and vice, they are likewise the soil of all the laudable and strenuous productions of mind. my curiosity and thirst of knowledge had likewise received a new direction. books and inanimate nature were cold and lifeless instructors. men, and the works of men, were the objects of rational study, and our own eyes only could communicate just conceptions of human performances. the influence of manners, professions, and social institutions, could be thoroughly known only by direct inspection. competence, fixed property and a settled abode, rural occupations and conjugal pleasures, were justly to be prized; but their value could be known and their benefits fully enjoyed only by those who have tried all scenes; who have mixed with all classes and ranks; who have partaken of all conditions; and who have visited different hemispheres and climates and nations. the next five or eight years of my life should be devoted to activity and change; it should be a period of hardship, danger, and privation; it should be my apprenticeship to fortitude and wisdom, and be employed to fit me for the tranquil pleasures and steadfast exertions of the remainder of my life. in consequence of these reflections, i determined to suppress that tenderness which the company of miss hadwin produced, to remove any mistakes into which she had fallen, and to put it out of my power to claim for her more than the dues of friendship. all ambiguities, in a case like this, and all delays, were hurtful. she was not exempt from passion, but this passion, i thought, was young, and easily extinguished. in a short time her health was restored, and her grief melted down into a tender melancholy. i chose a suitable moment, when not embarrassed by the presence of others, to reveal my thoughts. my disclosure was ingenuous and perfect. i laid before her the whole train of my thoughts, nearly in the order, though in different and more copious terms than those, in which i have just explained them to you. i concealed nothing. the impression which her artless loveliness had made upon me at malverton; my motives for estranging myself from her society; the nature of my present feelings with regard to her, and my belief of the state of her heart; the reasonings into which i had entered; the advantages of wedlock and its inconveniences; and, finally, the resolution i had formed of seeking the city, and, perhaps, of crossing the ocean, were minutely detailed. she interrupted me not, but changing looks, blushes, flutterings, and sighs, showed her to be deeply and variously affected by my discourse. i paused for some observation or comment. she seemed conscious of my expectation, but had no power to speak. overpowered, at length, by her emotions, she burst into tears. i was at a loss in what manner to construe these symptoms. i waited till her vehemence was somewhat subsided, and then said, "what think you of my schemes? your approbation is of some moment: do you approve of them or not?" this question excited some little resentment, and she answered, "you have left me nothing to say. go, and be happy; no matter what becomes of me. i hope i shall be able to take care of myself." the tone in which this was said had something in it of upbraiding. "your happiness," said i, "is too dear to me to leave it in danger. in this house you will not need my protection, but i shall never be so far from you as to be disabled from hearing how you fare, by letter, and of being active for your good. you have some money, which you must husband well. any rent from your farm cannot be soon expected; but what you have got, if you remain with mr. curling, will pay your board and all other expenses for two years; but you must be a good economist. i shall expect," continued i, with a serious smile, "a punctual account of all your sayings and doings. i must know how every minute is employed and every penny is expended, and, if i find you erring, i must tell you so in good round terms." these words did not dissipate the sullenness which her looks had betrayed. she still forbore to look at me, and said, "i do not know how i should tell you every thing. you care so little about me that--i should only be troublesome. i am old enough to think and act for myself, and shall advise with nobody but myself." "that is true," said i. "i shall rejoice to see you independent and free. consult your own understanding, and act according to its dictates. nothing more is wanting to make you useful and happy. i am anxious to return to the city, but, if you will allow me, will go first to malverton, see that things are in due order, and that old caleb is well. from thence, if you please, i will call at your uncle's, and tell him what has happened. he may, otherwise, entertain pretensions and form views erroneous in themselves and injurious to you. he may think himself entitled to manage your estate. he may either suppose a will to have been made, or may actually have heard from your father, or from others, of that which you burnt, and in which he was named executor. his boisterous and sordid temper may prompt him to seize your house and goods, unless seasonably apprized of the truth; and, when he knows the truth, he may start into rage, which i shall be more fitted to encounter than you. i am told that anger transforms him into a ferocious madman. shall i call upon him?" she shuddered at the picture which i had drawn of her uncle's character; but this emotion quickly gave place to self-upbraiding for the manner in which she had repelled my proffers of service. she melted once more into tears, and exclaimed,-"i am not worthy of the pains you take for me. i am unfeeling and ungrateful. why should i think ill of you for despising me, when i despise myself?" "you do yourself injustice, my friend. i think i see your most secret thoughts; and these, instead of exciting anger or contempt, only awaken compassion and tenderness. you love; and must, therefore, conceive my conduct to be perverse and cruel. i counted on your harbouring such thoughts. time only and reflection will enable you to see my motives in their true light. hereafter you will recollect my words, and find them sufficient to justify my conduct. you will acknowledge the propriety of my engaging in the cares of the world before i sit down in retirement and ease." "ah! how much you mistake me! i admire and approve of your schemes. what angers and distresses me is, that you think me unworthy to partake of your cares and labours; that you regard my company as an obstacle and encumbrance; that assistance and counsel must all proceed from you; and that no scene is fit for me, but what you regard as slothful and inglorious. "have i not the same claims to be wise, and active, and courageous, as you? if i am ignorant and weak, do i not owe it to the same cause that has made you so? and will not the same means which promote your improvement be likewise useful to me? you desire to obtain knowledge, by travelling and conversing with many persons, and studying many sciences; but you desire it for yourself alone. me you think poor, weak, and contemptible; fit for nothing but to spin and churn. provided i exist, am screened from the weather, have enough to eat and drink, you are satisfied. as to strengthening my mind and enlarging my knowledge, these things are valuable to you, but on me they are thrown away. i deserve not the gift." this strain, simple and just as it was, was wholly unexpected. i was surprised and disconcerted. in my previous reasonings i had certainly considered her sex as utterly unfitting her for those scenes and pursuits to which i had destined myself. not a doubt of the validity of my conclusion had insinuated itself; but now my belief was shaken, though it was not subverted. i could not deny that human ignorance was curable by the same means in one sex as in the other; that fortitude and skill were of no less value to one than to the other. questionless, my friend was rendered, by her age and inexperience, if not by sex, more helpless and dependent than i; but had i not been prone to overrate the difficulties which i should encounter? had i not deemed unjustly of her constancy and force of mind? marriage would render her property joint, and would not compel me to take up my abode in the woods, to abide forever in one spot, to shackle my curiosity, or limit my excursions. but marriage was a contract awful and irrevocable. was this the woman with whom my reason enjoined me to blend my fate, without the power of dissolution? would not time unfold qualities in her which i did not at present suspect, and which would evince an incurable difference in our minds? would not time lead me to the feet of one who more nearly approached that standard of ideal excellence which poets and romancers had exhibited to my view? these considerations were powerful and delicate. i knew not in what terms to state them to my companion, so as to preclude the imputation of arrogance or indecorum. it became me, however, to be explicit, and to excite her resentment rather than mislead her judgment. she collected my meaning from a few words, and, interrupting me, said,-"how very low is the poor eliza in your opinion! we are, indeed, both too young to be married. may i not see you, and talk with you, without being your wife? may i not share your knowledge, relieve your cares, and enjoy your confidence, as a sister might do? may i not accompany you in your journeys and studies, as one friend accompanies another? my property may be yours; you may employ it for your benefit and mine; not because you are my husband, but my friend. you are going to the city. let me go along with you. let me live where you live. the house that is large enough to hold you will hold me. the fare that is good enough for you will be luxury to me. oh! let it be so, will you? "you cannot think how studious, how thoughtful, how inquisitive, i will be. how tenderly i will nurse you when sick! it is possible you may be sick, you know, and, no one in the world will be half so watchful and affectionate as i shall be. will you let me?" in saying this, her earnestness gave new pathos to her voice. insensibly she put her face close to mine, and, transported beyond the usual bounds of reserve by the charms of that picture which her fancy contemplated, she put her lips to my cheek, and repeated, in a melting accent, "will you let me?" you, my friends, who have not seen eliza hadwin, cannot conceive what effect this entreaty was adapted to produce in me. she has surely the sweetest voice, the most speaking features, and most delicate symmetry, that ever woman possessed. her guileless simplicity and tenderness made her more enchanting. to be the object of devotion to a heart so fervent and pure was, surely, no common privilege. thus did she tender me herself; and was not the gift to be received with eagerness and gratitude? no. i was not so much a stranger to mankind as to acquiesce in this scheme. as my sister or my wife, the world would suffer us to reside under the same roof; to apply to common use the same property; and daily to enjoy the company of each other; but she was not my sister, and marriage would be an act of the grossest indiscretion. i explained to her, in few words, the objections to which her project was liable. "well, then," said she, "let me live in the next house, in the neighbourhood, or, at least, in the same city. let me be where i may see you once a day, or once a week, or once a month. shut me not wholly from your society, and the means of becoming, in time, less ignorant and foolish than i now am." after a pause, i replied, "i love you too well not to comply with this request. perhaps the city will be as suitable a residence as any other for you, as it will, for some time, be most convenient to me. i shall be better able to watch over your welfare, and supply you with the means of improvement, when you are within a small distance. at present, you must consent to remain here, while i visit your uncle, and afterwards go to the city. i shall look out for you a suitable lodging, and inform you when it is found. if you then continue in the same mind, i will come, and, having gained the approbation of mr. curling, will conduct you to town." here ended our dialogue. chapter xxxiii. though i had consented to this scheme, i was conscious that some hazards attended it. i was afraid of calumny, which might trouble the peace or destroy the reputation of my friend. i was afraid of my own weakness, which might be seduced into an indiscreet marriage by the charms or sufferings of this bewitching creature. i felt that there was no price too dear to save her from slander. a fair fame is of the highest importance to a young female, and the loss of it but poorly supplied by the testimony of her own conscience. i had reason for tenfold solicitude on this account, since i was her only protector and friend. hence, i cherished some hopes that time might change her views, and suggest less dangerous schemes. meanwhile, i was to lose no time in visiting malverton and philip hadwin. about ten days had elapsed since we had deserted malverton. these were days of successive storms, and travelling had been rendered inconvenient. the weather was now calm and clear, and, early in the morning that ensued the dialogue which i have just related, i set out on horseback. honest caleb was found eating his breakfast nearly in the spot where he had been first discovered. he answered my inquiries by saying, that, two days after our departure, several men had come to the house, one of whom was philip hadwin. they had interrogated him as to the condition of the farm, and the purpose of his remaining on it. william hadwin they knew to have been some time dead; but where were the girls, his daughters? caleb answered that susy, the eldest, was likewise dead. these tidings excited astonishment. when died she, and how, and where was she buried? it happened two days before, and she was buried, he believed, but could not tell where. not tell where? by whom, then, was she buried? really, he could not tell. some strange man came there just as she was dying. he went to the room, and, when she was dead, took her away, but what he did with the body was more than he could say, but he had a notion that he buried it. the man stayed till the morning, and then went off with lizzy, leaving him to keep house by himself. he had not seen either of them, nor, indeed, a single soul since. this was all the information that caleb could afford the visitants. it was so lame and incredible that they began to charge the man with falsehood, and to threaten him with legal animadversion. just then mr. ellis entered the house, and, being made acquainted with the subject of discourse, told all that he himself knew. he related the midnight visit which i had paid him, explained my former situation in the family, and my disappearance in september. he stated the advice he had given me to carry eliza to her uncle's, and my promise to comply with his counsel. the uncle declared he had seen nothing of his niece, and caleb added, that, when she set out, she took the road that led to town. these hints afforded grounds for much conjecture and suspicion. ellis now mentioned some intelligence that he had gathered respecting me in a late journey to ----. it seems i was the son of an honest farmer in that quarter, who married a tidy girl of a milkmaid that lived with him. my father had detected me in making some atrocious advances to my mother-in-law, and had turned me out of doors. i did not go off, however, without rifling his drawer of some hundreds of dollars, which he had laid up against a rainy day. i was noted for such pranks, and was hated by all the neighbours for my pride and laziness. it was easy, by comparison of circumstances, for ellis to ascertain that hadwin's servant mervyn was the same against whom such heavy charges were laid. previously to this journey, he had heard of me from hadwin, who was loud in praise of my diligence, sobriety, and modesty. for his part, he had always been cautious of giving countenance to vagrants that came from nobody knew where, and worked their way with a plausible tongue. he was not surprised to hear it whispered that betsy hadwin had fallen in love with the youth, and now, no doubt, he had persuaded her to run away with him. the heiress of a fine farm was a prize not to be met with every day. philip broke into rage at this news; swore that if it turned out so, his niece should starve upon the town, and that he would take good care to balk the lad. his brother he well knew had left a will, to which he was executor, and that this will would in good time be forthcoming. after much talk and ransacking the house, and swearing at his truant niece, he and his company departed, charging caleb to keep the house and its contents for his use. this was all that caleb's memory had retained of that day's proceedings. curling had lately commented on the character of philip hadwin. this man was totally unlike his brother, was a noted brawler and bully, a tyrant to his children, a plague to his neighbours, and kept a rendezvous for drunkards and idlers, at the sign of the bull's head, at ----. he was not destitute of parts, and was no less dreaded for cunning than malignity. he was covetous, and never missed an opportunity of overreaching his neighbour. there was no doubt that his niece's property would be embezzled should it ever come into his hands, and any power which he might obtain over her person would be exercised to her destruction. his children were tainted with the dissoluteness of their father, and marriage had not repaired the reputation of his daughters, or cured them of depravity: this was the man whom i now proposed to visit. i scarcely need to say that the calumny of betty lawrence gave me no uneasiness. my father had no doubt been deceived, as well as my father's neighbours, by the artifices of this woman. i passed among them for a thief and a profligate, but their error had hitherto been harmless to me. the time might come which should confute the tale without my efforts. betty, sooner or later, would drop her mask, and afford the antidote to her own poisons, unless some new incident should occur to make me hasten the catastrophe. i arrived at hadwin's house. i was received with some attention as a guest. i looked, among the pimpled visages that filled the piazza, for that of the landlord, but found him in an inner apartment with two or three more seated round a table. on intimating my wish to speak with him alone, the others withdrew. hadwin's visage had some traces of resemblance to his brother; but the meek, placid air, pale cheeks, and slender form of the latter were powerfully contrasted with the bloated arrogance, imperious brow, and robust limbs of the former. this man's rage was awakened by a straw; it impelled him in an instant to oaths and buffetings, and made his life an eternal brawl. the sooner my interview with such a personage should be at an end, the better. i therefore explained the purpose of my coming as fully and in as few words as possible. "your name, sir, is philip hadwin. your brother william, of malverton, died lately and left two daughters. the youngest only is now alive, and i come, commissioned from her, to inform you that, as no will of her father's is extant, she is preparing to administer to his estate. as her father's brother, she thought you entitled to this information." the change which took place in the countenance of this man, during this address, was remarkable, but not easily described. his cheeks contracted a deeper crimson, his eyes sparkled, and his face assumed an expression in which curiosity was mingled with rage. he bent forward, and said, in a hoarse and contemptuous tone, "pray, is your name mervyn?" i answered, without hesitation, and as if the question were wholly unimportant, "yes; my name is mervyn." "god damn it! you then are the damned rascal"--(but permit me to repeat his speech without the oaths with which it was plentifully interlarded. not three words were uttered without being garnished with a--"god damn it!" "damnation!" "i'll be damned to hell if"--and the like energetic expletives.) "you then are the rascal that robbed billy's house; that ran away with the fool his daughter; persuaded her to burn her father's will, and have the hellish impudence to come into this house! but i thank you for it. i was going to look for you; you've saved me trouble. i'll settle all accounts with you here. fair and softly, my good lad! if i don't bring you to the gallows--if i let you escape without such a dressing! damned impudence! fellow! i've been at malverton. i've heard of your tricks. so! finding the will not quite to your mind, knowing that the executor would balk your schemes, you threw the will into the fire; you robbed the house of all the cash, and made off with the girl!--the old fellow saw it all, and will swear to the truth." these words created some surprise. i meant not to conceal from this man the tenor and destruction of the will, nor even the measures which his niece had taken or intended to take. what i supposed to be unknown to him appeared to have been communicated by the talkative caleb, whose mind was more inquisitive and less sluggish than first appearances had led me to imagine. instead of moping by the kitchen-fire when eliza and i were conversing in an upper room, it now appeared that he had reconnoitred our proceedings through some keyhole or crevice, and had related what he had seen to hadwin. hadwin proceeded to exhaust his rage in oaths and menaces. he frequently clenched his fist and thrust it in my face, drew it back as if to render his blow more deadly; ran over the same series of exclamations on my impudence and villany, and talked of the gallows and the whipping-post; enforced each word by the epithets _damnable_ and _hellish_; closed each sentence with--"and be curst to you!" there was but one mode for me to pursue; all forcible opposition to a man of his strength was absurd. it was my province to make his anger confine itself to words, and patiently to wait till the paroxysm should end or subside of itself. to effect this purpose, i kept my seat, and carefully excluded from my countenance every indication of timidity and panic on the one hand, and of scorn and defiance on the other. my look and attitude were those of a man who expected harsh words, but who entertained no suspicion that blows would be inflicted. i was indebted for my safety to an inflexible adherence to this medium. to have strayed, for a moment, to either side, would have brought upon me his blows. that he did not instantly resort to violence inspired me with courage, since it depended on myself whether food should be supplied to his passion. rage must either progress or decline; and, since it was in total want of provocation, it could not fail of gradually subsiding. my demeanour was calculated to damp the flame, not only by its direct influence, but by diverting his attention from the wrongs which he had received, to the novelty of my behaviour. the disparity in size and strength between us was too evident to make him believe that i confided in my sinews for my defence; and, since i betrayed neither contempt nor fear, he could not but conclude that i trusted to my own integrity or to his moderation. i seized the first pause in his rhetoric to enforce this sentiment. "you are angry, mr. hadwin, and are loud in your threats; but they do not frighten me. they excite no apprehension or alarm, because i know myself able to convince you that i have not injured you. this is an inn, and i am your guest. i am sure i shall find better entertainment than blows. come," continued i, smiling, "it is possible that i am not so mischievous a wretch as your fancy paints me. i have no claims upon your niece but that of friendship, and she is now in the house of an honest man, mr. curling, where she proposes to continue as long as is convenient. "it is true that your brother left a will, which his daughter burnt in my presence, because she dreaded the authority which that will gave you, not only over her property, but person. it is true that on leaving the house she took away the money which was now her own, and which was necessary to subsistence. it is true that i bore her company, and have left her in an honest man's keeping. i am answerable for nothing more. as to you, i meant not to injure you; i advised not the burning of the will. i was a stranger, till after that event, to your character. i knew neither good nor ill of you. i came to tell you all this, because, as eliza's uncle, you had a right to the information." "so! you come to tell me that she burnt the will, and is going to administer--to what, i beseech you? to her father's property? ay, i warrant you. but take this along with you:--that property is mine; land, house, stock, every thing. all is safe and snug under cover of a mortgage, to which billy was kind enough to add a bond. one was sued, and the other _entered up_, a week ago. so that all is safe under my thumb, and the girl may whistle or starve for me. i shall give myself no concern about the strumpet. you thought to get a prize; but, damn me, you've met with your match in me. phil haddin's not so easily choused, i promise you. i intended to give you this news, and a drubbing into the bargain; but you may go, and make haste. she burnt the will, did she, because i was named in it,--and sent you to tell me so? good souls! it was kind of you, and i am bound to be thankful. take her back news of the mortgage; and, as for you, leave my house. you may go scot-free this time; but i pledge my word for a sound beating when you next enter these doors. i'll pay it to you with interest. leave my house, i say!" "a mortgage," said i, in a low voice, and affecting not to hear his commands; "that will be sad news for my friend. why, sir, you are a fortunate man. malverton is an excellent spot; well watered and manured; newly and completely fenced; not a larger barn in the county; oxen and horses and cows in the best order; i never set eyes on a finer orchard. by my faith, sir, you are a fortunate man. but, pray, what have you for dinner? i am hungry as a wolf. order me a beef-steak, and some potation or other. the bottle there,--it is cider, i take it; pray, push it to this side." saying this, i stretched out my hand towards the bottle which stood before him. i confided in the power of a fearless and sedate manner. methought that, as anger was the food of anger, it must unavoidably subside in a contest with equability. this opinion was intuitive, rather than the product of experience, and perhaps i gave no proof of my sagacity in hazarding my safety on its truth. hadwin's character made him dreaded and obeyed by all. he had been accustomed to ready and tremulous submission from men far more brawny and robust than i was, and to find his most vehement menaces and gestures totally ineffectual on a being so slender and diminutive at once wound up his rage and excited his astonishment. one motion counteracted and suspended the other. he lifted his hand, but delayed to strike. one blow, applied with his usual dexterity, was sufficient to destroy me. though seemingly careless, i was watchful of his motions, and prepared to elude the stroke by shrinking or stooping. meanwhile, i stretched my hand far enough to seize the bottle, and, pouring its contents into a tumbler, put it to my lips:-"come, sir, i drink your health, and wish you speedy possession of malverton. i have some interest with eliza, and will prevail on her to forbear all opposition and complaint. why should she complain? while i live, she shall not be a beggar. no doubt your claim is legal, and therefore ought to be admitted. what the law gave, the law has taken away. blessed be the dispensers of law! excellent cider! open another bottle, will you, and, i beseech, hasten dinner, if you would not see me devour the table." it was just, perhaps, to conjure up the demon avarice to fight with the demon anger. reason alone would, in such a contest, be powerless, but, in truth, i spoke without artifice or disguise. if his claim were legal, opposition would be absurd and pernicious. i meant not to rely upon his own assertions, and would not acknowledge the validity of his claim till i had inspected the deed. having instituted suits, this was now in a public office, and there the inspection should be made. meanwhile, no reason could be urged why i should part from him in anger, while his kindred to eliza, and his title to her property, made it useful to secure his favour. it was possible to obtain a remission of his claims, even when the law enforced them; it would be imprudent at least to diminish the chances of remission by fostering his wrath and provoking his enmity. "what!" he exclaimed, in a transport of fury, "a'n't i master of my own house? out, i say!" these were harsh terms, but they were not accompanied by gestures and tones so menacing as those which had before been used. it was plain that the tide, which so lately threatened my destruction, had begun to recede. this encouraged me to persist. "be not alarmed, my good friend," said i, placidly and smiling. "a man of your bone need not fear a pigmy like me. i shall scarcely be able to dethrone you in your own castle, with an army of hostlers, tapsters, and cooks at your beck. you shall still be master here, provided you use your influence to procure me a dinner." his acquiescence in a pacific system was extremely reluctant and gradual. he laid aside one sullen tone and wrathful look after the other; and, at length, consented not only to supply me with a dinner, but to partake of it with me. nothing was more a topic of surprise to himself than his forbearance. he knew not how it was. he had never been treated so before. he was not proof against entreaty and submission; but i had neither supplicated nor submitted. the stuff that i was made of was at once damnably tough and devilishly pliant. when he thought of my impudence, in staying in his house after he had bade me leave it, he was tempted to resume his passion. when he reflected on my courage, in making light of his anger, notwithstanding his known impetuosity and my personal inferiority, he could not withhold his esteem. but my patience under his rebukes, my unalterable equanimity, and my ready consent to the validity of his claims, soothed and propitiated him. an exemption from blows and abuse was all that i could gain from this man. i told him the truth, with regard to my own history, so far as it was connected with the hadwins. i exhibited, in affecting colours, the helpless condition of eliza; but could extort from him nothing but his consent that, if she chose, she might come and live with him. he would give her victuals and clothes for so much house-work as she was able to do. if she chose to live elsewhere, he promised not to molest her, or intermeddle in her concerns. the house and land were his by law, and he would have them. it was not my province to revile or expostulate with him. i stated what measures would be adopted by a man who regarded the interest of others more than his own; who was anxious for the welfare of an innocent girl, connected with him so closely by the ties of kindred, and who was destitute of what is called natural friends. if he did not cancel, for her sake, his bond and mortgage, he would, at least, afford her a frugal maintenance. he would extend to her, in all emergencies, his counsel and protection. all that, he said, was sheer nonsense. he could not sufficiently wonder at my folly, in proposing to him to make a free gift of a hundred rich acres, to a girl too who scarcely knew her right hand from her left; whom the first cunning young rogue like myself would _chouse_ out of the whole, and take herself into the bargain. but my folly was even surpassed by my impudence, since, as the _friend_ of this girl, i was merely petitioning on my own account. i had come to him, whom i never saw before, on whom i had no claim, and who, as i well knew, had reason to think me a sharper, and modestly said, "here's a girl who has no fortune. i am greatly in want of one. pray, give her such an estate that you have in your possession. if you do, i'll marry her, and take it into my own hands." i might be thankful that he did not answer such a petition with a horse-whipping. but if he did not give her his estate, he might extend to her, forsooth, his counsel and protection. "that i've offered to do," continued he. "she may come and live in my house, if she will. she may do some of the family work. i'll discharge the chambermaid to make room for her. lizzy, if i remember right, has a pretty face. she can't have a better market for it than as chambermaid to an inn. if she minds her p's and q's she may make up a handsome sum at the year's end." i thought it time to break off the conference; and, my dinner being finished, took my leave, leaving behind me the character of _a queer sort of chap_. i speeded to the prothonotary's office, which was kept in the village, and quickly ascertained the truth of hadwin's pretensions. there existed a mortgage, with bond and warrant of attorney, to so great an amount as would swallow up every thing at malverton. furnished with these tidings, i prepared, with a drooping heart, to return to mr. curling's. chapter xxxiv. this incident necessarily produced a change in my views with regard to my friend. her fortune consisted of a few hundreds of dollars, which, frugally administered, might procure decent accommodation in the country. when this was consumed, she must find subsistence in tending the big wheel or the milk-pail, unless fortune should enable me to place her in a more favourable situation. this state was, in some respects, but little different from that in which she had spent the former part of her life; but, in her father's house, these employments were dignified by being, in some degree, voluntary, and relieved by frequent intervals of recreation and leisure. now they were likely to prove irksome and servile, in consequence of being performed for hire and imposed by necessity. equality, parental solicitudes, and sisterly endearments, would be wanting to lighten the yoke. these inconveniences, however, were imaginary. this was the school in which fortitude and independence were to be learned. habit, and the purity of rural manners, would, likewise, create anew those ties which death had dissolved. the affections of parent and sister would be supplied by the fonder and more rational attachments of friendship. these toils were not detrimental to beauty or health. what was to be dreaded from them was their tendency to quench the spirit of liberal curiosity; to habituate the person to bodily, rather than intellectual, exertions; to supersede and create indifference or aversion to the only instruments of rational improvement, the pen and the book. this evil, however, was at some distance from eliza. her present abode was quiet and serene. here she might enjoy domestic pleasures and opportunities of mental improvement for the coming twelvemonth at least. this period would, perhaps, be sufficient for the formation of studious habits. what schemes should be adopted for this end would be determined by the destiny to which i myself should be reserved. my path was already chalked out, and my fancy now pursued it with uncommon pleasure. to reside in your family; to study your profession; to pursue some subordinate or casual mode of industry, by which i might purchase leisure for medical pursuits, for social recreations, and for the study of mankind on your busy and thronged stage, was the scope of my wishes. this destiny would not hinder punctual correspondence and occasional visits to eliza. her pen might be called into action, and her mind be awakened by books, and every hour be made to add to her stores of knowledge and enlarge the bounds of her capacity. i was spiritless and gloomy when i left ----; but reflections on my future lot, and just views of the situation of my friend, insensibly restored my cheerfulness. i arrived at mr. curling's in the evening, and hastened to impart to eliza the issue of my commission. it gave her uneasiness, merely as it frustrated the design, on which she had fondly mused, of residing in the city. she was somewhat consoled by my promises of being her constant correspondent and occasional visitor. next morning i set out on my journey hither, on foot. the way was not long; the weather, though cold, was wholesome and serene. my spirits were high, and i saw nothing in the world before me but sunshine and prosperity. i was conscious that my happiness depended not on the revolutions of nature or the caprice of man. all without was, indeed, vicissitude and uncertainty; but within my bosom was a centre not to be shaken or removed. my purposes were honest and steadfast. every sense was the inlet of pleasure, because it was the avenue of knowledge; and my soul brooded over the world to ideas, and glowed with exultation at the grandeur and beauty of its own creations. this felicity was too rapturous to be of long duration. i gradually descended from these heights; and the remembrance of past incidents, connected with the images of your family, to which i was returning, led my thoughts into a different channel. welbeck and the unhappy girl whom he had betrayed; mrs. villars and wallace, were recollected anew. the views which i had formed, for determining the fate and affording assistance to clemenza, were recalled. my former resolutions with regard to her had been suspended by the uncertainty in which the fate of the hadwins was, at that time, wrapped. had it not become necessary wholly to lay aside these resolutions? that, indeed, was an irksome conclusion. no wonder that i struggled to repel it; that i fostered the doubt whether money was the only instrument of benefit; whether caution, and fortitude, and knowledge, were not the genuine preservatives from evil. had i not the means in my hands of dispelling her fatal ignorance of welbeck and of those with whom she resided? was i not authorized, by my previous though slender intercourse, to seek her presence? suppose i should enter mrs. villars's house, desire to be introduced to the lady, accost her with affectionate simplicity, and tell her the truth? why be anxious to smooth the way? why deal in apologies, circuities, and innuendoes? all these are feeble and perverse refinements, unworthy of an honest purpose and an erect spirit. to believe her inaccessible to my visit was absurd. to wait for the permission of those whose interest it might be to shut out visitants was cowardice. this was an infringement of her liberty which equity and law equally condemned. by what right could she be restrained from intercourse with others? doors and passages may be between her and me. with a purpose such as mine, no one had a right to close the one or obstruct the other. away with cowardly reluctances and clownish scruples, and let me hasten this moment to her dwelling. mrs. villars is the portress of the mansion. she will probably present herself before me, and demand the reason of my visit. what shall i say to her? the truth. to falter, or equivocate, or dissemble to this woman would be wicked. perhaps her character has been misunderstood and maligned. can i render her a greater service than to apprize her of the aspersions that have rested on it, and afford her the opportunity of vindication? perhaps she is indeed selfish and profligate; the betrayer of youth and the agent of lasciviousness. does she not deserve to know the extent of her errors and the ignominy of her trade? does she not merit the compassion of the good and the rebukes of the wise? to shrink from the task would prove me cowardly and unfirm. thus far, at least, let my courage extend. alas! clemenza is unacquainted with my language. my thoughts cannot make themselves apparent but by words, and to my words she will be able to affix no meaning. yet is not that a hasty decision? the version from the dramas of zeno which i found in her toilet was probably hers, and proves her to have a speculative knowledge of our tongue. near half a year has since elapsed, during which she has dwelt with talkers of english, and consequently could not fail to have acquired it. this conclusion is somewhat dubious, but experiment will give it certainty. hitherto i had strolled along the path at a lingering pace. time enough, methought, to reach your threshold between sunrise and moonlight, if my way had been three times longer than it was. you were the pleasing phantom that hovered before me and beckoned me forward. what a total revolution had occurred in the course of a few seconds! for thus long did my reasonings with regard to clemenza and the villars require to pass through my understanding, and escape, in half-muttered soliloquy, from my lips. my muscles trembled with eagerness, and i bounded forward with impetuosity. i saw nothing but a vista of catalpas, leafless, loaded with icicles, and terminating in four chimneys and a painted roof. my fancy outstripped my footsteps, and was busy in picturing faces and rehearsing dialogues. presently i reached this new object of my pursuit, darted through the avenue, noticed that some windows of the house were unclosed, drew thence a hasty inference that the house was not without inhabitants, and knocked, quickly and loudly, for admission. some one within crept to the door, opened it with seeming caution, and just far enough to allow the face to be seen. it was the timid, pale, and unwashed face of a girl who was readily supposed to be a servant, taken from a cottage, and turned into a bringer of wood and water and a scourer of tubs and trenches. she waited in timorous silence the delivery of my message. was mrs. villars at home? "no; she has gone to town." were any of her daughters within? she could not tell; she believed--she thought--which did i want? miss hetty or miss sally? "let me see miss hetty." saying this, i pushed gently against the door. the girl, half reluctant, yielded way; i entered the passage, and, putting my hand on the lock of a door that seemed to lead into a parlour,--"is miss hetty in this room?" no; there was nobody there. "go call her, then. tell her there is one who wishes to see her on important business. i will wait for her coming in this room." so saying, i opened the door, and entered the apartment, while the girl withdrew to perform my message. the parlour was spacious and expensively furnished, but an air of negligence and disorder was everywhere visible. the carpet was wrinkled and unswept; a clock on the table, in a glass frame, so streaked and spotted with dust as scarcely to be transparent, and the index motionless, and pointing at four instead of nine; embers scattered on the marble hearth, and tongs lying on the fender with the handle in the ashes; a harpsichord, uncovered, one end loaded with _scores_, tumbled together in a heap, and the other with volumes of novels and plays, some on their edges, some on their backs, gaping open by the scorching of their covers; rent; blurred; stained; blotted; dog-eared; tables awry; chairs crowding each other; in short, no object but indicated the neglect or the ignorance of domestic neatness and economy. my leisure was employed in surveying these objects, and in listening for the approach of miss hetty. some minutes elapsed, and no one came. a reason for delay was easily imagined, and i summoned patience to wait. i opened a book; touched the instrument; surveyed the vases on the mantel-tree; the figures on the hangings, and the print of apollo and the sibyl, taken from salvator, and hung over the chimney. i eyed my own shape and garb in the mirror, and asked how my rustic appearance would be regarded by that supercilious and voluptuous being to whom i was about to present myself. presently the latch of the door was softly moved: it opened, and the simpleton, before described, appeared. she spoke, but her voice was so full of hesitation, and so near a whisper, that much attention was needed to make out her words:--miss hetty was not at home; she was gone to town with her _mistress_. this was a tale not to be credited. how was i to act? she persisted in maintaining the truth of it.--"well, then," said i, at length, "tell miss sally that i wish to speak with her. she will answer my purpose just as well." miss sally was not at home neither. she had gone to town too. they would not be back, she did not know when; not till night, she supposed. it was so indeed; none of them wasn't at home; none but she and nanny in the kitchen: indeed there wasn't. "go tell nanny to come here; i will leave my message with her." she withdrew, but nanny did not receive the summons, or thought proper not to obey it. all was vacant and still. my state was singular and critical. it was absurd to prolong it; but to leave the house with my errand unexecuted would argue imbecility and folly. to ascertain clemenza's presence in this house, and to gain an interview, were yet in my power. had i not boasted of my intrepidity in braving denials and commands when they endeavoured to obstruct my passage to this woman? but here were no obstacles nor prohibition. suppose the girl had said truth, that the matron and her daughters were absent, and that nanny and herself were the only guardians of the mansion. so much the better. my design will not be opposed. i have only to mount the stair, and go from one room to another till i find what i seek. there was hazard, as well as plausibility, in this scheme. i thought it best once more to endeavour to extort information from the girl, and persuade her to be my guide to whomsoever the house contained. i put my hand to the bell and rung a brisk peal. no one came. i passed into the entry, to the foot of a staircase, and to a back-window. nobody was within hearing or sight. once more i reflected on the rectitude of my intentions, on the possibility that the girl's assertions might be true, on the benefits of expedition, and of gaining access to the object of my visit without interruption or delay. to these considerations was added a sort of charm, not easily explained, and by no means justifiable, produced by the very temerity and hazardness accompanying this attempt. i thought, with scornful emotions, on the bars and hinderances which pride, and caprice, and delusive maxims of decorum, raise in the way of human intercourse. i spurned at these semblances and substitutes of honesty, and delighted to shake such fetters into air and trample such impediments to dust. i wanted to see a human being, in order to promote her happiness. it was doubtful whether she was within twenty paces of the spot where i stood. the doubt was to be solved. how? by examining the space. i forthwith proceeded to examine it. i reached the second story. i approached a door that was closed. i knocked. after a pause, a soft voice said, "who is there?" the accents were as musical as those of clemenza, but were in other respects different. i had no topic to discuss with this person. i answered not, yet hesitated to withdraw. presently the same voice was again heard:--"what is it you want? why don't you answer? come in!" i complied with the command, and entered the room. it was deliberation and foresight that led me hither, and not chance or caprice. hence, instead of being disconcerted or vanquished by the objects that i saw, i was tranquil and firm. my curiosity, however, made me a vigilant observer. two females, arrayed with voluptuous negligence, in a manner adapted to the utmost seclusion, and seated in a careless attitude on a sofa, were now discovered. both darted glances at the door. one, who appeared to be the youngest, no sooner saw me, than she shrieked, and, starting from her seat, betrayed in the looks which she successively cast upon me, on herself, and on the chamber, whose apparatus was in no less confusion than that of the apartment below, her consciousness of the unseasonableness of this meeting. the other shrieked likewise, but in her it seemed to be the token of surprise rather than that of terror. there was, probably, somewhat in my aspect and garb that suggested an apology for this intrusion, as arising from simplicity and mistake. she thought proper, however, to assume the air of one offended, and, looking sternly,--"how now, fellow," said she, "what is this? why come you hither?" this questioner was of mature age, but had not passed the period of attractiveness and grace. all the beauty that nature had bestowed was still retained, but the portion had never been great. what she possessed was so modelled and embellished by such a carriage and dress as to give it most power over the senses of the gazer. in proportion, however, as it was intended and adapted to captivate those who know none but physical pleasures, it was qualified to breed distaste and aversion in me. i am sensible how much error may have lurked in this decision. i had brought with me the belief of their being unchaste; and seized, perhaps with too much avidity, any appearance that coincided with my prepossessions. yet the younger by no means inspired the same disgust; though i had no reason to suppose her more unblemished than the elder. her modesty seemed unaffected, and was by no means satisfied, like that of the elder, with defeating future curiosity. the consciousness of what had already been exposed filled her with confusion, and she would have flown away, if her companion had not detained her by some degree of force. "what ails the girl? there's nothing to be frightened at. fellow!" she repeated, "what brings you here?" i advanced and stood before them. i looked steadfastly, but, i believe, with neither effrontery nor anger, on the one who addressed me. i spoke in a tone serious and emphatical. "i come for the sake of speaking to a woman who formerly resided in this house, and probably resides here still. her name is clemenza lodi. if she be here, i request you to conduct me to her instantly." methought i perceived some inquietude, a less imperious and more inquisitive air, in this woman, on hearing the name of clemenza. it was momentary, and gave way to peremptory looks. "what is your business with her? and why did you adopt this mode of inquiry? a very extraordinary intrusion! be good enough to leave the chamber. any questions proper to be answered will be answered below." "i meant not to intrude or offend. it was not an idle or impertinent motive that led me hither. i waited below for some time after soliciting an audience of you through the servant. she assured me you were absent, and laid me under the necessity of searching for clemenza lodi myself, and without a guide. i am anxious to withdraw, and request merely to be directed to the room which she occupies." "i direct you," replied she, in a more resolute tone, "to quit the room and the house." "impossible, madam," i replied, still looking at her earnestly; "leave the house without seeing her! you might as well enjoin me to pull the andes on my head!--to walk barefoot to pekin! impossible!" some solicitude was now mingled with her anger. "this is strange insolence! unaccountable behaviour!--begone from my room! will you compel me to call the gentlemen?" "be not alarmed," said i, with augmented mildness. there was, indeed, compassion and sorrow at my heart, and these must have somewhat influenced my looks. "be not alarmed. i came to confer a benefit, not to perpetrate an injury. i came not to censure or expostulate with you, but merely to counsel and aid a being that needs both; all i want is to see her. in this chamber i sought not you, but her. only lead me to her, or tell me where she is. i will then rid you of my presence." "will you compel me to call those who will punish this insolence as it deserves?" "dearest madam! i compel you to nothing. i merely supplicate. i would ask you to lead me to these gentlemen, if i did not know that there are none but females in the house. it is you who must receive and comply with my petition. allow me a moment's interview with clemenza lodi. compliance will harm you not, but will benefit her. what is your objection?" "this is the strangest proceeding! the most singular conduct! is this a place fit to parley with you? i warn you of the consequence of staying a moment longer. depend upon it, you will sorely repent it." "you are obdurate," said i, and turned towards the younger, who listened to this discourse in tremors and panic. i took her hand with an air of humility and reverence. "here," said i, "there seems to be purity, innocence, and condescension. i took this house to be the temple of voluptuousness. females i expected to find in it, but such only as traded in licentious pleasures; specious, perhaps not destitute of talents, beauty, and address, but dissolute and wanton, sensual and avaricious; yet in this countenance and carriage there are tokens of virtue. i am born to be deceived, and the semblance of modesty is readily assumed. under this veil, perhaps, lurk a tainted heart and depraved appetites. is it so?" she made me no answer, but somewhat in her looks seemed to evince that my favourable prepossessions were just. i noticed likewise that the alarm of the elder was greatly increased by this address to her companion. the thought suddenly occurred that this girl might be in circumstances not unlike those of clemenza lodi; that she was not apprized of the character of her associates, and might by this meeting be rescued from similar evils. this suspicion filled me with tumultuous feelings. clemenza was for a time forgotten. i paid no attention to the looks or demeanour of the elder, but was wholly occupied in gazing on the younger. my anxiety to know the truth gave pathos and energy to my tones while i spoke:-"who, where, what are you? do you reside in this house? are you a sister or daughter in this family, or merely a visitant? do you know the character, profession, and views of your companions? do you deem them virtuous, or know them to be profligate? speak! tell me, i beseech you!" the maiden confusion which had just appeared in the countenance of this person now somewhat abated. she lifted her eyes, and glanced by turns at me and at her who sat by her side. an air of serious astonishment overspread her features, and she seemed anxious for me to proceed. the elder, meanwhile, betrayed the utmost alarm, again upbraided my audacity, commanded me to withdraw, and admonished me of the danger i incurred by lingering. i noticed not her interference, but again entreated to know of the younger her true state. she had no time to answer me, supposing her not to want the inclination, for every pause was filled by the clamorous importunities and menaces of the other. i began to perceive that my attempts were useless to this end, but the chief and most estimable purpose was attainable. it was in my power to state the knowledge i possessed, through your means, of mrs. villars and her daughters. this information might be superfluous, since she to whom it was given might be one of this licentious family. the contrary, however, was not improbable, and my tidings, therefore, might be of the utmost moment to her safety. a resolute and even impetuous manner reduced my incessant interrupter to silence. what i had to say, i compressed in a few words, and adhered to perspicuity and candour with the utmost care. i still held the hand that i had taken, and fixed my eyes upon her countenance with a steadfastness that hindered her from lifting her eyes. "i know you not; whether you be dissolute or chaste, i cannot tell. in either case, however, what i am going to say will be useful. let me faithfully repeat what i have heard. it is mere rumour, and i vouch not for its truth. rumour as it is, i submit it to your judgment, and hope that it may guide you into paths of innocence and honour. "mrs. villars and her three daughters are englishwomen, who supported for a time an unblemished reputation, but who, at length, were suspected of carrying on the trade of prostitution. this secret could not be concealed forever. the profligates who frequented their house betrayed them. one of them, who died under their roof, after they had withdrawn from it into the country, disclosed to his kinsman, who attended his death-bed, their genuine character. "the dying man likewise related incidents in which i am deeply concerned. i have been connected with one by name welbeck. in his house i met an unfortunate girl, who was afterwards removed to mrs. villars's. her name was clemenza lodi. residence in this house, under the control of a woman like mrs. villars and her daughters, must be injurious to her innocence, and from this control i now come to rescue her." i turned to the elder, and continued,--"by all that is sacred, i adjure you to tell me whether clemenza lodi be under this roof! if she be not, whither has she gone? to know this i came hither, and any difficulty or reluctance in answering will be useless; till an answer be obtained, i will not go hence." during this speech, anger had been kindling in the bosom of this woman. it now burst upon me in a torrent of opprobrious epithets. i was a villain, a calumniator, a thief. i had lurked about the house, till those whose sex and strength enabled them to cope with me had gone. i had entered these doors by fraud. i was a wretch, guilty of the last excesses of insolence and insult. to repel these reproaches, or endure them, was equally useless. the satisfaction that i sought was only to be gained by searching the house. i left the room without speaking. did i act illegally in passing from one story and one room to another? did i really deserve the imputations of rashness and insolence? my behaviour, i well know, was ambiguous and hazardous, and perhaps wanting in discretion, but my motives were unquestionably pure. i aimed at nothing but the rescue of a human creature from distress and dishonour. i pretend not to the wisdom of experience and age; to the praise of forethought or subtlety. i choose the obvious path, and pursue it with headlong expedition. good intentions, unaided by knowledge, will, perhaps, produce more injury than benefit, and therefore knowledge must be gained, but the acquisition is not momentary; is not bestowed unasked and untoiled for. meanwhile, we must not be inactive because we are ignorant. our good purposes must hurry to performance, whether our knowledge be greater or less. chapter xxxv. to explore the house in this manner was so contrary to ordinary rules, that the design was probably wholly unsuspected by the women whom i had just left. my silence, at parting, might have been ascribed by them to the intimidating influence of invectives and threats. hence i proceeded in my search without interruption. presently i reached a front chamber in the third story. the door was ajar. i entered it on tiptoe. sitting on a low chair by the fire, i beheld a female figure, dressed in a negligent but not indecent manner. her face, in the posture in which she sat, was only half seen. its hues were sickly and pale, and in mournful unison with a feeble and emaciated form. her eyes were fixed upon a babe that lay stretched upon a pillow at her feet. the child, like its mother, for such she was readily imagined to be, was meagre and cadaverous. either it was dead, or could not be very distant from death. the features of clemenza were easily recognised, though no contrast could be greater, in habit and shape and complexion, than that which her present bore to her former appearance. all her roses had faded, and her brilliancies vanished. still, however, there was somewhat fitted to awaken the tenderest emotions. there were tokens of inconsolable distress. her attention was wholly absorbed by the child. she lifted not her eyes till i came close to her and stood before her. when she discovered me, a faint start was perceived. she looked at me for a moment, then, putting one spread hand before her eyes, she stretched out the other towards the door, and waving it in silence, as if to admonish me to depart. this motion, however emphatical, i could not obey. i wished to obtain her attention, but knew not in what words to claim it. i was silent. in a moment she removed her hand from her eyes, and looked at me with new eagerness. her features bespoke emotions which, perhaps, flowed from my likeness to her brother, joined with the memory of my connection with welbeck. my situation was full of embarrassment. i was by no means certain that my language would be understood. i knew not in what light the policy and dissimulation of welbeck might have taught her to regard me. what proposal, conducive to her comfort and her safety, could i make to her? once more she covered her eyes, and exclaimed, in a feeble voice, "go away! begone!" as if satisfied with this effort, she resumed her attention to her child. she stooped and lifted it in her arms, gazing, meanwhile, on its almost lifeless features with intense anxiety. she crushed it to her bosom, and, again looking at me, repeated, "go away! go away! begone!" there was somewhat in the lines of her face, in her tones and gestures, that pierced to my heart. added to this, was my knowledge of her condition; her friendlessness; her poverty; the pangs of unrequited love; and her expiring infant. i felt my utterance choked, and my tears struggling for passage. i turned to the window, and endeavoured to regain my tranquillity. "what was it," said i, "that brought me hither? the perfidy of welbeck must surely have long since been discovered. what can i tell her of the villars which she does not already know, or of which the knowledge will be useful? if their treatment has been just, why should i detract from their merit? if it has been otherwise, their own conduct will have disclosed their genuine character. though voluptuous themselves, it does not follow that they have laboured to debase this creature. though wanton, they may not be inhuman. "i can propose no change in her condition for the better. should she be willing to leave this house, whither is it in my power to conduct her? oh that i were rich enough to provide food for the hungry, shelter for the houseless, and raiment for the naked!" i was roused from these fruitless reflections by the lady, whom some sudden thought induced to place the child in its bed, and, rising, to come towards me. the utter dejection which her features lately betrayed was now changed for an air of anxious curiosity. "where," said she, in her broken english,--"where is signor welbeck?" "alas!" returned i, "i know not. that question might, i thought, with more propriety be put to you than me." "i know where he be; i fear where he be." so saying, the deepest sighs burst from her heart. she turned from me, and, going to the child, took it again into her lap. its pale and sunken cheek was quickly wet with the mother's tears, which, as she silently hung over it, dropped fast from her eyes. this demeanour could not but awaken curiosity, while it gave a new turn to my thoughts. i began to suspect that in the tokens which i saw there was not only distress for her child, but concern for the fate of welbeck. "know you," said i, "where mr. welbeck is? is he alive? is he near? is he in calamity?" "i do not know if he be alive. he be sick. he be in prison. they will not let me go to him. and"--here her attention and mine was attracted by the infant, whose frame, till now motionless, began to be tremulous. its features sunk into a more ghastly expression. its breathings were difficult, and every effort to respire produced a convulsion harder than the last. the mother easily interpreted these tokens. the same mortal struggle seemed to take place in her features as in those of her child. at length her agony found way in a piercing shriek. the struggle in the infant was past. hope looked in vain for a new motion in its heart or its eyelids. the lips were closed, and its breath was gone forever! the grief which overwhelmed the unhappy parent was of that outrageous and desperate kind which is wholly incompatible with thinking. a few incoherent motions and screams, that rent the soul, were followed by a deep swoon. she sunk upon the floor, pale and lifeless as her babe. i need not describe the pangs which such a scene was adapted to produce in me. these were rendered more acute by the helpless and ambiguous situation in which i was placed. i was eager to bestow consolation and succour, but was destitute of all means. i was plunged into uncertainties and doubts. i gazed alternately at the infant and its mother. i sighed. i wept. i even sobbed. i stooped down and took the lifeless hand of the sufferer. i bathed it with my tears, and exclaimed, "ill-fated woman! unhappy mother! what shall i do for thy relief? how shall i blunt the edge of this calamity, and rescue thee from new evils?" at this moment the door of the apartment was opened, and the younger of the women whom i had seen below entered. her looks betrayed the deepest consternation and anxiety. her eyes in a moment were fixed by the decayed form and the sad features of clemenza. she shuddered at this spectacle, but was silent. she stood in the midst of the floor, fluctuating and bewildered. i dropped the hand that i was holding, and approached her. "you have come," said i, "in good season. i know you not, but will believe you to be good. you have a heart, it may be, not free from corruption, but it is still capable of pity for the miseries of others. you have a hand that refuses not its aid to the unhappy. see; there is an infant dead. there is a mother whom grief has, for a time, deprived of life. she has been oppressed and betrayed; been robbed of property and reputation--but not of innocence. she is worthy of relief. have you arms to receive her? have you sympathy, protection, and a home to bestow upon a forlorn, betrayed, and unhappy stranger? i know not what this house is; i suspect it to be no better than a brothel. i know not what treatment this woman has received. when her situation and wants are ascertained, will you supply her wants? will you rescue her from evils that may attend her continuance here?" she was disconcerted and bewildered by this address. at length she said, "all that has happened, all that i have heard and seen, is so unexpected, so strange, that i am amazed and distracted. your behaviour i cannot comprehend, nor your motive for making this address to me. i cannot answer you, except in one respect. if this woman has suffered injury, i have had no part in it. i knew not of her existence nor her situation till this moment; and whatever protection or assistance she may justly claim, i am both able and willing to bestow. i do not live here, but in the city. i am only an occasional visitant in this house." "what, then!" i exclaimed, with sparkling eyes and a rapturous accent, "you are not profligate; are a stranger to the manners of this house, and a detester of these manners? be not a deceiver, i entreat you. i depend only on your looks and professions, and these may be dissembled." these questions, which indeed argued a childish simplicity, excited her surprise. she looked at me, uncertain whether i was in earnest or in jest. at length she said, "your language is so singular, that i am at a loss how to answer it. i shall take no pains to find out its meaning, but leave you to form conjectures at leisure. who is this woman, and how can i serve her?" after a pause, she continued:--"i cannot afford her any immediate assistance, and shall not stay a moment longer in this house. there" (putting a card in my hand) "is my name and place of abode. if you shall have any proposals to make, respecting this woman, i shall be ready to receive them in my own house." so saying, she withdrew. i looked wistfully after her, but could not but assent to her assertion, that her presence here would be more injurious to her than beneficial to clemenza. she had scarcely gone, when the elder woman entered. there was rage, sullenness, and disappointment in her aspect. these, however, were suspended by the situation in which she discovered the mother and child. it was plain that all the sentiments of woman were not extinguished in her heart. she summoned the servants and seemed preparing to take such measures as the occasion prescribed. i now saw the folly of supposing that these measures would be neglected, and that my presence could not essentially contribute to the benefit of the sufferer. still, however, i lingered in the room, till the infant was covered with a cloth, and the still senseless parent was conveyed into an adjoining chamber. the woman then, as if she had not seen me before, fixed scowling eyes upon me, and exclaimed, "thief! villain! why do you stay here?" "i mean to go," said i, "but not till i express my gratitude and pleasure at the sight of your attention to this sufferer. you deem me insolent and perverse, but i am not such; and hope that the day will come when i shall convince you of my good intentions." "begone!" interrupted she, in a more angry tone. "begone this moment, or i will treat you as a thief." she now drew forth her hand from under her gown, and showed a pistol. "you shall see," she continued, "that i will not be insulted with impunity. if you do not vanish, i will shoot you as a robber." this woman was far from wanting a force and intrepidity worthy of a different sex. her gestures and tones were full of energy. they denoted a haughty and indignant spirit. it was plain that she conceived herself deeply injured by my conduct; and was it absolutely certain that her anger was without reason? i had loaded her house with atrocious imputations, and these imputations might be false. i had conceived them upon such evidence as chance had provided; but this evidence, intricate and dubious as human actions and motives are, might be void of truth. "perhaps," said i, in a sedate tone, "i have injured you; i have mistaken your character. you shall not find me less ready to repair, than to perpetrate, this injury. my error was without malice, and----" i had not time to finish the sentence, when this rash and enraged woman thrust the pistol close to my head and fired it. i was wholly unaware that her fury would lead her to this excess. it was a sort of mechanical impulse that made me raise my hand and attempt to turn aside the weapon. i did this deliberately and tranquilly, and without conceiving that any thing more was intended by her movement than to intimidate me. to this precaution, however, i was indebted for life. the bullet was diverted from my forehead to my left ear, and made a slight wound upon the surface, from which the blood gushed in a stream. the loudness of this explosion, and the shock which the ball produced in my brain, sunk me into a momentary stupor. i reeled backward, and should have fallen, had not i supported myself against the wall. the sight of my blood instantly restored her reason. her rage disappeared, and was succeeded by terror and remorse. she clasped her hands, and exclaimed, "oh! what! what have i done? my frantic passion has destroyed me." i needed no long time to show me the full extent of the injury which i had suffered and the conduct which it became me to adopt. for a moment i was bewildered and alarmed, but presently perceived that this was an incident more productive of good than of evil. it would teach me caution in contending with the passions of another, and showed me that there is a limit which the impetuosities of anger will sometimes overstep. instead of reviling my companion, i addressed myself to her thus:-"be not frighted. you have done me no injury, and, i hope, will derive instruction from this event. your rashness had like to have sacrificed the life of one who is your friend, and to have exposed yourself to infamy and death, or, at least, to the pangs of eternal remorse. learn from hence to curb your passions, and especially to keep at a distance from every murderous weapon, on occasions when rage is likely to take place of reason. "i repeat that my motives in entering this house were connected with your happiness as well as that of clemenza lodi. if i have erred in supposing you the member of a vile and pernicious trade, that error was worthy of being rectified, but violence and invective tend only to confirm it. i am incapable of any purpose that is not beneficent; but, in the means that i use and in the evidence on which i proceed, i am liable to a thousand mistakes. point out to me the road by which i can do you good, and i will cheerfully pursue it." finding that her fears had been groundless as to the consequences of her rashness, she renewed, though with less vehemence than before, her imprecations on my intermeddling and audacious folly. i listened till the storm was nearly exhausted, and then, declaring my intention to revisit the house if the interest of clemenza should require it, i resumed my way to the city. chapter xxxvi. "why," said i, as i hasted forward, "is my fortune so abundant in unforeseen occurrences? is every man who leaves his cottage and the impressions of his infancy behind him ushered into such a world of revolutions and perils as have trammelled my steps? or is my scene indebted for variety and change to my propensity to look into other people's concerns, and to make their sorrows and their joys mine? "to indulge an adventurous spirit, i left the precincts of the barn-door, enlisted in the service of a stranger, and encountered a thousand dangers to my virtue under the disastrous influence of welbeck. afterwards my life was set at hazard in the cause of wallace, and now am i loaded with the province of protecting the helpless eliza hadwin and the unfortunate clemenza. my wishes are fervent, and my powers shall not be inactive in their defence; but how slender are these powers! "in the offers of the unknown lady there is, indeed, some consolation for clemenza. it must be my business to lay before my friend stevens the particulars of what has befallen me, and to entreat his directions how this disconsolate girl may be most effectually succoured. it may be wise to take her from her present abode, and place her under some chaste and humane guardianship, where she may gradually lose remembrance of her dead infant and her specious betrayer. the barrier that severs her from welbeck must be high as heaven and insuperable as necessity. "but, soft! talked she not of welbeck? said she not that he was in prison and was sick? poor wretch! i thought thy course was at an end; that the penalty of guilt no longer weighed down thy heart; that thy misdeeds and thy remorses were buried in a common and obscure grave; but it seems thou art still alive. "is it rational to cherish the hope of thy restoration to innocence and peace? thou art no obdurate criminal; hadst thou less virtue, thy compunctions would be less keen. wert thou deaf to the voice of duty, thy wanderings into guilt and folly would be less fertile of anguish. the time will perhaps come, when the measure of thy transgressions and calamities will overflow, and the folly of thy choice will be too conspicuous to escape thy discernment. surely, even for such transgressors as thou, there is a salutary power in the precepts of truth and the lessons of experience. "but thou art imprisoned and art sick. this, perhaps, is the crisis of thy destiny. indigence and dishonour were the evils to shun which thy integrity and peace of mind have been lightly forfeited. thou hast found that the price was given in vain; that the hollow and deceitful enjoyments of opulence and dignity were not worth the purchase; and that, frivolous and unsubstantial as they are, the only path that leads to them is that of honesty and diligence. thou art in prison and art sick; and there is none to cheer thy hour with offices of kindness, or uphold thy fainting courage by the suggestions of good counsel. for such as thou the world has no compassion. mankind will pursue thee to the grave with execrations. their cruelty will be justified or palliated, since they know thee not. they are unacquainted with the goadings of thy conscience and the bitter retributions which thou art daily suffering. they are full of their own wrongs, and think only of those tokens of exultation and complacency which thou wast studious of assuming in thy intercourse with them. it is i only that thoroughly know thee and can rightly estimate thy claims to compassion. "i have somewhat partaken of thy kindness, and thou meritest some gratitude at my hands. shall i not visit and endeavour to console thee in thy distress? let me, at least, ascertain thy condition, and be the instrument in repairing the wrongs which thou hast inflicted. let me gain, from the contemplation of thy misery, new motives to sincerity and rectitude." while occupied by these reflections, i entered the city. the thoughts which engrossed my mind related to welbeck. it is not my custom to defer till to-morrow what can be done to-day. the destiny of man frequently hangs upon the lapse of a minute. "i will stop," said i, "at the prison; and, since the moment of my arrival may not be indifferent, i will go thither with all possible haste." i did not content myself with walking, but, regardless of the comments of passengers, hurried along the way at full speed. having inquired for welbeck, i was conducted through a dark room, crowded with beds, to a staircase. never before had i been in a prison. never had i smelt so noisome an odour, or surveyed faces so begrimed with filth and misery. the walls and floors were alike squalid and detestable. it seemed that in this house existence would be bereaved of all its attractions; and yet those faces, which could be seen through the obscurity that encompassed them, were either void of care or distorted with mirth. "this," said i, as i followed my conductor, "is the residence of welbeck. what contrasts are these to the repose and splendour, pictured walls, glossy hangings, gilded sofas, mirrors that occupied from ceiling to floor, carpets of tauris, and the spotless and transcendent brilliancy of coverlets and napkins, in thy former dwelling! here brawling and the shuffling of rude feet are eternal. the air is loaded with the exhalations of disease and the fumes of debauchery. thou art cooped up in airless space, and, perhaps, compelled to share thy narrow cell with some stupid ruffian. formerly, the breezes were courted by thy lofty windows. aromatic shrubs were scattered on thy hearth. menials, splendid in apparel, showed their faces with diffidence in thy apartment, trod lightly on thy marble floor, and suffered not the sanctity of silence to be troubled by a whisper. thy lamp shot its rays through the transparency of alabaster, and thy fragrant lymph flowed from vases of porcelain. such were formerly the decorations of thy hall, the embellishments of thy existence; but now--alas!----" we reached a chamber in the second story. my conductor knocked at the door. no one answered. repeated knocks were unheard or unnoticed by the person within. at length, lifting a latch, we entered together. the prisoner lay upon the bed, with his face turned from the door. i advanced softly, making a sign to the keeper to withdraw. welbeck was not asleep, but merely buried in reverie. i was unwilling to disturb his musing, and stood with my eyes fixed upon his form. he appeared unconscious that any one had entered. at length, uttering a deep sigh, he changed his posture, and perceived me in my motionless and gazing attitude. recollect in what circumstances we had last parted. welbeck had, no doubt, carried away with him from that interview a firm belief that i should speedily die. his prognostic, however, was fated to be contradicted. his first emotions were those of surprise. these gave place to mortification and rage. after eyeing me for some time, he averted his glances, and that effort which is made to dissipate some obstacle to breathing showed me that his sensations were of the most excruciating kind. he laid his head upon the pillow, and sunk into his former musing. he disdained, or was unable, to utter a syllable of welcome or contempt. in the opportunity that had been afforded me to view his countenance, i had observed tokens of a kind very different from those which used to be visible. the gloomy and malignant were more conspicuous. health had forsaken his cheeks, and taken along with it those flexible parts which formerly enabled him to cover his secret torments and insidious purposes beneath a veil of benevolence and cheerfulness. "alas!" said i, loud enough for him to hear me, "here is a monument of ruin. despair and mischievous passions are too deeply rooted in this heart for me to tear them away." these expressions did not escape his notice. he turned once more and cast sullen looks upon me. there was somewhat in his eyes that made me shudder. they denoted that his reverie was not that of grief, but of madness. i continued, in a less steadfast voice than before:-"unhappy clemenza! i have performed thy message. i have visited him that is sick and in prison. thou hadst cause for anguish and terror, even greater cause than thou imaginedst. would to god that thou wouldst be contented with the report which i shall make; that thy misguided tenderness would consent to leave him to his destiny, would suffer him to die alone; but that is a forbearance which no eloquence that i possess will induce thee to practise. thou must come, and witness for thyself." in speaking thus, i was far from foreseeing the effects which would be produced on the mind of welbeck. i was far from intending to instil into him a belief that clemenza was near at hand, and was preparing to enter his apartment; yet no other images but these would, perhaps, have roused him from his lethargy, and awakened that attention which i wished to awaken. he started up, and gazed fearfully at the door. "what!" he cried. "what! is she here? ye powers, that have scattered woes in my path, spare me the sight of her! but from this agony i will rescue myself. the moment she appears i will pluck out these eyes and dash them at her feet." so saying, he gazed with augmented eagerness upon the door. his hands were lifted to his head, as if ready to execute his frantic purpose. i seized his arm and besought him to lay aside his terror, for that clemenza was far distant. she had no intention, and besides was unable, to visit him. "then i am respited. i breathe again. no; keep her from a prison. drag her to the wheel or to the scaffold; mangle her with stripes; torture her with famine; strangle her child before her face, and cast it to the hungry dogs that are howling at the gate; but--keep her from a prison. never let her enter these doors." there he stopped; his eyes being fixed on the floor, and his thoughts once more buried in reverie. i resumed:-"she is occupied with other griefs than those connected with the fate of welbeck. she is not unmindful of you; she knows you to be sick and in prison; and i came to do for you whatever office your condition might require, and i came at her suggestion. she, alas! has full employment for her tears in watering the grave of her child." he started. "what! dead? say you that the child is dead?" "it is dead. i witnessed its death. i saw it expire in the arms of its mother; that mother whom i formerly met under your roof blooming and gay, but whom calamity has tarnished and withered. i saw her in the raiment of poverty, under an accursed roof: desolate; alone; unsolaced by the countenance or sympathy of human beings; approached only by those who mock at her distress, set snares for her innocence, and push her to infamy. i saw her leaning over the face of her dying babe." welbeck put his hands to his head, and exclaimed, "curses on thy lips, infernal messenger! chant elsewhere thy rueful ditty! vanish! if thou wouldst not feel in thy heart fangs red with blood less guilty than thine." till this moment the uproar in welbeck's mind appeared to hinder him from distinctly recognising his visitant. now it seemed as if the incidents of our last interview suddenly sprung up in his remembrance. "what! this is the villain that rifled my cabinet, the maker of my poverty and of all the evils which it has since engendered! that has led me to a prison! execrable fool! you are the author of the scene that you describe, and of horrors without number and name. to whatever crimes i have been urged since that interview, and the fit of madness that made you destroy my property, they spring from your act; they flowed from necessity, which, had you held your hand at that fateful moment, would never have existed. "how dare you thrust yourself upon my privacy? why am i not alone? fly! and let my miseries want, at least, the aggravation of beholding their author. my eyes loathe the sight of thee! my heart would suffocate thee with its own bitterness! begone!" "i know not," i answered, "why innocence should tremble at the ravings of a lunatic; why it should be overwhelmed by unmerited reproaches! why it should not deplore the errors of its foe, labour to correct those errors, and----" "thank thy fate, youth, that my hands are tied up by my scorn; thank thy fate that no weapon is within reach. much has passed since i saw thee, and i am a new man. i am no longer inconstant and cowardly. i have no motives but contempt to hinder me from expiating the wrongs which thou hast done me in thy blood. i disdain to take thy life. go; and let thy fidelity, at least, to the confidence which i have placed in thee, be inviolate. thou hast done me harm enough, but canst do, if thou wilt, still more. thou canst betray the secrets that are lodged in thy bosom, and rob me of the comfort of reflecting that my guilt is known but to one among the living." this suggestion made me pause, and look back upon the past. i had confided this man's tale to you. the secrecy on which he so fondly leaned was at an end. had i acted culpably or not? but why should i ruminate, with anguish and doubt, upon the past? the future was within my power, and the road of my duty was too plain to be mistaken. i would disclose to welbeck the truth, and cheerfully encounter every consequence. i would summon my friend to my aid, and take his counsel in the critical emergency in which i was placed. i ought not to rely upon myself alone in my efforts to benefit this being, when another was so near whose discernment and benevolence, and knowledge of mankind, and power of affording relief, were far superior to mine. influenced by these thoughts, i left the apartment without speaking; and, procuring pen and paper, despatched to you the billet which brought about our meeting. chapter xxxvii. mervyn's auditors allowed no pause in their attention to this story. having ended, a deep silence took place. the clock which stood upon the mantel had sounded twice the customary _larum_, but had not been heard by us. it was now struck a third time. it was _one_. our guest appeared somewhat startled at this signal, and looked, with a mournful sort of earnestness, at the clock. there was an air of inquietude about him which i had never observed in an equal degree before. i was not without much curiosity respecting other incidents than those which had just been related by him; but, after so much fatigue as he had undergone, i thought it improper to prolong the conversation. "come," said i, "my friend, let us to bed. this is a drowsy time, and, after so much exercise of mind and body, you cannot but need some repose. much has happened in your absence, which is proper to be known to you; but our discourse will be best deferred till to-morrow. i will come into your chamber by day-dawn, and unfold to you particulars." "nay," said he, "withdraw not on my account. if i go to my chamber, it will not be to sleep, but to meditate, especially after your assurance that something of moment has occurred in my absence. my thoughts, independently of any cause of sorrow or fear, have received an impulse which solitude and darkness will not stop. it is impossible to know too much for our safety and integrity, or to know it too soon. what has happened?" i did not hesitate to comply with his request, for it was not difficult to conceive that, however tired the limbs might be, the adventures of this day would not be easily expelled from the memory at night. i told him the substance of the conversation with mrs. althorpe. he smiled at those parts of the narrative which related to himself; but when his father's depravity and poverty were mentioned, he melted into tears. "poor wretch! i, that knew thee in thy better days, might have easily divined this consequence. i foresaw thy poverty and degradation in the same hour that i left thy roof. my soul drooped at the prospect, but i said, it cannot be prevented, and this reflection was an antidote to grief; but, now that thy ruin is complete, it seems as if some of it were imputable to me, who forsook thee when the succour and counsel of a son were most needed. thou art ignorant and vicious, but thou art my father still. i see that the sufferings of a better man than thou art would less afflict me than thine. perhaps it is still in my power to restore thy liberty and good name, and yet--that is a fond wish. thou art past the age when the ignorance and grovelling habits of a human being are susceptible of cure." there he stopped, and, after a gloomy pause, continued:- * * * * * i am not surprised or afflicted at the misconceptions of my neighbours with relation to my own character. men must judge from what they see; they must build their conclusions on their knowledge. i never saw in the rebukes of my neighbours any thing but laudable abhorrence of vice. they were too eager to blame, to collect materials of censure rather than of praise. it was not me whom they hated and despised. it was the phantom that passed under my name, which existed only in their imagination, and which was worthy of all their scorn and all their enmity. what i appeared to be in their eyes was as much the object of my own disapprobation as of theirs. their reproaches only evinced the rectitude of their decisions, as well as of my own. i drew from them new motives to complacency. they fortified my perseverance in the path which i had chosen as best; they raised me higher in my own esteem; they heightened the claims of the reproachers themselves to my respect and my gratitude. they thought me slothful, incurious, destitute of knowledge and of all thirst of knowledge, insolent, and profligate. they say that in the treatment of my father i have been ungrateful and inhuman. i have stolen his property, and deserted him in his calamity. therefore they hate and revile me. it is well; i love them for these proofs of their discernment and integrity. their indignation at wrong is the truest test of their virtue. it is true that they mistake me, but that arises from the circumstances of our mutual situation. they examined what was exposed to their view, they grasped at what was placed within their reach. to decide contrary to appearances, to judge from what they knew not, would prove them to be brutish and not rational, would make their decision of no worth, and render them, in their turn, objects of neglect and contempt. it is true that i hated school; that i sought occasions of absence, and finally, on being struck by the master, determined to enter his presence no more. i loved to leap, to run, to swim, to climb trees and to clamber up rocks, to shroud myself in thickets and stroll among woods, to obey the impulse of the moment, and to prate or be silent, just as my humour prompted me. all this i loved more than to go to and fro in the same path, and at stated hours to look off and on a book, to read just as much and of such a kind, to stand up and be seated, just as another thought proper to direct. i hated to be classed, cribbed, rebuked, and feruled at the pleasure of one who, as it seemed to me, knew no guide in his rewards but caprice, and no prompter in his punishments but passion. it is true that i took up the spade and the hoe as rarely, and for as short a time, as possible. i preferred to ramble in the forest and loiter on the hill; perpetually to change the scene; to scrutinize the endless variety of objects; to compare one leaf and pebble with another; to pursue those trains of thought which their resemblances and differences suggested; to inquire what it was that gave them this place, structure, and form, were more agreeable employments than ploughing and threshing. my father could well afford to hire labour. what my age and my constitution enabled me to do could be done by a sturdy boy, in half the time, with half the toil, and with none of the reluctance. the boy was a bond-servant, and the cost of his clothing and food was next to nothing. true it is, that my service would have saved him even this expense, but my motives for declining the effort were not hastily weighed or superficially examined. these were my motives. my frame was delicate and feeble. exposure to wet blasts and vertical suns was sure to make me sick. my father was insensible to this consequence; and no degree of diligence would please him but that which would destroy my health. my health was dearer to my mother than to me. she was more anxious to exempt me from possible injuries than reason justified; but anxious she was, and i could not save her from anxiety but by almost wholly abstaining from labour. i thought her peace of mind was of some value, and that, if the inclination of either of my parents must be gratified at the expense of the other, the preference was due to the woman who bore me; who nursed me in disease; who watched over my safety with incessant tenderness; whose life and whose peace were involved in mine. i should have deemed myself brutish and obdurately wicked to have loaded her with fears and cares merely to smooth the brow of a froward old man, whose avarice called on me to sacrifice my ease and my health, and who shifted to other shoulders the province of sustaining me when sick, and of mourning for me when dead. i likewise believed that it became me to reflect upon the influence of my decision on my own happiness; and to weigh the profits flowing to my father from my labour, against the benefits of mental exercise, the pleasures of the woods and streams, healthful sensations, and the luxury of musing. the pecuniary profit was petty and contemptible. it obviated no necessity. it purchased no rational enjoyment. it merely provoked, by furnishing the means of indulgence, an appetite from which my father was not exempt. it cherished the seeds of depravity in him, and lessened the little stock of happiness belonging to my mother. i did not detain you long, my friends, in portraying my parents, and recounting domestic incidents, when i first told you my story. what had no connection with the history of welbeck and with the part that i have acted upon this stage i thought it proper to omit. my omission was likewise prompted by other reasons. my mind is enervated and feeble, like my body. i cannot look upon the sufferings of those i love without exquisite pain. i cannot steel my heart by the force of reason, and by submission to necessity; and, therefore, too frequently employ the cowardly expedient of endeavouring to forget what i cannot remember without agony. i told you that my father was sober and industrious by habit; but habit is not uniform. there were intervals when his plodding and tame spirit gave place to the malice and fury of a demon. liquors were not sought by him; but he could not withstand entreaty, and a potion that produced no effect upon others changed him into a maniac. i told you that i had a sister, whom the arts of a villain destroyed. alas! the work of her destruction was left unfinished by him. the blows and contumelies of a misjudging and implacable parent, who scrupled not to thrust her, with her new-born infant, out of doors; the curses and taunts of unnatural brothers, left her no alternative but death.----but i must not think of this; i must not think of the wrongs which my mother endured in the person of her only and darling daughter. my brothers were the copyists of the father, whom they resembled in temper and person. my mother doted on her own image in her daughter and in me. this daughter was ravished from her by self-violence, and her other children by disease. i only remained to appropriate her affections and fulfil her hopes. this alone had furnished a sufficient reason why i should be careful of my health and my life, but my father's character supplied me with a motive infinitely more cogent. it is almost incredible, but nevertheless true, that the only being whose presence and remonstrances had any influence on my father, at moments when his reason was extinct, was myself. as to my personal strength, it was nothing; yet my mother's person was rescued from brutal violence; he was checked, in the midst of his ferocious career, by a single look or exclamation from me. the fear of my rebukes had even some influence in enabling him to resist temptation. if i entered the tavern at the moment when he was lifting the glass to his lips, i never weighed the injunctions of decorum, but, snatching the vessel from his hand, i threw it on the ground. i was not deterred by the presence of others; and their censures on my want of filial respect and duty were listened to with unconcern. i chose not to justify myself by expatiating on domestic miseries, and by calling down that pity on my mother which i knew would only have increased her distress. the world regarded my deportment as insolent and perverse to a degree of insanity. to deny my father an indulgence which they thought harmless, and which, indeed, was harmless in its influence on other men; to interfere thus publicly with his social enjoyments, and expose him to mortification and shame, was loudly condemned; but my duty to my mother debarred me from eluding this censure on the only terms on which it could have been eluded. now it has ceased to be necessary to conceal what passed in domestic retirements, and i should willingly confess the truth before any audience. at first my father imagined that threats and blows would intimidate his monitor. in this he was mistaken, and the detection of this mistake impressed him with an involuntary reverence for me, which set bounds to those excesses which disdained any other control. hence i derived new motives for cherishing a life which was useful, in so many ways, to my mother. my condition is now changed. i am no longer on that field to which the law, as well as reason, must acknowledge that i had some right, while there was any in my father. i must hazard my life, if need be, in the pursuit of the means of honest subsistence. i never spared myself while in the service of mr. hadwin; and, at a more inclement season, should probably have incurred some hazard by my diligence. these were the motives of my _idleness_,--for my abstaining from the common toils of the farm passed by that name among my neighbours; though, in truth, my time was far from being wholly unoccupied by manual employments, but these required less exertion of body or mind, or were more connected with intellectual efforts. they were pursued in the seclusion of my chamber or the recesses of a wood. i did not labour to conceal them, but neither was i anxious to attract notice. it was sufficient that the censure of my neighbours was unmerited, to make me regard it with indifference. i sought not the society of persons of my own age, not from sullen or unsociable habits, but merely because those around me were totally unlike myself. their tastes and occupations were incompatible with mine. in my few books, in my pen, in the vegetable and animal existences around me, i found companions who adapted their visits and intercourse to my convenience and caprice, and with whom i was never tired of communing. i was not unaware of the opinion which my neighbours had formed of my being improperly connected with betty lawrence. i am not sorry that i fell into company with that girl. her intercourse has instructed me in what some would think impossible to be attained by one who had never haunted the impure recesses of licentiousness in a city. the knowledge which a residence in this town for ten years gave her audacious and inquisitive spirit she imparted to me. her character, profligate and artful, libidinous and impudent, and made up of the impressions which a city life had produced on her coarse but active mind, was open to my study, and i studied it. i scarcely know how to repel the charge of illicit conduct, and to depict the exact species of intercourse subsisting between us. i always treated her with freedom, and sometimes with gayety. i had no motives to reserve. i was so formed that a creature like her had no power over my senses. that species of temptation adapted to entice me from the true path was widely different from the artifices of betty. there was no point at which it was possible for her to get possession of my fancy. i watched her while she practised all her tricks and blandishments, as i regarded a similar deportment in the _animal salax ignavumque_ who inhabits the sty. i made efforts to pursue my observations unembarrassed; but my efforts were made, not to restrain desire, but to suppress disgust. the difficulty lay, not in withholding my caresses, but in forbearing to repulse her with rage. decorum, indeed, was not outraged, and all limits were not overstepped at once. dubious advances were employed; but, when found unavailing, were displaced by more shameless and direct proceedings. she was too little versed in human nature to see that her last expedient was always worse than the preceding; and that, in proportion as she lost sight of decency, she multiplied the obstacles to her success. betty had many enticements in person and air. she was ruddy, smooth, and plump. to these she added--i must not say what, for it is strange to what lengths a woman destitute of modesty will sometimes go. but, all her artifices availing her not at all in the contest with my insensibilities, she resorted to extremes which it would serve no good purpose to describe in this audience. they produced not the consequences she wished, but they produced another which was by no means displeasing to her. an incident one night occurred, from which a sagacious observer deduced the existence of an intrigue. it was useless to attempt to rectify his mistake by explaining appearances in a manner consistent with my innocence. this mode of explication implied a _continence_ in me which he denied to be possible. the standard of possibilities, especially in vice and virtue, is fashioned by most men after their own character. a temptation which this judge of human nature knew that _he_ was unable to resist, he sagely concluded to be irresistible by any other man, and quickly established the belief among my neighbours, that the woman who married the father had been prostituted to the son. though i never admitted the truth of this aspersion, i believed it useless to deny, because no one would credit my denial, and because i had no power to disprove it. chapter xxxviii. what other inquiries were to be resolved by our young friend, we were now, at this late hour, obliged to postpone till the morrow. i shall pass over the reflections which a story like this would naturally suggest, and hasten to our next interview. after breakfast next morning, the subject of last night's conversation was renewed. i told him that something had occurred in his absence, in relation to mrs. wentworth and her nephew, that had perplexed us not a little. "my information is obtained," continued i, "from wortley; and it is nothing less than that young clavering, mrs. wentworth's nephew, is, at this time, actually alive." surprise, but none of the embarrassment of guilt, appeared in his countenance at these tidings. he looked at me as if desirous that i should proceed. "it seems," added i, "that a letter was lately received by this lady from the father of clavering, who is now in europe. this letter reports that this son was lately met with in charleston, and relates the means which old mr. clavering had used to prevail upon his son to return home; means, of the success of which he entertained well-grounded hopes. what think you?" "i can only reject it," said he, after some pause, "as untrue. the father's correspondent may have been deceived. the father may have been deceived, or the father may conceive it necessary to deceive the aunt, or some other supposition as to the source of the error may be true; but an error it surely is. clavering is not alive. i know the chamber where he died, and the withered pine under which he lies buried." "if she be deceived," said i, "it will be impossible to rectify her error." "i hope not. an honest front and a straight story will be sufficient." "how do you mean to act?" "visit her, without doubt, and tell her the truth. my tale will be too circumstantial and consistent to permit her to disbelieve." "she will not hearken to you. she is too strongly prepossessed against you to admit you even to a hearing." "she cannot help it. unless she lock her door against me, or stuff her ears with wool, she must hear me. her prepossessions are reasonable, but are easily removed by telling the truth. why does she suspect me of artifice? because i seemed to be allied to welbeck, and because i disguised the truth. that she thinks ill of me is not her fault, but my misfortune; and, happily for me, a misfortune easily removed." "then you will try to see her?" "i will see her, and the sooner the better. i will see her to-day; this morning; as soon as i have seen welbeck, whom i shall immediately visit in his prison." "there are other embarrassments and dangers of which you are not aware. welbeck is pursued by many persons whom he has defrauded of large sums. by these persons you are deemed an accomplice in his guilt, and a warrant is already in the hands of officers for arresting you wherever you are found." "in what way," said mervyn, sedately, "do they imagine me a partaker of his crime?" "i know not. you lived with him. you fled with him. you aided and connived at his escape." "are these crimes?" "i believe not, but they subject you to suspicion." "to arrest and to punishment?" "to detention for a while, perhaps. but these alone cannot expose you to punishment." "i thought so. then i have nothing to fear." "you have imprisonment and obloquy, at least, to dread." "true; but they cannot be avoided but by my exile and skulking out of sight,--evils infinitely more formidable. i shall, therefore, not avoid them. the sooner my conduct is subjected to scrutiny, the better. will you go with me to welbeck?" "i will go with you." inquiring for welbeck of the keeper of the prison, we were informed that he was in his own apartment, very sick. the physician attending the prison had been called, but the prisoner had preserved an obstinate and scornful silence; and had neither explained his condition, nor consented to accept any aid. we now went alone into his apartment. his sensibility seemed fast ebbing, yet an emotion of joy was visible in his eyes at the appearance of mervyn. he seemed likewise to recognise in me his late visitant, and made no objection to my entrance. "how are you this morning?" said arthur, seating himself on the bedside, and taking his hand. the sick man was scarcely able to articulate his reply:--"i shall soon be well. i have longed to see you. i want to leave with you a few words." he now cast his languid eyes on me. "you are his friend," he continued. "you know all. you may stay." there now succeeded a long pause, during which he closed his eyes, and resigned himself as if to an oblivion of all thought. his pulse under my hand was scarcely perceptible. from this in some minutes he recovered, and, fixing his eyes on mervyn, resumed, in a broken and feeble accent:-"clemenza! you have seen her. weeks ago, i left her in an accursed house; yet she has not been mistreated. neglected and abandoned indeed, but not mistreated. save her, mervyn. comfort her. awaken charity for her sake. "i cannot tell you what has happened. the tale would be too long,--too mournful. yet, in justice to the living, i must tell you something. my woes and my crimes will be buried with me. some of them, but not all. "ere this, i should have been many leagues upon the ocean, had not a newspaper fallen into my hands while on the eve of embarkation. by that i learned that a treasure was buried with the remains of the ill-fated watson. i was destitute. i was unjust enough to wish to make this treasure my own. prone to think i was forgotten, or numbered with the victims of pestilence, i ventured to return under a careless disguise. i penetrated to the vaults of that deserted dwelling by night. i dug up the bones of my friend, and found the girdle and its valuable contents, according to the accurate description that i had read. "i hastened back with my prize to baltimore, but my evil destiny overtook me at last. i was recognised by emissaries of jamieson, arrested and brought hither, and here shall i consummate my fate and defeat the rage of my creditors by death. but first----" here welbeck stretched out his left hand to mervyn, and, after some reluctance, showed a roll of lead. "receive this," said he. "in the use of it, be guided by your honesty and by the same advertisement that furnished me the clue by which to recover it. that being secured, the world and i will part forever. withdraw, for your presence can help me nothing." we were unwilling to comply with his injunction, and continued some longer time in his chamber; but our kind intent availed nothing. he quickly relapsed into insensibility, from which he recovered not again, but next day expired. such, in the flower of his age, was the fate of thomas welbeck. whatever interest i might feel in accompanying the progress of my young friend, a sudden and unforeseen emergency compelled me again to leave the city. a kinsman, to whom i was bound by many obligations, was suffering a lingering disease, and, imagining, with some reason, his dissolution to be not far distant, he besought my company and my assistance, to soothe, at least, the agonies of his last hour. i was anxious to clear up the mysteries which arthur's conduct had produced, and to shield him, if possible, from the evils which i feared awaited him. it was impossible, however, to decline the invitation of my kinsman, as his residence was not a day's journey from the city. i was obliged to content myself with occasional information, imparted by mervyn's letters or those of my wife. meanwhile, on leaving the prison, i hasted to inform mervyn of the true nature of the scene which had just passed. by this extraordinary occurrence, the property of the maurices was now in honest hands. welbeck, stimulated by selfish motives, had done that which any other person would have found encompassed with formidable dangers and difficulties. how this attempt was suggested or executed, he had not informed us, nor was it desirable to know. it was sufficient that the means of restoring their own to a destitute and meritorious family were now in our possession. having returned home, i unfolded to mervyn all the particulars respecting williams and the maurices which i had lately learned from wortley. he listened with deep attention, and, my story being finished, he said, "in this small compass, then, is the patrimony and subsistence of a numerous family. to restore it to them is the obvious proceeding--but how? where do they abide?" "williams and watson's wife live in baltimore, and the maurices live near that town. the advertisements alluded to by wortley, and which are to be found in any newspaper, will inform us; but, first, are we sure that any or all of these bills are contained in this covering?" the lead was now unrolled, and the bills which williams had described were found enclosed. nothing appeared to be deficient. of this, however, we were scarcely qualified to judge. those that were the property of williams might not be entire, and what would be the consequence of presenting them to him, if any had been embezzled by welbeck? this difficulty was obviated by mervyn, who observed that the advertisement describing these bills would afford us ample information on this head. "having found out where the maurices and mrs. watson live, nothing remains but to visit them, and put an end, as far as lies in my power, to their inquietudes." "what! would you go to baltimore?" "certainly. can any other expedient be proper? how shall i otherwise insure the safe conveyance of these papers?" "you may send them by post." "but why not go myself?" "i can hardly tell, unless your appearance on such an errand may be suspected likely to involve you in embarrassments." "what embarrassments? if they receive their own, ought they not to be satisfied?" "the inquiry will naturally be made as to the manner of gaining possession of these papers. they were lately in the hands of watson, but watson has disappeared. suspicions are awake respecting the cause of his disappearance. these suspicions are connected with welbeck, and welbeck's connection with you is not unknown." "these are evils, but i see not how an ingenious and open conduct is adapted to increase these evils. if they come, i must endure them." "i believe your decision is right. no one is so skilful an advocate in a cause, as he whose cause it is. i rely upon your skill and address, and shall leave you to pursue your own way. i must leave you for a time, but shall expect to be punctually informed of all that passes." with this agreement we parted, and i hastened to perform my intended journey. chapter xxxix. i am glad, my friend, thy nimble pen has got so far upon its journey. what remains of my story may be despatched in a trice. i have just now some vacant hours, which might possibly be more usefully employed, but not in an easier manner or more pleasant. so, let me carry on thy thread. first, let me mention the resolutions i had formed at the time i parted with my friend. i had several objects in view. one was a conference with mrs. wentworth; another was an interview with her whom i met with at villars's. my heart melted when i thought upon the desolate condition of clemenza, and determined me to direct my first efforts for her relief. for this end i was to visit the female who had given me a direction to her house. the name of this person is achsa fielding, and she lived, according to her own direction, at no. 40 walnut street. i went thither without delay. she was not at home. having gained information from the servant as to when she might be found, i proceeded to mrs. wentworth's. in going thither my mind was deeply occupied in meditation; and, with my usual carelessness of forms, i entered the house and made my way to the parlour, where an interview had formerly taken place between us. having arrived, i began, though somewhat unseasonably, to reflect upon the topics with which i should introduce my conversation, and particularly the manner in which i should introduce myself. i had opened doors without warning, and traversed passages without being noticed. this had arisen from my thoughtlessness. there was no one within hearing or sight. what was next to be done? should i not return softly to the outer door, and summon the servant by knocking? preparing to do this, i heard a footstep in the entry which suspended my design. i stood in the middle of the floor, attentive to these movements, when presently the door opened, and there entered the apartment mrs. wentworth herself! she came, as it seemed, without expectation of finding any one there. when, therefore, the figure of a man caught her vagrant attention, she started and cast a hasty look towards me. "pray!" (in a peremptory tone,) "how came you here, sir? and what is your business?" neither arrogance, on the one hand, nor humility, upon the other, had any part in modelling my deportment. i came not to deprecate anger, or exult over distress. i answered, therefore, distinctly, firmly, and erectly,-"i came to see you, madam, and converse with you; but, being busy with other thoughts, i forgot to knock at the door. no evil was intended by my negligence, though propriety has certainly not been observed. will you pardon this intrusion, and condescend to grant me your attention?" "to what? what have you to say to me? i know you only as the accomplice of a villain in an attempt to deceive me. there is nothing to justify your coming hither, and i desire you to leave the house with as little ceremony as you entered it." my eyes were lowered at this rebuke, yet i did not obey the command. "your treatment of me, madam, is such as i appear to you to deserve. appearances are unfavourable to me, but those appearances are false. i have concurred in no plot against your reputation or your fortune. i have told you nothing but the truth. i came hither to promote no selfish or sinister purpose. i have no favour to entreat, and no petition to offer, but that you will suffer me to clear up those mistakes which you have harboured respecting me. "i am poor. i am destitute of fame and of kindred. i have nothing to console me in obscurity and indigence, but the approbation of my own heart and the good opinion of those who know me as i am. the good may be led to despise and condemn me. their aversion and scorn shall not make me unhappy; but it is my interest and my duty to rectify their error if i can. i regard your character with esteem. you have been mistaken in condemning me as a liar and impostor, and i came to remove this mistake. i came, if not to procure your esteem, at least to take away hatred and suspicion. "but this is not all my purpose. you are in an error in relation not only to my character, but to the situation of your nephew clavering. i formerly told you, that i saw him die; that i assisted at his burial: but my tale was incoherent and imperfect, and you have since received intelligence to which you think proper to trust, and which assures you that he is still living. all i now ask is your attention, while i relate the particulars of my knowledge. "proof of my veracity or innocence may be of no value in your eyes, but the fate of your nephew ought to be known to you. certainty, on this head, may be of much importance to your happiness, and to the regulation of your future conduct. to hear me patiently can do you no injury, and may benefit you much. will you permit me to go on?" during this address, little abatement of resentment and scorn was visible in my companion. "i will hear you," she replied. "your invention may amuse if it does not edify. but, i pray you, let your story be short." i was obliged to be content with this ungraceful concession, and proceeded to begin my narration. i described the situation of my father's dwelling. i mentioned the year, month, day, and hour of her nephew's appearance among us. i expatiated minutely on his form, features, dress, sound of his voice, and repeated his words. his favourite gestures and attitudes were faithfully described. i had gone but a little way in my story, when the effects were visible in her demeanour which i expected from it. her knowledge of the youth, and of the time and manner of his disappearance, made it impossible for me, with so minute a narrative, to impose upon her credulity. every word, every incident related, attested my truth, by their agreement with what she herself previously knew. her suspicious and angry watchfulness was quickly exchanged for downcast looks, and stealing tears, and sighs difficultly repressed. meanwhile, i did not pause, but described the treatment he received from my mother's tenderness, his occupations, the freaks of his insanity, and, finally, the circumstances of his death and funeral. thence i hastened to the circumstances which brought me to the city; which placed me in the service of welbeck, and obliged me to perform so ambiguous a part in her presence. i left no difficulty to be solved, and no question unanticipated. "i have now finished my story," i continued, "and accomplished my design in coming hither. whether i have vindicated my integrity from your suspicions, i know not. i have done what in me lay to remove your error; and, in that, have done my duty. what more remains? any inquiries you are pleased to make, i am ready to answer. if there be none to make, i will comply with your former commands, and leave the house with as little ceremony as i entered it." "your story," she replied, "has been unexpected. i believe it fully, and am sorry for the hard thoughts which past appearances have made me entertain concerning you." here she sunk into mournful silence. "the information," she at length resumed, "which i have received from another quarter respecting that unfortunate youth, astonishes and perplexes me. it is inconsistent with your story, but it must be founded on some mistake, which i am, at present, unable to unravel. welbeck, whose connection has been so unfortunate to you----" "unfortunate! dear madam! how unfortunate? it has done away a part of my ignorance of the world in which i live. it has led me to the situation in which i am now placed. it has introduced me to the knowledge of many good people. it has made me the witness and the subject of many acts of beneficence and generosity. my knowledge of welbeck has been useful to me. it has enabled me to be useful to others. i look back upon that allotment of my destiny which first led me to his door, with gratitude and pleasure. "would to heaven," continued i, somewhat changing my tone, "intercourse with welbeck had been as harmless to all others as it has been to me! that no injury to fortune and fame, and innocence and life, had been incurred by others greater than has fallen upon my head! there is one being, whose connection with him has not been utterly dissimilar in its origin and circumstances to mine, though the catastrophe has, indeed, been widely and mournfully different. "and yet, within this moment, a thought has occurred from which i derive some consolation and some hope. you, dear madam, are rich. these spacious apartments, this plentiful accommodation, are yours. you have enough for your own gratification and convenience, and somewhat to spare. will you take to your protecting arms, to your hospitable roof, an unhappy girl whom the arts of welbeck have robbed of fortune, reputation, and honour, who is now languishing in poverty, weeping over the lifeless remains of her babe, surrounded by the agents of vice, and trembling on the verge of infamy?" "what can this mean?" replied the lady. "of whom do you speak?" "you shall know her. you shall be apprized of her claims to your compassion. her story, as far as is known to me, i will faithfully repeat to you. she is a stranger; an italian; her name is clemenza lodi." "clemenza lodi! good heaven!" exclaimed mrs. wentworth; "why, surely--it cannot be. and yet--is it possible that you are that person?" "i do not comprehend you, madam." "a friend has related a transaction of a strange sort. it is scarcely an hour since she told it me. the name of clemenza lodi was mentioned in it, and a young man of most singular deportment was described. but tell me how you were engaged on thursday morning." "i was coming to this city from a distance. i stopped ten minutes at the house of----" "mrs. villars?" "the same. perhaps you know her and her character. perhaps you can confirm or rectify my present opinions concerning her. it is there that the unfortunate clemenza abides. it is thence that i wish her to be speedily removed." "i have heard of you; of your conduct upon that occasion." "of me?" answered i, eagerly. "do you know that woman?" so saying, i produced the card which i had received from her, and on which her name was written. "i know her well. she is my countrywoman and my friend." "your friend? then she is good; she is innocent; she is generous. will she be a sister, a protectress, to clemenza? will you exhort her to a deed of charity? will you be, yourself, an example of beneficence? direct me to miss fielding, i beseech you. i have called on her already, but in vain, and there is no time to be lost." "why are you so precipitate? what would you do?" "take her away from that house instantly--bring her hither--place her under your protection--give her mrs. wentworth for a counsellor--a friend--a mother. shall i do this? shall i hie thither to-day, this very hour--now? give me your consent, and she shall be with you before noon." "by no means," replied she, with earnestness. "you are too hasty. an affair of so much importance cannot be despatched in a moment. there are many difficulties and doubts to be first removed." "let them be reserved for the future. withhold not your helping hand till the struggle has disappeared forever. think on the gulf that is already gaping to swallow her. this is no time to hesitate and falter. i will tell you her story, but not now; we will postpone it till to-morrow, and first secure her from impending evils. she shall tell it you herself. in an hour i will bring her hither, and she herself shall recount to you her sorrows. will you let me?" "your behaviour is extraordinary. i can scarcely tell whether this simplicity be real or affected. one would think that your common sense would show you the impropriety of your request. to admit under my roof a woman notoriously dishonoured, and from an infamous house----" "my dearest madam! how can you reflect upon the situation without irresistible pity? i see that you are thoroughly aware of her past calamity and her present danger. do not these urge you to make haste to her relief? can any lot be more deplorable than hers? can any state be more perilous? poverty is not the only evil that oppresses or that threatens her. the scorn of the world, and her own compunction, the death of the fruit of her error and the witness of her shame, are not the worst. she is exposed to the temptations of the profligate; while she remains with mrs. villars, her infamy accumulates; her further debasement is facilitated; her return to reputation and to virtue is obstructed by new bars." "how know i that her debasement is not already complete and irremediable? she is a mother, but not a wife. how came she thus? is her being welbeck's prostitute no proof of her guilt?" "alas! i know not. i believe her not very culpable; i know her to be unfortunate; to have been robbed and betrayed. you are a stranger to her history. i am myself imperfectly acquainted with it. "but let me tell you the little that i know. perhaps my narrative may cause you to think of her as i do." she did not object to this proposal, and i immediately recounted all that i had gained from my own observations, or from welbeck himself, respecting this forlorn girl. having finished my narrative, i proceeded thus:-"can you hesitate to employ that power which was given you for good ends, to rescue this sufferer? take her to your home; to your bosom; to your confidence. keep aloof those temptations which beset her in her present situation. restore her to that purity which her desolate condition, her ignorance, her misplaced gratitude and the artifices of a skilful dissembler, have destroyed, if it be destroyed; for how know we under what circumstances her ruin was accomplished? with what pretences, or appearances, or promises, she was won to compliance?" "true. i confess my ignorance; but ought not that ignorance to be removed before she makes a part of my family?" "oh, no! it may be afterwards removed. it cannot be removed before. by bringing her hither you shield her, at least, from future and possible evils. here you can watch her conduct and sift her sentiments conveniently and at leisure. should she prove worthy of your charity, how justly may you congratulate yourself on your seasonable efforts in her cause! if she prove unworthy, you may then demean yourself according to her demerits." "i must reflect upon it.--to-morrow----" "let me prevail on you to admit her at once, and without delay. this very moment may be the critical one. to-day we may exert ourselves with success, but to-morrow all our efforts may be fruitless. why fluctuate, why linger, when so much good may be done, and no evil can possibly be incurred? it requires but a word from you; you need not move a finger. your house is large. you have chambers vacant and convenient. consent only that your door shall not be barred against her; that you will treat her with civility: to carry your kindness into effect; to persuade her to attend me hither and to place herself in your care, shall be my province." these and many similar entreaties and reasonings were ineffectual. her general disposition was kind, but she was unaccustomed to strenuous or sudden exertions. to admit the persuasions of such an advocate to so uncommon a scheme as that of sharing her house with a creature thus previously unknown to her, thus loaded with suspicion and with obloquy, was not possible. i at last forbore importunity, and requested her to tell me when i might expect to meet with mrs. fielding at her lodgings. inquiry was made to what end i sought an interview. i made no secret of my purpose. "are you mad, young man?" she exclaimed. "mrs. fielding has already been egregiously imprudent. on the faith of an ancient slight acquaintance with mrs. villars in europe, she suffered herself to be decoyed into a visit. instead of taking warning by numerous tokens of the real character of that woman, in her behaviour and in that of her visitants, she consented to remain there one night. the next morning took place that astonishing interview with you which she has since described to me. she is now warned against the like indiscretion. and, pray, what benevolent scheme would you propose to her?" "has she property? is she rich?" "she is. unhappily, perhaps, for her, she is absolute mistress of her fortune, and has neither guardian nor parent to control her in the use of it." "has she virtue? does she know the value of affluence and a fair fame? and will not she devote a few dollars to rescue a fellow-creature from indigence and infamy and vice? surely she will. she will hazard nothing by the boon. i will be her almoner. i will provide the wretched stranger with food and raiment and dwelling; i will pay for all, if mrs. fielding, from her superfluity, will supply the means. clemenza shall owe life and honour to your friend, till i am able to supply the needful sum from my own stock." while thus speaking, my companion gazed at me with steadfastness:--"i know not what to make of you. your language and ideas are those of a lunatic. are you acquainted with mrs. fielding?" "yes. i have seen her two days ago, and she has invited me to see her again." "and on the strength of this acquaintance you expect to be her almoner? to be the medium of her charity?" "i desire to save her trouble; to make charity as light and easy as possible. 'twill be better if she perform those offices herself. 'twill redound more to the credit of her reason and her virtue. but i solicit her benignity only in the cause of clemenza. for her only do i wish at present to call forth her generosity and pity." "and do you imagine she will intrust her money to one of your age and sex, whom she knows so imperfectly, to administer to the wants of one whom she found in such a house as mrs. villars's? she never will. she mentioned her imprudent engagement to meet you, but she is now warned against the folly of such confidence. "you have told me plausible stories of yourself and of this clemenza. i cannot say that i disbelieve them, but i know the ways of the world too well to bestow implicit faith so easily. you are an extraordinary young man. you may possibly be honest. such a one as you, with your education and address, may possibly have passed all your life in a hovel; but it is scarcely credible, let me tell you. i believe most of the facts respecting my nephew, because my knowledge of him before his flight would enable me to detect your falsehood; but there must be other proofs besides an innocent brow and a voluble tongue, to make me give full credit to your pretensions. "i have no claim upon welbeck which can embarrass you. on that score, you are free from any molestation from me or my friends. i have suspected you of being an accomplice in some vile plot, and am now inclined to acquit you; but that is all that you must expect from me, till your character be established by other means than your own assertions. i am engaged at present, and must therefore request you to put an end to your visit." this strain was much unlike the strain which preceded it. i imagined, by the mildness of her tone and manners, that her unfavourable prepossessions were removed; but they seemed to have suddenly regained their pristine force. i was somewhat disconcerted by this unexpected change. i stood for a minute silent and irresolute. just then a knock was heard at the door, and presently entered that very female whom i had met with at villars's. i caught her figure as i glanced through the window. mrs. wentworth darted at me many significant glances, which commanded me to withdraw; but, with this object in view, it was impossible. as soon as she entered, her eyes were fixed upon me. certain recollections naturally occurred at that moment, and made her cheeks glow. some confusion reigned for a moment, but was quickly dissipated. she did not notice me, but exchanged salutations with her friend. all this while i stood near the window, in a situation not a little painful. certain tremors which i had not been accustomed to feel, and which seemed to possess a mystical relation to the visitant, disabled me at once from taking my leave, or from performing any useful purpose by staying. at length, struggling for composure, i approached her, and, showing her the card she had given me, said,-"agreeably to this direction, i called an hour ago, at your lodgings. i found you not. i hope you will permit me to call once more. when shall i expect to meet you at home?" her eyes were cast on the floor. a kind of indirect attention was fixed on mrs. wentworth, serving to intimidate and check her. at length she said, in an irresolute voice, "i shall be at home this evening." "and this evening," replied i, "i will call to see you." so saying, i left the house. this interval was tedious, but was to be endured with equanimity. i was impatient to be gone to baltimore, and hoped to be able to set out by the dawn of next day. meanwhile, i was necessarily to perform something with respect to clemenza. after dinner i accompanied mrs. stevens to visit miss carlton. i was eager to see a woman who could bear adversity in the manner which my friend had described. she met us at the door of her apartment. her seriousness was not abated by her smiles of affability and welcome. "my friend!" whispered i, "how truly lovely is this miss carlton! are the heart and the intelligence within worthy of these features?" "yes, they are. the account of her employments, of her resignation to the ill fate of the brother whom she loves, proves that they are." my eyes were riveted to her countenance and person. i felt uncontrollable eagerness to speak to her, and to gain her good opinion. "you must know this young man, my dear miss carlton," said my friend, looking at me; "he is my husband's friend, and professes a great desire to be yours. you must not treat him as a mere stranger, for he knows your character and situation already, as well as that of your brother." she looked at me with benignity:--"i accept his friendship willingly and gratefully, and shall endeavour to convince him that his good opinion is not misplaced." there now ensued a conversation somewhat general, in which this young woman showed a mind vigorous from exercise and unembarrassed by care. she affected no concealment of her own condition, of her wants, or her comforts. she laid no stress upon misfortunes, but contrived to deduce some beneficial consequence to herself, and some motive for gratitude to heaven, from every wayward incident that had befallen her. this demeanour emboldened me, at length, to inquire into the cause of her brother's imprisonment, and the nature of his debt. she answered frankly and without hesitation:--"it is a debt of his father's, for which he made himself responsible during his father's life. the act was generous but imprudent, as the event has shown; though, at the time, the unhappy effects could not be foreseen. "my father," continued she, "was arrested by his creditor, at a time when the calmness and comforts of his own dwelling were necessary to his health. the creditor was obdurate, and would release him upon no condition but that of receiving a bond from my brother, by which he engaged to pay the debt at several successive times and in small portions. all these instalments were discharged with great difficulty indeed, but with sufficient punctuality, except the last, to which my brother's earnings were not adequate." "how much is the debt?" "four hundred dollars." "and is the state of the creditor such as to make the loss of four hundred dollars of more importance to him than the loss of liberty to your brother?" she answered, smiling, "that is a very abstract view of things. on such a question you and i might, perhaps, easily decide in favour of my brother; but would there not be some danger of deciding partially? his conduct is a proof of his decision, and there is no power to change it." "will not argument change it? methinks in so plain a case i should be able to convince him. you say he is rich and childless. his annual income is ten times more than this sum. your brother cannot pay the debt while in prison; whereas, if at liberty, he might slowly and finally discharge it. if his humanity would not yield, his avarice might be brought to acquiesce." "but there is another passion which you would find it somewhat harder to subdue, and that is his vengeance. he thinks himself wronged, and imprisons my brother, not to enforce payment, but to inflict misery. if you could persuade him that there is no hardship in imprisonment, you would speedily gain the victory; but that could not be attempted consistently with truth. in proportion to my brother's suffering is his gratification." "you draw an odious and almost incredible portrait." "and yet such a one would serve for the likeness of almost every second man we meet." "and is such your opinion of mankind? your experience must surely have been of a rueful tenor to justify such hard thoughts of the rest of your species." "by no means. it has been what those whose situation disables them from looking further than the surface of things would regard as unfortunate; but, if my goods and evils were equitably balanced, the former would be the weightiest. i have found kindness and goodness in great numbers, but have likewise met prejudice and rancor in many. my opinion of farquhar is not lightly taken up. i saw him yesterday, and the nature of his motives in the treatment of my brother was plain enough." here this topic was succeeded by others, and the conversation ceased not till the hour had arrived on which i had preconcerted to visit mrs. fielding. i left my two friends for this purpose. i was admitted to mrs. fielding's presence without scruple or difficulty. there were two females in her company, and one of the other sex, well-dressed, elderly, and sedate persons. their discourse turned upon political topics, with which, as you know, i have but slight acquaintance. they talked of fleets and armies, of robespierre and pitt, of whom i had only a newspaper-knowledge. in a short time the women rose, and, huddling on their cloaks, disappeared, in company with the gentleman. being thus left alone with mrs. fielding, some embarrassment was mutually betrayed. with much hesitation, which, however, gradually disappeared, my companion, at length, began the conversation:-"you met me lately, in a situation, sir, on which i look back with trembling and shame, but not with any self-condemnation. i was led into it without any fault, unless a too hasty confidence may be styled a fault. i had known mrs. villars in england, where she lived with an untainted reputation, at least; and the sight of my countrywoman, in a foreign land, awakened emotions in the indulgence of which i did not imagine there was either any guilt or any danger. she invited me to see her at her house with so much urgency and warmth, and solicited me to take a place immediately in a chaise in which she had come to the city, that i too incautiously complied. "you are a stranger to me, and i am unacquainted with your character. what little i have seen of your deportment, and what little i have lately heard concerning you from mrs. wentworth, do not produce unfavourable impressions; but the apology i have made was due to my own reputation, and should have been offered to you whatever your character had been." there she stopped. "i came not hither," said i, "to receive an apology. your demeanour, on our first interview, shielded you sufficiently from any suspicions or surmises that i could form. what you have now mentioned was likewise mentioned by your friend, and was fully believed upon her authority. my purpose, in coming, related not to you, but to another. i desired merely to interest your generosity and justice on behalf of one whose destitute and dangerous condition may lay claim to your compassion and your succour." "i comprehend you," said she, with an air of some perplexity. "i know the claims of that person." "and will you comply with them?" "in what manner can i serve her?" "by giving her the means of living." "does she not possess them already?" "she is destitute. her dependence was wholly placed upon one that is dead, by whom her person was dishonoured and her fortune embezzled." "but she still lives. she is not turned into the street. she is not destitute of home." "but what a home!" "such as she may choose to remain in." "she cannot choose it. she must not choose it. she remains through ignorance, or through the incapacity of leaving it." "but how shall she be persuaded to a change?" "i will persuade her. i will fully explain her situation. i will supply her with a new home." "you will persuade her to go with you, and to live at a home of your providing and on your bounty?" "certainly." "would that change be worthy of a cautious person? would it benefit her reputation? would it prove her love of independence?" "my purposes are good. i know not why she should suspect them. but i am only anxious to be the instrument. let her be indebted to one of her own sex, of unquestionable reputation. admit her into this house. invite her to your arms. cherish and console her as your sister." "before i am convinced that she deserves it? and even then, what regard shall i, young, unmarried, independent, affluent, pay to my own reputation in harbouring a woman in these circumstances?" "but you need not act yourself. make me your agent and almoner. only supply her with the means of subsistence through me." "would you have me act a clandestine part? hold meetings with one of your sex, and give him money for a purpose which i must hide from the world? is it worth while to be a dissembler and impostor? and will not such conduct incur more dangerous surmises and suspicions than would arise from acting openly and directly? you will forgive me for reminding you, likewise, that it is particularly incumbent upon those in my situation to be circumspect in their intercourse with men and with strangers. this is the second time that i have seen you. my knowledge of you is extremely dubious and imperfect, and such as would make the conduct you prescribe to me, in a high degree, rash and culpable. you must not, therefore, expect me to pursue it." these words were delivered with an air of firmness and dignity. i was not insensible to the truth of her representations. "i confess," said i, "what you have said makes me doubt the propriety of my proposal; yet i would fain be of service to her. cannot you point out some practicable method?" she was silent and thoughtful, and seemed indisposed to answer my question. "i had set my heart upon success in this negotiation," continued i, "and could not imagine any obstacle to its success; but i find my ignorance of the world's ways much greater than i had previously expected. you defraud yourself of all the happiness redounding from the act of making others happy. you sacrifice substance to show, and are more anxious to prevent unjust aspersions from lighting on yourself, than to rescue a fellow-creature from guilt and infamy. "you are rich, and abound in all the conveniences and luxuries of life. a small portion of your superfluity would obviate the wants of a being not less worthy than yourself. it is not avarice or aversion to labour that makes you withhold your hand. it is dread of the sneers and surmises of malevolence and ignorance. "i will not urge you further at present. your determination to be wise should not be hasty. think upon the subject calmly and sedately, and form your resolution in the course of three days. at the end of that period i will visit you again." so saying, and without waiting for comment or answer, i withdrew. chapter xl. i mounted the stage-coach at daybreak the next day, in company with a sallow frenchman from st. domingo, his fiddle-case, an ape, and two female blacks. the frenchman, after passing the suburbs, took out his violin and amused himself with humming to his own _tweedle-tweedle_. the monkey now and then munched an apple, which was given to him from a basket by the blacks, who gazed with stupid wonder, and an exclamatory _la! la!_ upon the passing scenery, or chattered to each other in a sort of open-mouthed, half-articulate, monotonous, singsong jargon. the man looked seldom either on this side or that; and spoke only to rebuke the frolics of the monkey, with a "tenez! dominique! prenez garde! diable noir!" as to me, my thought was busy in a thousand ways. i sometimes gazed at the faces of my _four_ companions, and endeavoured to discern the differences and samenesses between them. i took an exact account of the features, proportions, looks, and gestures of the monkey, the congolese, and the creole gaul. i compared them together, and examined them apart. i looked at them in a thousand different points of view, and pursued, untired and unsatiated, those trains of reflections which began at each change of tone, feature, and attitude. i marked the country as it successively arose before me, and found endless employment in examining the shape and substance of the fence, the barn, and the cottage, the aspect of earth and of heaven. how great are the pleasures of health and of mental activity! my chief occupation, however, related to the scenes into which i was about to enter. my imaginations were, of course, crude and inadequate; and i found an uncommon gratification in comparing realities, as they successively occurred, with the pictures which my wayward fancy had depicted. i will not describe my dreams. my proper task is to relate the truth. neither shall i dwell upon the images suggested by the condition of the country through which i passed. i will confine myself to mentioning the transactions connected with the purpose of my journey. i reached baltimore at night. i was not so fatigued but that i could ramble through the town. i intended, at present, merely the gratification of a stranger's curiosity. my visit to mrs. watson and her brother i designed should take place on the morrow. the evening of my arrival i deemed an unseasonable time. while roving about, however, it occurred to me, that it might not be impolitic to find the way to their habitation even now. my purposes of general curiosity would equally be served whichever way my steps were bent; and to trace the path to their dwelling would save me the trouble of inquiries and interrogations to-morrow. when i looked forward to an interview with the wife of watson, and to the subject which would be necessarily discussed at that interview, i felt a trembling and misgiving at my heart. "surely," thought i, "it will become me to exercise immeasurable circumspection and address; and yet how little are these adapted to the impetuosity and candour of my nature! "how am i to introduce myself? what am i to tell her? that i was a sort of witness to the murder of her husband? that i received from the hand of his assassin the letter which i afterwards transmitted to her? and, from the same hands, the bills contained in his girdle? "how will she start and look aghast! what suspicions will she harbour? what inquiries shall be made of me? how shall they be disarmed and eluded, or answered? deep consideration will be necessary before i trust myself to such an interview. the coming night shall be devoted to reflection upon this subject." from these thoughts i proceeded to inquiries for the street mentioned in the advertisement, where mrs. watson was said to reside. the street, and, at length, the habitation, was found. having reached a station opposite, i paused and surveyed the mansion. it was a wooden edifice of two stories, humble, but neat. you ascended to the door by several stone steps. of the two lower windows, the shutters of one were closed, but those of the other were open. though late in the evening, there was no appearance of light or fire within. beside the house was a painted fence, through which was a gate leading to the back of the building. guided by the impulse of the moment, i crossed the street to the gate, and, lifting the latch, entered the paved alley, on one side of which was a paled fence, and on the other the house, looking through two windows into the alley. the first window was dark like those in front; but at the second a light was discernible. i approached it, and, looking through, beheld a plain but neat apartment, in which parlour, kitchen, and nursery seemed to be united. a fire burned cheerfully in the chimney, over which was a tea-kettle. on the hearth sat a smiling and playful cherub of a boy, tossing something to a black girl who sat opposite, and whose innocent and regular features wanted only a different hue to make them beautiful. near it, in a rocking-chair, with a sleeping babe in her lap, sat a female figure in plain but neat and becoming attire. her posture permitted half her face to be seen, and saved me from any danger of being observed. this countenance was full of sweetness and benignity, but the sadness that veiled its lustre was profound. her eyes were now fixed upon the fire and were moist with the tears of remembrance, while she sung, in low and scarcely-audible strains, an artless lullaby. this spectacle exercised a strange power over my feelings. while occupied in meditating on the features of the mother, i was unaware of my conspicuous situation. the black girl, having occasion to change her situation, in order to reach the ball which was thrown at her, unluckily caught a glance of my figure through the glass. in a tone of half surprise and half terror, she cried out, "oh! see dare! a man!" i was tempted to draw suddenly back, but a second thought showed me the impropriety of departing thus abruptly and leaving behind me some alarm. i felt a sort of necessity for apologizing for my intrusion into these precincts, and hastened to a door that led into the same apartment. i knocked. a voice somewhat confused bade me enter. it was not till i opened the door and entered the room, that i fully saw in what embarrassments i had incautiously involved myself. i could scarcely obtain sufficient courage to speak, and gave a confused assent to the question, "have you business with me, sir?" she offered me a chair, and i sat down. she put the child, not yet awakened, into the arms of the black, who kissed it and rocked it in her arms with great satisfaction, and, resuming her seat, looked at me with inquisitiveness mingled with complacency. after a moment's pause, i said, "i was directed to this house as the abode of mr. ephraim williams. can he be seen, madam?" "he is not in town at present. if you will leave a message with me, i will punctually deliver it." the thought suddenly occurred, whether any more was needful than merely to leave the bills suitably enclosed, as they already were, in a packet. thus all painful explanations might be avoided, and i might have reason to congratulate myself on his seasonable absence. actuated by these thoughts, i drew forth the packet, and put it into her hand, saying, "i will leave this in your possession, and must earnestly request you to keep it safe until you can deliver it into his own hands." scarcely had i said this before new suggestions occurred. was it right to act in this clandestine and mysterious manner? should i leave these persons in uncertainty respecting the fate of a husband and a brother? what perplexities, misunderstandings, and suspenses might not grow out of this uncertainty? and ought they not to be precluded at any hazard to my own safety or good name? these sentiments made me involuntarily stretch forth my hand to retake the packet. this gesture, and other significances in my manners, joined to a trembling consciousness in herself, filled my companion with all the tokens of confusion and fear. she alternately looked at me and at the paper. her trepidation increased, and she grew pale. these emotions were counteracted by a strong effort. at length she said, falteringly, "i will take good care of them, and will give them to my brother." she rose and placed them in a drawer, after which she resumed her seat. on this occasion all my wariness forsook me. i cannot explain why my perplexity and the trouble of my thoughts were greater upon this than upon similar occasions. however it be, i was incapable of speaking, and fixed my eyes upon the floor. a sort of electrical sympathy pervaded my companion, and terror and anguish were strongly manifested in the glances which she sometimes stole at me. we seemed fully to understand each other without the aid of words. this imbecility could not last long. i gradually recovered my composure, and collected my scattered thoughts. i looked at her with seriousness, and steadfastly spoke:--"are you the wife of amos watson?" she started:--"i am indeed. why do you ask? do you know any thing of----?" there her voice failed. i replied with quickness, "yes. i am fully acquainted with his destiny." "good god!" she exclaimed, in a paroxysm of surprise, and bending eagerly forward, "my husband is then alive! this packet is from him. where is he? when have you seen him?" "'tis a long time since." "but where, where is he now? is he well? will he return to me?" "never." "merciful heaven!" (looking upwards and clasping her hands,) "i thank thee at least for his life! but why has he forsaken me? why will he not return?" "for a good reason," said i, with augmented solemnity, "he will never return to thee. long ago was he laid in the cold grave." she shrieked; and, at the next moment, sunk in a swoon upon the floor. i was alarmed. the two children shrieked, and ran about the room terrified and unknowing what they did. i was overwhelmed with somewhat like terror, yet i involuntarily raised the mother in my arms, and cast about for the means of recalling her from this fit. time to effect this had not elapsed, when several persons, apparently mrs. watson's neighbours, and raised by the outcries of the girls, hastily entered the room. they looked at me with mingled surprise and suspicion; but my attitude, being not that of an injurer but helper; my countenance, which showed the pleasure their entrance, at this critical moment, afforded me; and my words, in which i besought their assistance, and explained, in some degree, and briefly, the cause of those appearances, removed their ill thoughts. presently, the unhappy woman, being carried by the new-comers into a bedroom adjoining, recovered her sensibility. i only waited for this. i had done my part. more information would be useless to her, and not to be given by me, at least in the present audience, without embarrassment and peril. i suddenly determined to withdraw, and this, the attention of the company being otherwise engaged, i did without notice. i returned to my inn, and shut myself up in my chamber. such was the change which, undesigned, unforeseen, half an hour had wrought in my situation. my cautious projects had perished in their conception. that which i had deemed so arduous, to require such circumspect approaches, such well-concerted speeches, was done. i had started up before this woman as if from the pores of the ground. i had vanished with the same celerity, but had left her in possession of proofs sufficient that i was neither spectre nor demon. "i will visit her," said i, "again. i will see her brother, and know the full effect of my disclosure. i will tell them all that i myself know. ignorance would be no less injurious to them than to myself; but, first, i will see the maurices." chapter xli. next morning i arose betimes, and equipped myself without delay. i had eight or ten miles to walk, so far from the town being the residence of these people; and i forthwith repaired to their dwelling. the persons whom i desired to see were known to me only by name, and by their place of abode. it was a mother and her three daughters to whom i now carried the means not only of competence but riches; means which they, no doubt, had long ago despaired of regaining, and which, among all possible messengers, one of my age and guise would be the least suspected of being able to restore. i arrived, through intricate ways, at eleven o'clock, at the house of mrs. maurice. it was a neat dwelling, in a very fanciful and rustic style, in the bosom of a valley, which, when decorated by the verdure and blossoms of the coming season, must possess many charms. at present it was naked and dreary. as i approached it, through a long avenue, i observed two female figures, walking arm-in-arm and slowly to and fro, in the path in which i now was. "these," said i, "are daughters of the family. graceful, well-dressed, fashionable girls they seem at this distance. may they be deserving of the good tidings which i bring!" seeing them turn towards the house, i mended my pace, that i might overtake them and request their introduction of me to their mother. as i more nearly approached, they again turned; and, perceiving me, they stood as if in expectation of my message. i went up to them. a single glance, cast at each, made me suspect that they were not sisters; but, somewhat to my disappointment, there was nothing highly prepossessing in the countenance of either. they were what is every day met with, though less embellished by brilliant drapery and turban, in markets and streets. an air somewhat haughty, somewhat supercilious, lessened still more their attractions. these defects, however, were nothing to me. i inquired, of her that seemed to be the elder of the two, for mrs. maurice. "she is indisposed," was the cold reply. "that is unfortunate. is it not possible to see her?" "no;" with still more gravity. i was somewhat at a loss how to proceed. a pause ensued. at length the same lady resumed, "what's your business? you can leave your message with me." "with nobody but her. if she be not _very_ indisposed----" "she is very indisposed," interrupted she, peevishly. "if you cannot leave your message, you may take it back again, for she must not be disturbed." this was a singular reception. i was disconcerted and silent. i knew not what to say. "perhaps," i at last observed, "some other time----" "no," (with increasing heat,) "no other time. she is more likely to be worse than better. come, betsy," said she, taking hold of her companion's arm; and, hieing into the house, shut the door after her, and disappeared. i stood, at the bottom of the steps, confounded at such strange and unexpected treatment. i could not withdraw till my purpose was accomplished. after a moment's pause, i stepped to the door, and pulled the bell. a negro came, of a very unpropitious aspect, and, opening the door, looked at me in silence. to my question, was mrs. maurice to be seen? he made some answer, in a jargon which i could not understand; but his words were immediately followed by an unseen person within the house:--"mrs. maurice can't be seen by anybody. come in, cato, and shut the door." this injunction was obeyed by cato without ceremony. here was a dilemma! i came with ten thousand pounds in my hands, to bestow freely on these people, and such was the treatment i received. "i must adopt," said i, "a new mode." i lifted the latch, without a second warning, and, cato having disappeared, went into a room, the door of which chanced to be open, on my right hand. i found within the two females whom i had accosted in the portico. i now addressed myself to the younger:--"this intrusion, when i have explained the reason of it, will, i hope, be forgiven. i come, madam----" "yes," interrupted the other, with a countenance suffused by indignation, "i know very well whom you come from, and what it is that prompts this insolence; but your employer shall see that we have not sunk so low as he imagines. cato! bob! i say." "my employer, madam! i see you labour under some great mistake. i have no employer. i come from a great distance. i come to bring intelligence of the utmost importance to your family. i come to benefit and not to injure you." by this time, bob and cato, two sturdy blacks, entered the room. "turn this person," said the imperious lady, regardless of my explanations, "out of the house. don't you hear me?" she continued, observing that they looked one upon the other and hesitated. "surely, madam," said i, "you are precipitate. you are treating like an enemy one who will prove himself your mother's best friend." "will you leave the house?" she exclaimed, quite beside herself with anger. "villains! why don't you do as i bid you?" the blacks looked upon each other, as if waiting for an example. their habitual deference for every thing _white_, no doubt, held their hands from what they regarded as a profanation. at last bob said, in a whining, beseeching tone, "why, missee, massa buckra wanna go for doo, dan he winna go fo' wee." the lady now burst into tears of rage. she held out her hand, menacingly. "will you leave the house?" "not willingly," said i, in a mild tone. "i came too far to return with the business that brought me unperformed. i am persuaded, madam, you mistake my character and my views. i have a message to deliver your mother which deeply concerns her and your happiness, if you are her daughter. i merely wished to see her, and leave with her a piece of important news; news in which her fortune is deeply interested." these words had a wonderful effect upon the young lady. her anger was checked. "good god!" she exclaimed, "are you watson?" "no; i am only watson's representative, and come to do all that watson could do if he were present." she was now importunate to know my business. "my business lies with mrs. maurice. advertisements, which i have seen, direct me to her, and to this house; and to her only shall i deliver my message." "perhaps," said she, with a face of apology, "i have mistaken you. mrs. maurice is my mother. she is really indisposed, but i can stand in her place on this occasion." "you cannot represent her in this instance. if i cannot have access to her now, i must go; and shall return when you are willing to grant it." "nay," replied she, "she is not, perhaps, so very sick but that i will go, and see if she will admit you." so saying, she left me for three minutes; and, returning, said her mother wished to see me. i followed up-stairs, at her request; and, entering an ill-furnished chamber, found, seated in an arm-chair, a lady seemingly in years, pale, and visibly infirm. the lines of her countenance were far from laying claim to my reverence. it was too much like the daughter's. she looked at me, at my entrance, with great eagerness, and said, in a sharp tone, "pray, friend, what is it you want with me? make haste; tell your story, and begone." "my story is a short one, and easily told. amos watson was your agent in jamaica. he sold an estate belonging to you, and received the money." "he did," said she, attempting ineffectually to rise from her seat, and her eyes beaming with a significance that shocked me; "he did, the villain, and purloined the money, to the ruin of me and my daughters. but if there be justice on earth it will overtake him. i trust i shall have the pleasure one day--i hope to hear he's hanged. well, but go on, friend. he _did_ sell it, i tell you." "he sold it for ten thousand pounds," i resumed, "and invested this sum in bills of exchange. watson is dead. these bills came into my hands. i was lately informed, by the public papers, who were the real owners, and have come from philadelphia with no other view than to restore them to you. there they are," continued i, placing them in her lap, entire and untouched. she seized the papers, and looked at me and at her daughter, by turns, with an air of one suddenly bewildered. she seemed speechless, and, growing suddenly more ghastly pale, leaned her head back upon the chair. the daughter screamed, and hastened to support the languid parent, who difficultly articulated, "oh, i am sick; sick to death. put me on the bed." i was astonished and affrighted at this scene. some of the domestics, of both colours, entered, and gazed at me with surprise. involuntarily i withdrew, and returned to the room below, into which i had first entered, and which i now found deserted. i was for some time at a loss to guess at the cause of these appearances. at length it occurred to me, that joy was the source of the sickness that had seized mrs. maurice. the abrupt recovery of what had probably been deemed irretrievable would naturally produce this effect upon a mind of a certain texture. i was deliberating whether to stay or go, when the daughter entered the room, and, after expressing some surprise at seeing me, whom she supposed to have retired, told me that her mother wished to see me again before my departure. in this request there was no kindness. all was cold, supercilious, and sullen. i obeyed the summons without speaking. i found mrs. maurice seated in her arm-chair, much in her former guise. without desiring me to be seated, or relaxing aught in her asperity of looks and tones,--"pray, friend, how did you _come by_ these papers?" "i assure you, madam, they were honestly _come by_," answered i, sedately and with half a smile; "but, if the whole is there that was missing, the mode and time in which they came to me is matter of concern only to myself. is there any deficiency?" "i am not sure. i don't know much of these matters. there may be less. i dare say there is. i shall know that soon. i expect a friend of mine every minute who will look them over. i don't doubt you can give a good account of yourself." "i doubt not but i can--to those who have a right to demand it. in this case, curiosity must be very urgent indeed before i shall consent to gratify it." "you must know this is a suspicious case. watson, to-be-sure, embezzled the money; to-be-sure, you are his accomplice." "certainly," said i, "my conduct, on this occasion, proves that. what i have brought to you, of my own accord; what i have restored to you, fully and unconditionally, it is plain watson embezzled, and that i was aiding in the fraud. to restore what was never stolen always betrays the thief. to give what might be kept without suspicion is, without doubt, arrant knavery. to be serious, madam, in coming thus far, for this purpose, i have done enough; and must now bid you farewell." "nay, don't go yet. i have something more to say to you. my friend, i'm sure, will be here presently. there he is;" (noticing a peal upon the bell.) "polly, go down, and see if that's mr. somers. if it is, bring him up." the daughter went. i walked to the window absorbed in my own reflections. i was disappointed and dejected. the scene before me was the unpleasing reverse of all that my fancy, while coming hither, had foreboded. i expected to find virtuous indigence and sorrow lifted, by my means, to affluence and exultation. i expected to witness the tears of gratitude and the caresses of affection. what had i found? nothing but sordidness, stupidity, and illiberal suspicion. the daughter stayed much longer than the mother's patience could endure. she knocked against the floor with her heel. a servant came up. "where's polly, you slut? it was not you, hussy, that i wanted. it was her." "she is talking in the parlour with a gentleman." "mr. somers, i suppose; hey, fool? run with my compliments to him, wench. tell him, please walk up." "it is not mr. somers, ma'am." "no? who then, saucebox? what gentleman can have any thing to do with polly?" "i don't know, ma'am." "who said you did, impertinence? run, and tell her i want her this instant." the summons was not delivered, or polly did not think proper to obey it. full ten minutes of thoughtful silence on my part, and of muttered vexation and impatience on that of the old lady, elapsed before polly's entrance. as soon as she appeared, the mother began to complain bitterly of her inattention and neglect; but polly, taking no notice of her, addressed herself to me, and told me that a gentleman below wished to see me. i hastened down, and found a stranger, of a plain appearance, in the parlour. his aspect was liberal and ingenuous; and i quickly collected, from his discourse, that this was the brother-in-law of watson, and the companion of his last voyage. chapter xlii. my eyes sparkled with pleasure at this unexpected interview, and i willingly confessed my desire to communicate all the knowledge of his brother's destiny which i possessed. he told me, that, returning late to baltimore, on the last evening, he found his sister in much agitation and distress, which, after a time, she explained to him. she likewise put the packets i had left into his hands. "i leave you to imagine," continued he, "my surprise and curiosity at this discovery. i was, of course, impatient to see the bearer of such extraordinary tidings. this morning, inquiring for one of your appearance at the taverns, i was, at length, informed of your arrival yesterday in the stage; of your going out alone in the evening; of your subsequent return; and of your early departure this morning. accidentally i lighted on your footsteps; and, by suitable inquiries on the road, have finally traced you hither. "you told my sister her husband was dead. you left with her papers that were probably in his possession at the time of his death. i understand from miss maurice that the bills belonging to her mother have just been delivered to her. i presume you have no objection to clear up this mystery." "to you i am anxious to unfold every thing. at this moment, or at any time, but the sooner the more agreeable to me, i will do it." "this," said he, looking around him, "is no place; there is an inn, not a hundred yards from this gate, where i have left my horse; will you go thither?" i readily consented, and, calling for a private apartment, i laid before this man every incident of my life connected with welbeck and watson; my full, circumstantial, and explicit story appeared to remove every doubt which he might have entertained of my integrity. in williams i found a plain, good man, of a temper confiding and affectionate. my narration being finished, he expressed, by unaffected tokens, his wonder and his grief on account of watson's destiny. to my inquiries, which were made with frankness and fervour, respecting his own and his sister's condition, he said that the situation of both was deplorable till the recovery of this property. they had been saved from utter ruin, from beggary and a jail, only by the generosity and lenity of his creditors, who did not suffer the suspicious circumstances attending watson's disappearance to outweigh former proofs of his probity. they had never relinquished the hopes of receiving some tidings of their kinsman. i related what had just passed in the house of mrs. maurice, and requested to know from him the history and character of this family. "they have treated you," he answered, "exactly as any one who knew them would have predicted. the mother is narrow, ignorant, bigoted, and avaricious. the eldest daughter, whom you saw, resembles the old lady in many things. age, indeed, may render the similitude complete. at present, pride and ill-humour are her chief characteristics. "the youngest daughter has nothing in mind or person in common with her family. where they are irascible, she is patient; where they are imperious, she is humble; where they are covetous, she is liberal; where they are ignorant and indolent, she is studious and skilful. it is rare, indeed, to find a young lady more amiable than miss fanny maurice, or who has had more crosses and afflictions to sustain. "the eldest daughter always extorted the supply of her wants, from her parents, by threats and importunities; but the younger could never be prevailed upon to employ the same means, and, hence, she suffered inconveniences which, to any other girl, born to an equal rank, would have been, to the last degree, humiliating and vexatious. to her they only afforded new opportunities for the display of her most shining virtues,--fortitude and charity. no instance of their sordidness or tyranny ever stole a murmur from her. for what they had given, existence and a virtuous education, she said they were entitled to gratitude. what they withheld was their own, in the use of which they were not accountable to her. she was not ashamed to owe her subsistence to her own industry, and was only held by the pride of her family--in this instance their pride was equal to their avarice--from seeking out some lucrative kind of employment. since the shock which their fortune sustained by watson's disappearance, she has been permitted to pursue this plan, and she now teaches music in baltimore for a living. no one, however, in the highest rank, can be more generally respected and caressed than she is." "but will not the recovery of this money make a favourable change in her condition?" "i can hardly tell; but i am inclined to think it will not. it will not change her mother's character. her pride may be awakened anew, and she may oblige miss fanny to relinquish her new profession, and that will be a change to be deplored." "what good has been done, then, by restoring this money?" "if pleasure be good, you must have conferred a great deal on the maurices; upon the mother and two of the daughters, at least,--the only pleasure, indeed, which their natures can receive. it is less than if you had raised them from absolute indigence, which has not been the case, since they had wherewithal to live upon besides their jamaica property. but how?" continued williams, suddenly recollecting himself; "have you claimed the reward promised to him who should restore these bills?" "what reward?" "no less than a thousand dollars. it was publicly promised under the hands of mrs. maurice and of hemmings, her husband's executor." "really," said i, "that circumstance escaped my attention, and i wonder that it did; but is it too late to repair the evil?" "then you have no scruple to accept the reward?" "certainly not. could you suspect me of so strange a punctilio as that?" "yes; but i know not why. the story you have just finished taught me to expect some unreasonable refinement upon that head. to be hired, to be bribed, to do our duty is supposed by some to be degrading." "this is no such bribe to me. i should have acted just as i have done, had no recompense been promised. in truth, this has been my conduct, for i never once thought of the reward; but, now that you remind me of it, i would gladly see it bestowed. to fulfil their engagements, in this respect, is no more than justice in the maurices. to one in my condition the money will be highly useful. if these people were poor, or generous and worthy, or if i myself were already rich, i might less repine at their withholding it; but, things being as they are with them and with me, it would, i think, be gross injustice in them to withhold, and in me to refuse." "that injustice," said williams, "will, on their part, i fear, be committed. 'tis pity you first applied to mrs. maurice. nothing can be expected from her avarice, unless it be wrested from her by a lawsuit." "that is a force which i shall never apply." "had you gone first to hemmings, you might, i think, have looked for payment. he is not a mean man. a thousand dollars, he must know, is not much to give for forty thousand. perhaps, indeed, it may not yet be too late. i am well known to him, and, if you please, will attend you to him in the evening, and state your claim." i thankfully accepted this offer, and went with him accordingly. i found that hemmings had been with mrs. maurice in the course of the day; had received from her intelligence of this transaction, and had entertained the expectation of a visit from me for this very purpose. while williams explained to him the nature of my claim, he scanned me with great intentness. his austere and inflexible brow afforded me little room to hope for success, and this hopelessness was confirmed by his silence and perplexity when williams had made an end. "to-be-sure," said he, after some pause, "the contract was explicit. to-be-sure, the conditions on mr. mervyn's side have been performed. certain it is, the bills are entire and complete, but mrs. maurice will not consent to do her part, and mrs. maurice, to whom the papers were presented, is the person by whom, according to the terms of the contract, the reward must be paid." "but mrs. maurice, you know, sir, may be legally compelled to pay," said williams. "perhaps she may; but i tell you plainly, that she never will do the thing without compulsion. legal process, however, in this case, will have other inconveniences besides delay. some curiosity will naturally be excited, as to the history of these papers. watson disappeared a twelvemonth ago. who can avoid asking, where have these papers been deposited all this while, and how came this person in possession of them?" "that kind of curiosity," said i, "is natural and laudable, and gladly would i gratify it. disclosure or concealment in that case, however, would nowise affect my present claim. whether a bond, legally executed, shall be paid, does not depend upon determining whether the payer is fondest of boiled mutton or roast beef. truth, in the first case, has no connection with truth in the second. so far from eluding this curiosity, so far from studying concealment, i am anxious to publish the truth." "you are right, to-be-sure," said hemmings. "curiosity is a natural, but only an incidental, consequence in this case. i have no reason for desiring that it should be an unpleasant consequence to you." "well, sir," said williams, "you think that arthur mervyn has no remedy in this case but the law?" "mrs. maurice, to-be-sure, will never pay but on compulsion. mervyn should have known his own interest better. while his left hand was stretched out to give, his right should have been held forth to receive. as it is, he must be contented with the aid of law. any attorney will prosecute on condition of receiving _half the sum_ when recovered." we now rose to take our leave, when hemmings, desiring us to pause a moment, said, "to-be-sure, in the utmost strictness of the terms of our promise, the reward was to be paid by the person who received the papers; but it must be owned that your claim, at any rate, is equitable. i have money of the deceased mr. maurice in my hands. these very bills are now in my possession. i will therefore pay you your due, and take the consequences of an act of justice on myself. i was prepared for you. sign that receipt, and there is a _check_ for the amount." chapter xliii. this unexpected and agreeable decision was accompanied by an invitation to supper, at which we were treated by our host with much affability and kindness. finding me the author of williams's good fortune as well as mrs. maurice's, and being assured by the former of his entire conviction of the rectitude of my conduct, he laid aside all reserve and distance with regard to me. he inquired into my prospects and wishes, and professed his willingness to serve me. i dealt with equal unreserve and frankness. "i am poor," said i. "money for my very expenses hither i have borrowed from a friend, to whom i am, in other respects, much indebted, and whom i expect to compensate only by gratitude and future services. "in coming hither, i expected only an increase of my debts; to sink still deeper into poverty; but happily the issue has made me rich. this hour has given me competence, at least." "what! call you a thousand dollars competence?" "more than competence. i call it an abundance. my own ingenuity, while i enjoy health, will enable me to live. this i regard as a fund, first to pay my debts, and next to supply deficiencies occasioned by untoward accidents or ill health, during the ensuing three or four years at least." we parted with this new acquaintance at a late hour, and i accepted williams's invitation to pass the time i should spend at baltimore, under his sister's roof. there were several motives for prolonging this stay. what i had heard of miss fanny maurice excited strong wishes to be personally acquainted with her. this young lady was affectionately attached to mrs. watson, by whose means my wishes were easily accomplished. i never was in habits of reserve, even with those whom i had no reason to esteem. with those who claimed my admiration and affection, it was impossible to be incommunicative. before the end of my second interview, both these women were mistresses of every momentous incident of my life, and of the whole chain of my feelings and opinions, in relation to every subject, and particularly in relation to themselves. every topic disconnected with these is comparatively lifeless and inert. i found it easy to win their attention, and to render them communicative in their turn. as full disclosures as i had made without condition or request, my inquiries and example easily obtained from mrs. watson and miss maurice. the former related every event of her youth, and the circumstances leading to her marriage. she depicted the character of her husband, and the whole train of suspenses and inquietudes occasioned by his disappearance. the latter did not hide from me her opinions upon any important subject, and made me thoroughly acquainted with her actual situation. this intercourse was strangely fascinating. my heart was buoyed up by a kind of intoxication. i now found myself exalted to my genial element, and began to taste the delights of existence. in the intercourse of ingenuous and sympathetic minds, i found a pleasure which i had not previously conceived. the time flew swiftly away, and a fortnight passed almost before i was aware that a day had gone by. i did not forget the friends whom i had left behind, but maintained a punctual correspondence with stevens, to whom i imparted all occurrences. the recovery of my friend's kinsman allowed him in a few days to return home. his first object was the consolation and relief of carlton, whom, with much difficulty, he persuaded to take advantage of the laws in favour of insolvent debtors. carlton's only debt was owing to his uncle, and, by rendering up every species of property, except his clothes and the implements of his trade, he obtained a full discharge. in conjunction with his sister, he once more assumed the pen, and, being no longer burdened with debts he was unable to discharge, he resumed, together with his pen, his cheerfulness. their mutual industry was sufficient for their decent and moderate subsistence. the chief reason for my hasty return was my anxiety respecting clemenza lodi. this reason was removed by the activity and benevolence of my friend. he paid this unfortunate stranger a visit at mrs. villars's. access was easily obtained, and he found her sunk into the deepest melancholy. the recent loss of her child, the death of welbeck, of which she was soon apprized, her total dependence upon those with whom she was placed, who, however, had always treated her without barbarity or indecorum, were the calamities that weighed down her spirits. my friend easily engaged her confidence and gratitude, and prevailed upon her to take refuge under his own roof. mrs. wentworth's scruples, as well as those of mrs. fielding, were removed by his arguments and entreaties, and they consented to take upon themselves, and divide between them, the care of her subsistence and happiness. they condescended to express much curiosity respecting me, and some interest in my welfare, and promised to receive me, on my return, on the footing of a friend. with some reluctance, i at length bade my new friends farewell, and returned to philadelphia. nothing remained, before i should enter on my projected scheme of study and employment, under the guidance of stevens, but to examine the situation of eliza hadwin with my own eyes, and, if possible, to extricate my father from his unfortunate situation. my father's state had given me the deepest concern. i figured to myself his condition, besotted by brutal appetites, reduced to beggary, shut up in a noisome prison, and condemned to that society which must foster all his depraved propensities. i revolved various schemes for his relief. a few hundreds would take him from prison; but how should he be afterwards disposed of? how should he be cured of his indolent habits? how should he be screened from the contagion of vicious society? by what means, consistently with my own wants and the claims of others, should i secure to him an acceptable subsistence? exhortation and example were vain. nothing but restraint would keep him at a distance from the haunts of brawling and debauchery. the want of money would be no obstacle to prodigality and waste. credit would be resorted to as long as it would answer his demand. when that failed, he would once more be thrown into a prison; the same means to extricate him would have to be repeated, and money be thus put into the pockets of the most worthless of mankind, the agents of drunkenness and blasphemy, without any permanent advantage to my father, the principal object of my charity. though unable to fix on any plausible mode of proceeding, i determined, at least, to discover his present condition. perhaps something might suggest itself, upon the spot, suited to my purpose. without delay i proceeded to the village of newtown, and, alighting at the door of the prison, inquired for my father. "sawny mervyn you want, i suppose," said the keeper. "poor fellow! he came into limbo in a crazy condition, and has been a burden on my hands ever since. after lingering along for some time, he was at last kind enough to give us the slip. it is just a week since he drank his last pint--and _died_." i was greatly shocked at this intelligence. it was some time before my reason came to my aid, and showed me that this was an event, on the whole, and on a disinterested and dispassionate view, not unfortunate. the keeper knew not my relation to the deceased, and readily recounted the behaviour of the prisoner and the circumstances of his last hours. i shall not repeat the narrative. it is useless to keep alive the sad remembrance. he was now beyond the reach of my charity or pity; and, since reflection could answer no beneficial end to him, it was my duty to divert my thoughts into different channels, and live henceforth for my own happiness and that of those who were within the sphere of my influence. i was now alone in the world, so far as the total want of kindred creates solitude. not one of my blood, nor even of my name, was to be found in this quarter of the world. of my mother's kindred i knew nothing. so far as friendship or service might be claimed from them, to me they had no existence. i was destitute of all those benefits which flow from kindred, in relation to protection, advice, or property. my inheritance was nothing. not a single relic or trinket in my possession constituted a memorial of my family. the scenes of my childish and juvenile days were dreary and desolate. the fields which i was wont to traverse, the room in which i was born, retained no traces of the past. they were the property and residence of strangers, who knew nothing of the former tenants, and who, as i was now told, had hastened to new-model and transform every thing within and without the habitation. these images filled me with melancholy, which, however, disappeared in proportion as i approached the abode of my beloved girl. absence had endeared the image of my _bess_--i loved to call her so--to my soul. i could not think of her without a melting softness at my heart, and tears in which pain and pleasure were unaccountably mingled. as i approached curling's house, i strained my sight, in hopes of distinguishing her form through the evening dusk. i had told her of my purpose, by letter. she expected my approach at this hour, and was stationed, with a heart throbbing with impatience, at the roadside, near the gate. as soon as i alighted, she rushed into my arms. i found my sweet friend less blithesome and contented than i wished. her situation, in spite of the parental and sisterly regards which she received from the curlings, was mournful and dreary to her imagination. rural business was irksome, and insufficient to fill up her time. her life was tiresome, and uniform, and heavy. i ventured to blame her discontent, and pointed out the advantages of her situation. "whence," said i, "can these dissatisfactions and repinings arise?" "i cannot tell," said she; "i don't know how it is with me. i am always sorrowful and thoughtful. perhaps i think too much of my poor father and of susan; and yet that can't be it, neither, for i think of them but seldom; not half as much as i ought, perhaps. i think of nobody almost but you. instead of minding my business, or chatting and laughing with peggy curling, i love to get by myself,--to read, over and over, your letters, or to think how you are employed just then, and how happy i should be if i were in fanny maurice's place. "but it is all over now; this visit rewards me for every thing. i wonder how i could ever be sullen or mopeful. i will behave better, indeed i will, and be always, as now, a most happy girl." the greater part of three days was spent in the society of my friend, in listening to her relation of all that had happened during my absence, and in communicating, in my turn, every incident which had befallen myself. after this i once more returned to the city. chapter xliv. i now set about carrying my plan of life into effect. i began with ardent zeal and unwearied diligence the career of medical study. i bespoke the counsels and instructions of my friend; attended him on his professional visits, and acted, in all practicable cases, as his substitute. i found this application of time more pleasurable than i had imagined. my mind gladly expanded itself, as it were, for the reception of new ideas. my curiosity grew more eager in proportion as it was supplied with food, and every day added strength to the assurance that i was no insignificant and worthless being; that i was destined to be _something_ in this scene of existence, and might some time lay claim to the gratitude and homage of my fellow men. i was far from being, however, monopolized by these pursuits. i was formed on purpose for the gratification of social intercourse. to love and to be loved; to exchange hearts and mingle sentiments with all the virtuous and amiable whom my good fortune had placed within the circuit of my knowledge, i always esteemed my highest enjoyment and my chief duty. carlton and his sister, mrs. wentworth, and achsa fielding, were my most valuable associates beyond my own family. with all these my correspondence was frequent and unreserved, but chiefly with the latter. this lady had dignity and independence, a generous and enlightened spirit, beyond what her education had taught me to expect. she was circumspect and cautious in her deportment, and was not prompt to make advances, or accept them. she withheld her esteem and confidence until she had full proof of their being deserved. i am not sure that her treatment of me was fully conformable to her rules. my manners, indeed, as she once told me, she had never met with in another. ordinary rules were so totally overlooked in my behaviour, that it seemed impossible for any one who knew me to adhere to them. no option was left but to admit my claims to friendship and confidence instantly, or to reject them altogether. i was not conscious of this singularity. the internal and undiscovered character of another weighed nothing with me in the question whether they should be treated with frankness or reserve. i felt no scruple on any occasion to disclose every feeling and every event. any one who could listen found me willing to talk. every talker found me willing to listen. every one had my sympathy and kindness, _without_ claiming it; but i _claimed_ the kindness and sympathy of every one. achsa fielding's countenance bespoke, i thought, a mind worthy to be known and to be loved. the first moment i engaged her attention, i told her so. i related the little story of my family, spread out before her all my reasonings and determinations, my notions of right and wrong, my fears and wishes. all this was done with sincerity and fervour, with gestures, actions, and looks, in which i felt as if my whole soul was visible. her superior age, sedateness, and prudence, gave my deportment a filial freedom and affection, and i was fond of calling her "_mamma_." i particularly dwelt upon the history of my dear country-girl; painted her form and countenance; recounted our dialogues, and related all my schemes for making her wise, and good, and happy. on these occasions my friend would listen to me with the mutest attention. i showed her the letters i received, and offered her for her perusal those which i wrote in answer, before they were sealed and sent. on these occasions she would look by turns on my face and away from me. a varying hue would play upon her cheek, and her eyes were fuller than was common, of meaning. "such-and-such," i once said, "are my notions; now, what do _you_ think?" "_think_!" emphatically, and turning somewhat aside, she answered; "that you are the most--_strange_ of human creatures." "but tell me," i resumed, following and searching her averted eyes; "am i right? would you do thus? can you help me to improve my girl? i wish you knew the bewitching little creature. how would that heart overflow with affection and with gratitude towards you! she should be your daughter. no--you are too nearly of an age for that. a sister; her _elder_ sister, you should be. _that_, when there is no other relation, includes them all. fond sisters you would be, and i the fond brother of you both." my eyes glistened as i spoke. in truth, i am in that respect a mere woman. my friend was more powerfully moved. after a momentary struggle she burst into tears. "good heaven!" said i, "what ails you? are you not well?" her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion, from which she quickly recovered:--"it was folly to be thus affected. something ailed me, i believe, but it is past. but, come, you want some lines of finishing the description of the _boa_ in la cepide." "true. and i have twenty minutes to spare. poor franks is very ill indeed, but he cannot be seen till nine. we'll read till then." thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement passed my time; not without some hues, occasionally, of a darker tint. my heart was now and then detected in sighing. this occurred when my thoughts glanced at the poor eliza, and measured, as it were, the interval between us. "we are too--_too_ far apart," thought i. the best solace on these occasions was the company of mrs. fielding; her music, her discourse, or some book which she set me to rehearsing to her. one evening, when preparing to pay her a visit, i received the following letter from my bess:- _to a. mervyn._ curling's, may 6, 1794. where does this letter you promised me stay all this while? indeed, arthur, you torment me more than i deserve, and more than i could ever find it in my heart to do you. you treat me cruelly. i must say so, though i offend you. i must write, though you do not deserve that i should, and though i fear i am in a humour not very fit for writing. i had better go to my chamber and weep; weep at your--_unkindness_, i was going to say; but, perhaps, it is only forgetfulness; and yet what can be more unkind than forgetfulness? i am sure i have never forgotten you. sleep itself, which wraps all other images in forgetfulness, only brings you nearer, and makes me see you more distinctly. but where can this letter stay?--oh! that--hush! foolish girl! if a word of that kind escape thy lips, arthur will be angry with thee; and then, indeed, thou mightest weep in earnest. _then_ thou wouldst have some cause for thy tears. more than once already has he almost broken thy heart with his reproaches. sore and weak as it now is, any new reproaches would assuredly break it quite. i _will_ be content. i will be as good a housewife and dairywoman, stir about as briskly, and sing as merrily, as peggy curling. why not? i am as young, as innocent, and enjoy as good health. alas! she has reason to be merry. she has father, mother, brothers; but i have none. and he that was all these, and more than all these, to me, has--_forgotten_ me. but, perhaps, it is some accident that hinders. perhaps oliver left the market earlier than he used to do; or you mistook the house; or perhaps some poor creature was sick, was taken suddenly ill, and you were busy in chafing his clay-cold limbs; it fell to you to wipe the clammy drops from his brow. such things often happen (don't they, arthur?) to people of your trade, and some such thing has happened now; and that was the reason you did not write. and if so, shall i repine at your silence? oh no! at such a time the poor bess might easily be, and ought to be, forgotten. she would not deserve your love if she could repine at a silence brought about this way. and oh! may it be so! may there be nothing worse than this! if the sick man--see, arthur, how my hand trembles. can you read this scrawl? what is always bad, my fears make worse than ever. i must not think that. and yet, if it be so, if my friend himself be sick, what will become of me? of me, that ought to cherish you and comfort you; that ought to be your nurse. endure for you your sickness, when she cannot remove it. oh! that----i _will_ speak out--oh that this strange scruple had never possessed you! why should i _not_ be with you? who can love you and serve you as well as i? in sickness and health, i will console and assist you. why will you deprive yourself of such a comforter and such an aid as i would be to you? dear arthur, think better of it. let me leave this dreary spot, where, indeed, as long as i am thus alone, i can enjoy no comfort. let me come to you. i will put up with any thing for the sake of seeing you, though it be but once a day. any garret or cellar in the dirtiest lane or darkest alley will be good enough for me. i will think it a palace, so that i can _but_ see you now and then. do not refuse--do not argue with me, so fond you always are of arguing! my heart is set upon your compliance. and yet, dearly as i prize your company, i would not ask it, if i thought there was any thing improper. you say there is, and you talk about it in a way that i do not understand. for my sake, you tell me, you refuse; but let me entreat you to comply for my sake. your pen cannot teach me like your tongue. you write me long letters, and tell me a great deal in them; but my soul droops when i call to mind your voice and your looks, and think how long a time must pass before i see you and hear you again. i have no spirit to think upon the words and paper before me. my eye and my thought wander far away. i bethink me how many questions i might ask you; how many doubts you might clear up if you were but within hearing. if you were but close to me; but i cannot ask them here. i am too poor a creature at the pen, and, somehow or another, it always happens, i can only write about myself or about you. by the time i have said all this, i have tired my fingers, and when i set about telling you how this poem and that story have affected me, i am at a loss for words; i am bewildered and bemazed, as it were. it is not so when we talk to one another. with your arm about me, and your sweet face close to mine, i can prattle forever. then my heart overflows at my lips. after hours thus spent, it seems as if there were a thousand things still to be said. then i can tell you what the book has told me. i can repeat scores of verses by heart, though i heard them only once read; but it is because _you_ have read them to me. then there is nobody here to answer my questions. they never look into books. they hate books. they think it waste of time to read. even peggy, who you say has naturally a strong mind, wonders what i can find to amuse myself in a book. in her playful mood, she is always teasing me to lay it aside. i do not mind her, for i like to read; but, if i did not like it before, i could not help doing so ever since you told me that nobody could gain your love who was not fond of books. and yet, though i like it on that account more than i did, i don't read somehow so earnestly and understand so well as i used to do when my mind was all at ease, always frolicsome, and ever upon _tiptoe_, as i may say. how strangely (have you not observed it?) i am altered of late!--i, that was ever light of heart, the very soul of gayety, brimfull of glee, am now demure as our old _tabby_--and not half as wise. tabby had wit enough to keep her paws out of the coals, whereas poor i have--but no matter what. it will never come to pass, i see that. so many reasons for every thing! such looking forward! arthur, are not men sometimes too _wise_ to be happy? i am now _so_ grave. not one smile can peggy sometimes get from me, though she tries for it the whole day. but i know how it comes. strange, indeed, if, losing father and sister, and thrown upon the wide world, penniless and _friendless_ too, now that _you_ forget me, i should continue to smile. no. i never shall smile again. at least, while i stay here, i never shall, i believe. if a certain somebody suffer me to live with him,--_near_ him, i mean,--perhaps the sight of him as he enters the door, perhaps the sound of his voice, asking, "where is my bess?" might produce a smile. such a one as the very thought produces now,--yet not, i hope, so transient, and so quickly followed by a tear. women are born, they say, to trouble, and tears are given them for their relief. 'tis all very true. let it be as i wish, will you? if oliver bring not back good tidings, if he bring not a letter from thee, or thy letter still refuses my request,--i don't know what may happen. consent, if you love your poor girl. e.h. chapter xlv. the reading of this letter, though it made me mournful, did not hinder me from paying the visit i intended. my friend noticed my discomposure. "what, arthur! thou art quite the 'penseroso' to-night. come, let me cheer thee with a song. thou shalt have thy favourite ditty." she stepped to the instrument, and, with more than airy lightness, touched and sung:- "now knit hands and beat the ground in a light, fantastic round, till the telltale sun descry our conceal'd solemnity." her music, though blithsome and aerial, was not sufficient for the end. my cheerfulness would not return even at her bidding. she again noticed my sedateness, and inquired into the cause. "this girl of mine," said i, "has infected me with her own sadness. there is a letter i have just received." she took it and began to read. meanwhile, i placed myself before her, and fixed my eyes steadfastly upon her features. there is no book in which i read with more pleasure than the face of woman. _that_ is generally more full of meaning, and of better meaning too, than the hard and inflexible lineaments of man; and _this_ woman's face has no parallel. she read it with visible emotion. having gone through it, she did not lift her eye from the paper, but continued silent, as if buried in thought. after some time, (for i would not interrupt the pause,) she addressed me thus:-"this girl seems to be very anxious to be with you." "as much as i am that she should be so." my friend's countenance betrayed some perplexity. as soon as i perceived it, i said, "why are you thus grave?" some little confusion appeared, as if she would not have her gravity discovered. "there again," said i, "new tokens in your face, my good mamma, of something which you will not mention. yet, sooth to say, this is not your first perplexity. i have noticed it before, and wondered. it happens only when my _bess_ is introduced. something in relation to her it must be, but what i cannot imagine. why does _her_ name, particularly, make you thoughtful, disturbed, dejected? there now--but i must know the reason. you don't agree with me in my notions of this girl, i fear, and you will not disclose your thoughts." by this time, she had gained her usual composure, and, without noticing my comments on her looks, said, "since you are both of one mind, why does she not leave the country?" "that cannot be, i believe. mrs. stevens says it would be disreputable. i am no proficient in etiquette, and must, therefore, in affairs of this kind, be guided by those who are. but would to heaven i were truly her father or brother! then all difficulties would be done away." "can you seriously wish that?" "why, no. i believe it would be more rational to wish that the world would suffer me to act the fatherly or brotherly part, without the relationship." "and is that the only part you wish to act towards this girl?" "certainly, the only part." "you surprise me. have you not confessed your love for her?" "i _do_ love her. there is nothing upon earth more dear to me than my _bess_." "but love is of different kinds. she was loved by her father----" "less than by me. he was a good man, but not of lively feelings. besides, he had another daughter, and they shared his love between them; but she has no sister to share _my_ love. calamity, too, has endeared her to me; i am all her consolation, dependence, and hope, and nothing, surely, can induce me to abandon her." "her reliance upon you for happiness," replied my friend, with a sigh, "is plain enough." "it is; but why that sigh? and yet i understand it. it remonstrates with me on my incapacity for her support. i know it well, but it is wrong to be cast down. i have youth, health, and spirits, and ought not to despair of living for my own benefit and hers; but you sigh again, and it is impossible to keep my courage when _you_ sigh. do tell me what you mean by it." "you partly guessed the cause. she trusts to you for happiness, but i somewhat suspect she trusts in vain." "in vain! i beseech you, tell me why you think so." "you say you love her: why then not make her your wife?" "my wife! surely her extreme youth, and my destitute condition, will account for that." "she is fifteen; the age of delicate fervour, of inartificial love, and suitable enough for marriage. as to your condition, you may live more easily together than apart. she has no false taste or perverse desires to gratify. she has been trained in simple modes and habits. besides, that objection can be removed another way. but are these all your objections?" "her youth i object to, merely in connection with her mind. she is too little improved to be my wife. she wants that solidity of mind, that maturity of intelligence which ten years more may possibly give her, but which she cannot have at this age." "you are a very prudential youth: then you are willing to wait ten years for a wife?" "does that follow? because my bess will not be qualified for wedlock in less time, does it follow that i must wait for her?" "i spoke on the supposition that you loved her." "and that is true; but love is satisfied with studying her happiness as her father or brother. some years hence, perhaps in half a year, (for this passion, called wedded or _marriage-wishing_ love, is of sudden growth,) my mind may change and nothing may content me but to have bess for my wife. yet i do not expect it." "then you are determined against marriage with this girl?" "of course; until that love comes which i feel not now; but which, no doubt, will come, when bess has had the benefit of five or eight years more, unless previously excited by another." "all this is strange, arthur. i have heretofore supposed that you actually loved (i mean with the _marriage-seeking_ passion) your _bess_." "i believe i once did; but it happened at a time when marriage was improper; in the life of her father and sister, and when i had never known in what female excellence consisted. since that time my happier lot has cast me among women so far above eliza hadwin,--so far above, and so widely different from any thing which time is likely to make her,--that, i own, nothing appears more unlikely than that i shall ever love her." "are you not a little capricious in that respect, my good friend? you have praised your _bess_ as rich in natural endowments; as having an artless purity and rectitude of mind, which somewhat supersedes the use of formal education; as being full of sweetness and tenderness, and in her person a very angel of loveliness." "all that is true. i never saw features and shape so delicately beautiful; i never knew so young a mind so quick-sighted and so firm; but, nevertheless, she is not the creature whom i would call my _wife_. my bosom-slave; counsellor; friend; the mother; the pattern; the tutoress of my children, must be a different creature." "but what are the attributes of this _desirable_ which bess wants?" "every thing she wants. age, capacity, acquirements, person, features, hair, complexion, all, all are different from this girl's." "and pray of what kind may they be?" "i cannot portray them in words--but yes, i can:--the creature whom i shall worship:--it sounds oddly, but, i verily believe, the sentiment which i shall feel for my wife will be more akin to worship than any thing else. i shall never love but such a creature as i now image to myself, and _such_ a creature will deserve, or almost deserve, worship. but this creature, i was going to say, must be the exact counterpart, my good mamma--of _yourself_." this was said very earnestly, and with eyes and manner that fully expressed my earnestness; perhaps my expressions were unwittingly strong and emphatic, for she started and blushed, but the cause of her discomposure, whatever it was, was quickly removed, and she said,-"poor bess! this will be sad news to thee!" "heaven forbid!" said i; "of what moment can my opinions be to her?" "strange questioner that thou art. thou knowest that her gentle heart is touched with love. see how it shows itself in the tender and inimitable strain of this epistle. does not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch you?" "it does so, and i love, beyond expression, the sweet girl; but my love is, in some inconceivable way, different from the passion which that _other_ creature will produce. she is no stranger to my thoughts. i will impart every thought over and over to her. i question not but i shall make her happy without forfeiting my own." "would marriage with her be a forfeiture of your happiness?" "not absolutely or forever, i believe. i love her company. her absence for a long time is irksome. i cannot express the delight with which i see and hear her. to mark her features, beaming with vivacity; playful in her pleasures; to hold her in my arms, and listen to her prattle, always musically voluble, always sweetly tender, or artlessly intelligent--and this you will say is the dearest privilege of marriage; and so it is; and dearly should i prize it; and yet, i fear my heart would droop as often as that _other_ image should occur to my fancy. for then, you know, it would occur as something never to be possessed by me. "now, this image might, indeed, seldom occur. the intervals, at least, would be serene. it would be my interest to prolong these intervals as much as possible, and my endeavours to this end would, no doubt, have some effect. besides, the bitterness of this reflection would be lessened by contemplating, at the same time, the happiness of my beloved girl. "i should likewise have to remember, that to continue unmarried would not necessarily secure me the possession of the _other_ good----" "but these reflections, my friend," (broke she in upon me,) "are of as much force to induce you to marry, as to reconcile you to a marriage already contracted." "perhaps they are. assuredly, i have not a hope that the _fancied_ excellence will ever be mine. such happiness is not the lot of humanity, and is, least of all, within my reach." "your diffidence," replied my friend, in a timorous accent, "has not many examples; but your character, without doubt, is all your own, possessing all and disclaiming all,--is, in few words, your picture." "i scarcely understand you. do you think i ever shall be happy to that degree which i have imagined? think you i shall ever meet with an exact copy of _yourself_?" "unfortunate you will be, if you do not meet with many better. your bess, in personals, is, beyond measure, _my_ superior, and in mind, allowing for difference in years, quite as much so." "but that," returned i, with quickness and fervour, "is not the object. the very counterpart of _you_ i want; neither worse nor better, nor different in any thing. just such form, such features, such hues. just that melting voice, and, above all, the same habits of thinking and conversing. in thought, word, and deed; gesture, look, and form, that rare and precious creature whom i shall love must be your resemblance. your----" "have done with these comparisons," interrupted she, in some hurry, "and let us return to the country-girl, thy bess. "you once, my friend, wished me to treat this girl of yours as my sister. do you know what the duties of a sister are?" "they imply no more kindness or affection than you already feel towards my bess. are you not her sister?" "i ought to have been so. i ought to have been proud of the relation you ascribe to me, but i have not performed any of its duties. i blush to think upon the coldness and perverseness of my heart. with such means as i possess, of giving happiness to others, i have been thoughtless and inactive to a strange degree; perhaps, however, it is not yet too late. are you still willing to invest me with all the rights of an elder sister over this girl? and will she consent, think you?" "certainly she will; she has." "then the first act of sistership will be to take her from the country; from persons on whose kindness she has no natural claim, whose manners and characters are unlike her own, and with whom no improvement can be expected, and bring her back to her sister's house and bosom, to provide for her subsistence and education, and watch over her happiness. "i will not be a nominal sister. i will not be a sister by halves. _all_ the rights of that relation i will have, or none. as for you, you have claims upon her on which i must be permitted to judge, as becomes the elder sister, who, by the loss of all other relations, must occupy the place, possess the rights, and fulfil the duties, of father, mother, and brother. "she has now arrived at an age when longer to remain in a cold and churlish soil will stunt her growth and wither her blossoms. we must hasten to transplant her to a genial element and a garden well enclosed. having so long neglected this charming plant, it becomes me henceforth to take her wholly to myself. "and now, for it is no longer in her or your power to take back the gift, since she is fully mine, i will charge you with the office of conducting her hither. i grant it you as a favour. will you go?" "go! i will fly!" i exclaimed, in an ecstasy of joy, "on pinions swifter than the wind. not the lingering of an instant will i bear. look! one, two, three--thirty minutes after nine. i will reach curling's gate by the morn's dawn. i will put my girl into a chaise, and by noon she shall throw herself into the arms of her sister. but first, shall i not, in some way, manifest my gratitude?" my senses were bewildered, and i knew not what i did. i intended to kneel, as to my mother or my deity; but, instead of that, i clasped her in my arms, and kissed her lips fervently. i stayed not to discover the effects of this insanity, but left the room and the house, and, calling for a moment at stevens's, left word with the servant, my friend being gone abroad, that i should not return till the morrow. never was a lighter heart, a gayety more overflowing and more buoyant, than mine. all cold from a boisterous night, at a chilly season, all weariness from a rugged and miry road, were charmed away. i might have ridden; but i could not brook delay, even the delay of inquiring for and equipping a horse. i might thus have saved myself fatigue, and have lost no time; but my mind was in too great a tumult for deliberation and forecast. i saw nothing but the image of my girl, whom my tidings would render happy. the way was longer than my fond imagination had foreseen. i did not reach curling's till an hour after sunrise. the distance was full thirty-five miles. as i hastened up the green lane leading to the house, i spied my bess passing through a covered way, between the dwelling and kitchen. i caught her eye. she stopped and held up her hands, and then ran into my arms. "what means my girl? why this catching of the breath? why this sobbing? look at me, my love. it is arthur,--he who has treated you with forgetfulness, neglect, and cruelty." "oh, do not," she replied, hiding her face with her hand. "one single reproach, added to my own, will kill me. that foolish, wicked letter--i could tear my fingers for writing it." "but," said i, "i will kiss them;" and put them to my lips. "they have told me the wishes of my girl. they have enabled me to gratify her wishes. i have come to carry thee this very moment to town." "lord bless me, arthur," said she, lost in a sweet confusion, and her cheeks, always glowing, glowing still more deeply, "indeed, i did not mean----i meant only----i will stay here----i would rather stay----" "it grieves me to hear that," said i, with earnestness; "i thought i was studying our mutual happiness." "it grieves you? don't say so. i would not grieve you for the world; but, indeed, indeed, it is too soon. such a girl as i am not yet fit to--live in your city." again she hid her glowing face in my bosom. "sweet consciousness! heavenly innocence!" thought i; "may achsa's conjectures prove false!--you have mistaken my design, for i do not intend to carry you to town with such a view as you have hinted; but merely to place you with a beloved friend, with achsa fielding, of whom already you know so much, where we shall enjoy each other's company without restraint or intermission." i then proceeded to disclose to her the plan suggested by my friend, and to explain all the consequences that would flow from it. i need not say that she assented to the scheme. she was all rapture and gratitude. preparations for departure were easily and speedily made. i hired a chaise of a neighbouring farmer, and, according to my promise, by noon the same day, delivered the timid and bashful girl into the arms of her new sister. she was received with the utmost tenderness, not only by mrs. fielding, but by all my friends. her affectionate heart was encouraged to pour forth all its feeling as into the bosom of a mother. she was reinspired with confidence. her want of experience was supplied by the gentlest admonitions and instructions. in every plan for her improvement suggested by her new _mamma_, (for she never called her by any other name,) she engaged with docility and eagerness; and her behaviour and her progress exceeded the most sanguine hopes that i had formed as to the softness of her temper and the acuteness of her genius. those graces which a polished education, and intercourse with the better classes of society, are adapted to give, my girl possessed, in some degree, by a native and intuitive refinement and sagacity of mind. all that was to be obtained from actual observation and instruction was obtained without difficulty; and in a short time nothing but the affectionate simplicity and unperverted feelings of the country-girl bespoke the original condition. "what art so busy about, arthur? always at thy pen of late. come, i must know the fruit of all this toil and all this meditation. i am determined to scrape acquaintance with haller and linnã¦us. i will begin this very day. all one's friends, you know, should be ours. love has made many a patient, and let me see if it cannot, in my case, make a physician. but, first, what is all this writing about?" "mrs. wentworth has put me upon a strange task,--not disagreeable, however, but such as i should, perhaps, have declined, had not the absence of my bess, and her mamma, made the time hang somewhat heavy. i have, oftener than once, and far more circumstantially than now, told her my adventures, but she is not satisfied. she wants a written narrative, for some purpose which she tells me she will disclose to me hereafter. "luckily, my friend stevens has saved me more than half the trouble. he has done me the favour to compile much of my history with his own hand. i cannot imagine what could prompt him to so wearisome an undertaking; but he says that adventures and a destiny so singular as mine ought not to be abandoned to forgetfulness like any vulgar and _every-day_ existence. besides, when he wrote it, he suspected that it might be necessary to the safety of my reputation and my life, from the consequences of my connection with welbeck. time has annihilated that danger. all enmities and all suspicions are buried with that ill-fated wretch. wortley has been won by my behaviour, and confides in my integrity now as much as he formerly suspected it. i am glad, however, that the task was performed. it has saved me a world of writing. i had only to take up the broken thread, and bring it down to the period of my present happiness; and this was done, just as you tripped along the entry this morning. "to bed, my friend; it is late, and this delicate frame is not half so able to encounter fatigue as a youth spent in the hay-field and the dairy might have been expected to be." "i will, but let me take these sheets along with me. i will read them, that i am determined, before i sleep, and watch if you have told the whole truth." "do so, if you please; but remember one thing. mrs. wentworth requested me to write not as if it were designed for her perusal, but for those who have no previous knowledge of her or of me. 'twas an odd request. i cannot imagine what she means by it; but she never acts without good reason, and i have done so. and now, withdraw, my dear, and farewell." chapter xlvi. move on, my quill! wait not for my guidance. reanimated with thy master's spirit, all airy light! a heyday rapture! a mounting impulse sways him: lifts him from the earth. i must, cost what it will, rein in this upward-pulling, forward-going--what shall i call it? but there are times, and now is one of them, when words are poor. it will not do--down this hill, up that steep; through this thicket, over that hedge--i have _laboured_ to fatigue myself: to reconcile me to repose; to lolling on a sofa; to poring over a book, to any thing that might win for my heart a respite from these throbs; to deceive me into a few _tolerable_ moments of forgetfulness. let me see; they tell me this is monday night. only three days yet to come! if thus restless to-day; if my heart thus bounds till its mansion scarcely can hold it, what must be my state to-morrow! what next day! what as the hour hastens on; as the sun descends; as my hand touches hers in sign of wedded unity, of love without interval; of concord without end! i must quell these tumults. they will disable me else. they will wear out all my strength. they will drain away life itself. but who could have thought! so soon! not three months since i first set eyes upon her. not three weeks since our plighted love, and only three days to terminate suspense and give me _all_. i must compel myself to quiet; to sleep. i must find some refuge from anticipations so excruciating. all extremes are agonies. a joy like this is too big for this narrow tenement. i must thrust it forth; i must bar and bolt it out for a time, or these frail walls will burst asunder. the pen is a pacifier. it checks the mind's career; it circumscribes her wanderings. it traces out and compels us to adhere to one path. it ever was my friend. often it has blunted my vexations; hushed my stormy passions; turned my peevishness to soothing; my fierce revenge to heart-dissolving pity. perhaps it will befriend me now. it may temper my impetuous wishes; lull my intoxication; and render my happiness supportable; and, indeed, it has produced partly this effect already. my blood, within the few minutes thus employed, flows with less destructive rapidity. my thoughts range themselves in less disorder. and, now that the conquest is effected, what shall i say? i must continue at the pen, or shall immediately relapse. what shall i say? let me look back upon the steps that led me hither. let me recount the preliminaries. i cannot do better. and first as to achsa fielding,--to describe this woman. to recount, in brief, so much of her history as has come to my knowledge will best account for that zeal, almost to idolatry, with which she has, ever since i thoroughly knew her, been regarded by me. never saw i one to whom the term _lovely_ more truly belonged. and yet in stature she is too low; in complexion dark and almost sallow; and her eyes, though black and of piercing lustre, have a cast which i cannot well explain. it lessens without destroying their lustre and their force to charm; but all personal defects are outweighed by her heart and her intellect. there is the secret of her power to entrance the soul of the listener and beholder. it is not only when she sings that her utterance is musical. it is not only when the occasion is urgent and the topic momentous that her eloquence is rich and flowing. they are always so. i had vowed to love her and serve her, and been her frequent visitant, long before i was acquainted with her past life. i had casually picked up some intelligence, from others, or from her own remarks. i knew very soon that she was english by birth, and had been only a year and a half in america; that she had scarcely passed her twenty-fifth year, and was still embellished with all the graces of youth; that she had been a wife; but was uninformed whether the knot had been untied by death or divorce; that she possessed considerable, and even splendid, fortune; but the exact amount, and all besides these particulars, were unknown to me till some time after our acquaintance was begun. one evening she had been talking very earnestly on the influence annexed, in great britain, to birth, and had given me some examples of this influence. meanwhile my eyes were fixed steadfastly on hers. the peculiarity in their expression never before affected me so strongly. a vague resemblance to something seen elsewhere, on the same day, occurred, and occasioned me to exclaim, suddenly, in a pause of her discourse,-"as i live, my good mamma, those eyes of yours have told me a secret. i almost think they spoke to me; and i am not less amazed at the strangeness than at the distinctness of their story." "and, pr'ythee, what have they said?" "perhaps i was mistaken. i might have been deceived by a fancied voice, or have confounded one word with another near akin to it; but let me die if i did not think they said that you were--_a jew_." at this sound, her features were instantly veiled with the deepest sorrow and confusion. she put her hand to her eyes, the tears started, and she sobbed. my surprise at this effect of my words was equal to my contrition. i besought her to pardon me for having thus unknowingly alarmed and grieved her. after she had regained some composure, she said, "you have not offended, arthur. your surmise was just and natural, and could not always have escaped you. connected with that word are many sources of anguish, which time has not, and never will, dry up; and the less i think of past events the less will my peace be disturbed. i was desirous that you should know nothing of me but what you see; nothing but the present and the future, merely that no allusions might occur in our conversation which will call up sorrows and regrets that will avail nothing. "i now perceive the folly of endeavouring to keep you in ignorance, and shall therefore, once for all, inform you of what has befallen me, that your inquiries and suggestions may be made and fully satisfied at once, and your curiosity have no motive for calling back my thoughts to what i ardently desire to bury in oblivion. "my father was indeed a _jew_, and one of the most opulent of his nation in london,--a portuguese by birth, but came to london when a boy. he had few of the moral or external qualities of jews; for i suppose there is some justice in the obloquy that follows them so closely. he was frugal without meanness, and cautious in his dealings, without extortion. i need not fear to say this, for it was the general voice. "me, an only child, and, of course, the darling of my parents, they trained up in the most liberal manner. my education was purely english. i learned the same things and of the same masters with my neighbours. except frequenting their church and repeating their creed, and partaking of the same food, i saw no difference between them and me. hence i grew more indifferent, perhaps, than was proper, to the distinctions of religion. they were never enforced upon me. no pains were taken to fill me with scruples and antipathies. they never stood, as i may say, upon the threshold. they were often thought upon, but were vague and easily eluded or forgotten. "hence it was that my heart too readily admitted impressions that more zeal and more parental caution would have saved me from. they could scarcely be avoided, as my society was wholly english, and my youth, my education, and my father's wealth made me an object of much attention. and the same causes that lulled to sleep my own watchfulness had the same effect upon that of others. to regret or to praise this remissness is now too late. certain it is, that my destiny, and not a happy destiny, was fixed by it. "the fruit of this remissness was a passion for one who fully returned it. almost as young as i, who was only sixteen; he knew as little as myself what obstacles the difference of our births was likely to raise between us. his father, sir ralph fielding, a man nobly born, high in office, splendidly allied, could not be expected to consent to the marriage of his eldest son, in such green youth, to the daughter of an alien, a portuguese, a jew; but these impediments were not seen by my ignorance, and were overlooked by the youth's passion. "but, strange to tell, what common prudence would have so confidently predicted did not happen. sir ralph had a numerous family, likely to be still more so; had but slender patrimony; the income of his offices nearly made up his all. the young man was headstrong, impetuous, and would probably disregard the inclinations of his family. yet the father would not consent but on one condition,--that of my admission to the english church. "no very strenuous opposition to these terms could be expected from me. at so thoughtless an age, with an education so unfavourable to religious impressions; swayed, likewise, by the strongest of human passions; made somewhat impatient, by the company i kept, of the disrepute and scorn to which the jewish nation are everywhere condemned, i could not be expected to be very averse to the scheme. "my fears as to what my father's decision would be were soon at an end. he loved his child too well to thwart her wishes in so essential a point. finding in me no scruples, no unwillingness, he thought it absurd to be scrupulous for me. my own heart having abjured my religion, it was absurd to make any difficulty about a formal renunciation. these were his avowed reasons for concurrence, but time showed that he had probably other reasons, founded, indeed, in his regard for my happiness, but such as, if they had been known, would probably have strengthened into invincible the reluctance of my lover's family. "no marriage was ever attended with happier presages. the numerous relations of my husband admitted me with the utmost cordiality among them. my father's tenderness was unabated by this change, and those humiliations to which i had before been exposed were now no more; and every tie was strengthened, at the end of a year, by the feelings of a _mother_. i had need, indeed, to know a season of happiness, that i might be fitted to endure the sad reverses that succeeded. one after the other my disasters came, each one more heavy than the last, and in such swift succession that they hardly left me time to breathe. "i had scarcely left my chamber, i had scarcely recovered my usual health, and was able to press with true fervour the new and precious gift to my bosom, when melancholy tidings came. i was in the country, at the seat of my father-in-law, when the messenger arrived. "a shocking tale it was! and told abruptly, with every unpitying aggravation. i hinted to you once my father's death. the _kind_ of death--oh! my friend! it was horrible. he was then a placid, venerable old man; though many symptoms of disquiet had long before been discovered by my mother's watchful tenderness. yet none could suspect him capable of such a deed; for none, so carefully had he conducted his affairs, suspected the havoc that mischance had made of his property. "i, that had so much reason to love my father,--i will leave you to imagine how i was affected by a catastrophe so dreadful, so unlooked-for. much less could i suspect the cause of his despair; yet he had foreseen his ruin before my marriage; had resolved to defer it, for his daughter's and his wife's sake, as long as possible, but had still determined not to survive the day that should reduce him to indigence. the desperate act was thus preconcerted--thus deliberate. "the true state of his affairs was laid open by his death. the failure of great mercantile houses at frankfort and liege was the cause of his disasters. "thus were my prospects shut in. that wealth which, no doubt, furnished the chief inducement with my husband's family to concur in his choice, was now suddenly exchanged for poverty. "bred up, as i had been, in pomp and luxury; conscious that my wealth was my chief security from the contempt of the proud and bigoted, and my chief title to the station to which i had been raised, and which i the more delighted in because it enabled me to confer so great obligations on my husband,--what reverse could be harder than this, and how much bitterness was added by it to the grief occasioned by the violent death of my father! "yet loss of fortune, though it mortified my pride, did not prove my worst calamity. perhaps it was scarcely to be ranked with evils, since it furnished a touchstone by which my husband's affections were to be tried; especially as the issue of the trial was auspicious; for my misfortune seemed only to heighten the interest which my character had made for me in the hearts of all that knew me. the paternal regards of sir ralph had always been tender, but that tenderness seemed now to be redoubled. "new events made this consolation still more necessary. my unhappy mother!--she was nearer to the dreadful scene when it happened; had no surviving object to beguile her sorrow; was rendered, by long habit, more dependent upon fortune than her child. "a melancholy, always mute, was the first effect upon my mother. nothing could charm her eye, or her ear. sweet sounds that she once loved, and especially when her darling child was the warbler, were heard no longer. how, with streaming eyes, have i sat and watched the dear lady, and endeavoured to catch her eye, to rouse her attention!--but i must not think of these things. "but even this distress was little in comparison with what was to come. a frenzy thus mute, motionless, and vacant, was succeeded by fits, talkative, outrageous, requiring incessant superintendence, restraint, and even violence. "why led you me thus back to my sad remembrances? excuse me for the present. i will tell you the rest some other time; to-morrow." to-morrow, accordingly, my friend resumed her story. "let me now make an end," said she, "of my mournful narrative, and never, i charge you, do any thing to revive it again. "deep as was my despondency, occasioned by these calamities, i was not destitute of some joy. my husband and my child were lovely and affectionate. in their caresses, in their welfare, i found peace; and might still have found it, had there not been----. but why should i open afresh wounds which time has imperfectly closed? but the story must some time be told to you, and the sooner it is told and dismissed to forgetfulness the better. "my ill fate led me into company with a woman too well known in the idle and dissipated circles. her character was not unknown to me. there was nothing in her features or air to obviate disadvantageous prepossessions. i sought not her intercourse; i rather shunned it, as unpleasing and discreditable, but she would not be repulsed. self-invited, she made herself my frequent guest; took unsolicited part in my concerns; did me many kind offices; and, at length, in spite of my counter-inclination, won upon my sympathy and gratitude. "no one in the world, did i fondly think, had i less reason to fear than mrs. waring. her character excited not the slightest apprehension for my own safety. she was upwards of forty, nowise remarkable for grace or beauty; tawdry in her dress; accustomed to render more conspicuous the traces of age by her attempts to hide them; the mother of a numerous family, with a mind but slenderly cultivated; always careful to save appearances; studiously preserving distance with my husband, and he, like myself, enduring rather than wishing her society. what could i fear from the arts of such a one? "but alas! the woman had consummate address. patience, too, that nothing could tire. watchfulness that none could detect. insinuation the wiliest and most subtle. thus wound she herself into my affections, by an unexampled perseverance in seeming kindness; by tender confidence; by artful glosses of past misconduct; by self-rebukes and feigned contritions. "never were stratagems so intricate, dissimulation so profound! but still, that such a one should seduce my husband; young, generous, ambitious, impatient of contumely and reproach, and surely not indifferent; before this fatal intercourse, not indifferent to his wife and child!--yet so it was! "i saw his discontents; his struggles; i heard him curse this woman, and the more deeply for my attempts, unconscious as i was of her machinations, to reconcile them to each other, to do away what seemed a causeless indignation, or antipathy against her. how little i suspected the nature of the conflict in his heart, between a new passion and the claims of pride; of conscience and of humanity; the claims of a child and a wife; a wife, already in affliction, and placing all that yet remained of happiness, in the firmness of his virtue; in the continuance of his love; a wife, at the very hour of his meditated flight, full of terrors at the near approach of an event whose agonies demand a double share of a husband's supporting, encouraging love---"good heaven! for what evils are some of thy creatures reserved! resignation to thy decree, in the last and most cruel distress, was, indeed, a hard task. "he was gone. some unavoidable engagement calling him to hamburg was pleaded. yet to leave me at such an hour! i dared not upbraid, nor object. the tale was so specious! the fortunes of a friend depended on his punctual journey. the falsehood of his story too soon made itself known. he was gone, in company with his detested paramour! "yet, though my vigilance was easily deceived, it was not so with others. a creditor, who had his bond for three thousand pounds, pursued and arrested him at harwich. he was thrown into prison, but his companion--let me, at least, say that in her praise--would not desert him. she took lodging near the place of his confinement, and saw him daily. that, had she not done it, and had my personal condition allowed, should have been my province. "indignation and grief hastened the painful crisis with me. i did not weep that the second fruit of this unhappy union saw not the light. i wept only that this hour of agony was not, to its unfortunate mother, the last. "i felt not anger; i had nothing but compassion for fielding. gladly would i have recalled him to my arms and to virtue; i wrote, adjuring him, by all our past joys, to return; vowing only gratitude for his new affection, and claiming only the recompense of seeing him restored to his family; to liberty; to reputation. "but, alas! fielding had a good but a proud heart. he looked upon his error with remorse, with self-detestation, and with the fatal belief that it could not be retrieved; shame made him withstand all my reasonings and persuasions, and, in the hurry of his feelings, he made solemn vows that he would, in the moment of restored liberty, abjure his country and his family forever. he bore indignantly the yoke of his new attachment, but he strove in vain to shake it off. her behaviour, always yielding, doting, supplicative, preserved him in her fetters. though upbraided, spurned, and banished from his presence, she would not leave him, but, by new efforts and new artifices, soothed, appeased, and won again and kept his tenderness. "what my entreaties were unable to effect, his father could not hope to accomplish. he offered to take him from prison; the creditor offered to cancel the bond, if he would return to me; but this condition he refused. all his kindred, and one who had been his bosom-friend from childhood, joined in beseeching his compliance with these conditions; but his pride, his dread of my merited reproaches, the merits and dissuasions of his new companion, whose sacrifices for his sake had not been small, were obstacles which nothing could subdue. "far, indeed, was i from imposing these conditions. i waited only till, by certain arrangements, i could gather enough to pay his debts, to enable him to execute his vow: empty would have been my claims to his affection, if i could have suffered, with the means of his deliverance in my hands, my husband to remain a moment in prison. "the remains of my father's vast fortune was a jointure of a thousand pounds a year, settled on my mother, and, after her death, on me. my mother's helpless condition put this revenue into my disposal. by this means was i enabled, without the knowledge of my father-in-law or my husband, to purchase the debt, and dismiss him from prison. he set out instantly, in company with his paramour, to france. "when somewhat recovered from the shock of this calamity, i took up my abode with my mother. what she had was enough, as you perhaps will think, for plentiful subsistence; but to us, with habits of a different kind, it was little better than poverty. that reflection, my father's memory, my mother's deplorable state, which every year grew worse, and the late misfortune, were the chief companions of my thoughts. "the dear child, whose smiles were uninterrupted by his mother's afflictions, was some consolation in my solitude. to his instruction and to my mother's wants all my hours were devoted. i was sometimes not without the hope of better days. full as my mind was of fielding's merits, convinced by former proofs of his ardent and generous spirit, i trusted that time and reflection would destroy that spell by which he was now bound. "for some time, the progress of these reflections was not known. in leaving england, fielding dropped all correspondence and connection with his native country. he parted with the woman at rouen, leaving no trace behind him by which she might follow him, as she wished to do. she never returned to england, but died a twelvemonth afterwards in switzerland. "as to me, i had only to muse day and night upon the possible destiny of this beloved fugitive. his incensed father cared not for him. he had cast him out of his paternal affections, ceased to make inquiries respecting him, and even wished never to hear of him again. my boy succeeded to my husband's place in his grandfather's affections, and in the hopes and views of the family; and his mother wanted nothing which their compassionate and respectful love could bestow. "three long and tedious years passed away, and no tidings were received. whether he were living or dead, nobody could tell. at length, an english traveller, going out of the customary road from italy, met with fielding, in a town in the venaissin. his manners, habits, and language, had become french. he seemed unwilling to be recognised by an old acquaintance, but, not being able to avoid this, and becoming gradually familiar, he informed the traveller of many particulars in his present situation. it appeared that he had made himself useful to a neighbouring _seigneur_, in whose _chã¢teau_ he had long lived on the footing of a brother. france he had resolved to make his future country, and, among other changes for that end, he had laid aside his english name, and taken that of his patron, which was _perrin_. he had endeavoured to compensate himself for all other privations, by devoting himself to rural amusements and to study. "he carefully shunned all inquiries respecting me; but, when my name was mentioned by his friend, who knew well all that had happened, and my general welfare, together with that of his son, asserted, he showed deep sensibility, and even consented that i should be made acquainted with his situation. "i cannot describe the effect of this intelligence on me. my hopes of bringing him back to me were suddenly revived. i wrote him a letter, in which i poured forth my whole heart; but his answer contained avowals of all his former resolutions, to which time had only made his adherence more easy. a second and third letter were written, and an offer made to follow him to his retreat and share his exile; but all my efforts availed nothing. he solemnly and repeatedly renounced all the claims of a husband over me, and absolved me from every obligation as a wife. "his part in this correspondence was performed without harshness or contempt. a strange mixture there was of pathos and indifference; of tenderness and resolution. hence i continually derived hope, which time, however, brought no nearer to certainty. "at the opening of the revolution, the name of perrin appeared among the deputies to the constituent assembly for the district in which he resided. he had thus succeeded in gaining all the rights of a french citizen; and the hopes of his return became almost extinct; but that, and every other hope respecting him, has since been totally extinguished by his marriage with marguerite d'almont, a young lady of great merit and fortune, and a native of avignon. "a long period of suspense was now at an end, and left me in a state almost as full of anguish as that which our first separation produced. my sorrows were increased by my mother's death, and, this incident freeing me from those restraints upon my motions which before existed, i determined to come to america. "my son was now eight years old, and, his grandfather claiming the province of his instruction, i was persuaded to part with him, that he might be sent to a distant school. thus was another tie removed, and, in spite of the well-meant importunities of my friends, i persisted in my scheme of crossing the ocean." i could not help, at this part of her narration, expressing my surprise that any motives were strong enough to recommend this scheme. "it was certainly a freak of despair. a few months would, perhaps, have allayed the fresh grief, and reconciled me to my situation; but i would not pause or deliberate. my scheme was opposed by my friends with great earnestness. during my voyage, affrighted by the dangers which surrounded me, and to which i was wholly unused, i heartily repented of my resolution; but now, methinks, i have reason to rejoice at my perseverance. i have come into a scene and society so new, i have had so many claims made upon my ingenuity and fortitude, that my mind has been diverted in some degree from former sorrows. there are even times when i wholly forget them, and catch myself indulging in cheerful reveries. "i have often reflected with surprise on the nature of my own mind. it is eight years since my father's violent death. how few of my hours since that period have been blessed with serenity! how many nights and days, in hateful and lingering succession, have been bathed in tears and tormented with regrets! that i am still alive, with so many causes of death, and with such a slow-consuming malady, is surely to be wondered at. "i believe the worst foes of man, at least of men in grief, are solitude and idleness. the same eternally-occurring round of objects feeds his disease, and the effects of mere vacancy and uniformity are sometimes mistaken for those of grief. yes, i am glad i came to america. my relations are importunate for my return, and till lately i had some thoughts of it; but i think now i shall stay where i am for the rest of my days. "since i arrived, i am become more of a student than i used to be. i always loved literature, but never, till of late, had i a mind enough at ease to read with advantage. i now find pleasure in the occupation which i never expected to find. "you see in what manner i live. the letters which i brought secured me a flattering reception from the best people in your country; but scenes of gay resort had nothing to attract me, and i quickly withdrew to that seclusion in which you now find me. here, always at leisure, and mistress of every laudable means of gratification, i am not without the belief of serene days yet to come." i now ventured to inquire what were her latest tidings of her husband. "at the opening of the revolution, i told you, he became a champion of the people. by his zeal and his efforts he acquired such importance as to be deputed to the national assembly. in this post he was the adherent of violent measures, till the subversion of monarchy; and then, when too late for his safety, he checked his career." "and what has since become of him?" she sighed deeply. "you were yesterday reading a list of the proscribed under robespierre. i checked you. i had good reason. but this subject grows too painful; let us change it." some time after, i ventured to renew this topic; and discovered that fielding, under his new name of perrin d'almont, was among the outlawed deputies of last year,[1] and had been slain in resisting the officers sent to arrest him. my friend had been informed that his _wife_, marguerite d'almont, whom she had reason to believe a woman of great merit, had eluded persecution, and taken refuge in some part of america. she had made various attempts, but in vain, to find out her retreat. "ah!" said i, "you must commission me to find her. i will hunt her through the continent from penobscot to savannah. i will not leave a nook unsearched." [footnote 1: 1793.] chapter xlvii. none will be surprised that, to a woman thus unfortunate and thus deserving, my heart willingly rendered up all its sympathies; that, as i partook of all her grief, i hailed, with equal delight, those omens of felicity which now, at length, seemed to play in her fancy. i saw her often,--as often as my engagements would permit, and oftener than i allowed myself to visit any other. in this i was partly selfish. so much entertainment, so much of the best instruction, did her conversation afford me, that i never had enough of it. her experience had been so much larger than mine, and so wholly different, and she possessed such unbounded facility of recounting all she had seen and felt, and absolute sincerity and unreserve in this respect were so fully established between us, that i can imagine nothing equally instructive and delightful with her conversation. books are cold, jejune, vexatious in their sparingness of information at one time and their impertinent loquacity at another. besides, all they choose to give they give at once; they allow no questions, offer no further explanations, and bend not to the caprices of our curiosity. they talk to us behind a screen. their tone is lifeless and monotonous. they charm not our attention by mute significances of gesture and looks. they spread no light upon their meaning by cadences and emphasis and pause. how different was mrs. fielding's discourse! so versatile; so bending to the changes of the occasion; so obsequious to my curiosity, and so abundant in that very knowledge in which i was most deficient, and on which i set the most value, the knowledge of the human heart; of society as it existed in another world, more abundant in the varieties of customs and characters, than i had ever had the power to witness. partly selfish i have said my motives were, but not so, as long as i saw that my friend derived pleasure, in her turn, from my company. not that i could add directly to her knowledge or pleasure, but that expansion of heart, that ease of utterance and flow of ideas which always were occasioned by my approach, were sources of true pleasure of which she had been long deprived, and for which her privation had given her a higher relish than ever. she lived in great affluence and independence, but made use of her privileges of fortune chiefly to secure to herself the command of her own time. she had been long ago tired and disgusted with the dull and fulsome uniformity and parade of the play-house and ballroom. formal visits were endured as mortifications and penances, by which the delights of privacy and friendly intercourse were by contrast increased. music she loved, but never sought it in places of public resort, or from the skill of mercenary performers; and books were not the least of her pleasures. as to me, i was wax in her hand. without design and without effort, i was always of that form she wished me to assume. my own happiness became a secondary passion, and her gratification the great end of my being. when with her, i thought not of myself. i had scarcely a separate or independent existence, since my senses were occupied by her, and my mind was full of those ideas which her discourse communicated. to meditate on her looks and words, and to pursue the means suggested by my own thoughts, or by her, conducive, in any way, to her good, was all my business. "what a fate," said i, at the conclusion of one of our interviews, "has been yours! but, thank heaven, the storm has disappeared before the age of sensibility has gone past, and without drying up every source of happiness. you are still young; all your powers unimpaired; rich in the compassion and esteem of the world; wholly independent of the claims and caprices of others; amply supplied with that means of usefulness, called money; wise in that experience which only adversity can give. past evils and sufferings, if incurred and endured without guilt, if called to view without remorse, make up the materials of present joy. they cheer our most dreary hours with the widespread accents of 'well done,' and they heighten our pleasures into somewhat of celestial brilliancy, by furnishing a deep, a ruefully-deep, contrast. "from this moment, i will cease to weep for you. i will call you the happiest of women. i will share with you your happiness by witnessing it; but that shall not content me. i must some way contribute to it. tell me how i shall serve you. what can i do to make you happier? poor am i in every thing but zeal, but still i may do something. what--pray tell me, what can i do?" she looked at me with sweet and solemn significance. what it was exactly i could not divine, yet i was strangely affected by it. it was but a glance, instantly withdrawn. she made me no answer. "you must not be silent; you _must_ tell me what i can do for you. hitherto i have done nothing. all the service is on your side. your conversation has been my study, a delightful study, but the profit has only been mine. tell me how i can be grateful: my voice and manner, i believe, seldom belie my feelings." at this time, i had almost done what a second thought made me suspect to be unauthorized. yet i cannot tell why. my heart had nothing in it but reverence and admiration. was she not the substitute of my lost mamma? would i not have clasped that beloved shade? yet the two beings were not just the same, or i should not, as now, have checked myself, and only pressed her hand to my lips. "tell me," repeated i, "what can i do to serve you? i read to you a little now, and you are pleased with my reading. i copy for you when you want the time. i guide the reins for you when you choose to ride. humble offices, indeed, though, perhaps, all that a raw youth like me can do for you; but i can be still more assiduous. i can read several hours in the day, instead of one. i can write ten times as much as now. "are you not my lost mamma come back again? and yet, not _exactly_ her, i think. something different; something better, i believe, if that be possible. at any rate, methinks i would be wholly yours. i shall be impatient and uneasy till every act, every thought, every minute, someway does you good. "how!" said i, (her eye, still averted, seemed to hold back the tear with difficulty, and she made a motion as if to rise,) "have i grieved you? have i been importunate? forgive me if i have offended you." her eyes now overflowed without restraint. she articulated, with difficulty, "tears are too prompt with me of late; but they did not upbraid you. pain has often caused them to flow, but now it--is--_pleasure_." "what a heart must yours be!" i resumed. "when susceptible of such pleasures, what pangs must formerly have rent it!--but you are not displeased, you say, with my importunate zeal. you will accept me as your own in every thing. direct me; prescribe to me. there must be _something_ in which i can be of still more use to you; some way in which i can be wholly yours----" "_wholly mine!_" she repeated, in a smothered voice, and rising. "leave me, arthur. it is too late for you to be here. it was wrong to stay so late." "i have been wrong; but how too late? i entered but this moment. it is twilight still; is it not?" "no: it is almost twelve. you have been here a long four hours; short ones i would rather say,--but indeed you must go." "what made me so thoughtless of the time? but i will go, yet not till you forgive me." i approached her with a confidence and for a purpose at which, upon reflection, i am not a little surprised; but the being called mervyn is not the same in her company and in that of another. what is the difference, and whence comes it? her words and looks engross me. my mind wants room for any other object. but why inquire whence the difference? the superiority of her merits and attractions to all those whom i knew would surely account for my fervour. indifference, if i felt it, would be the only just occasion of wonder. the hour was, indeed, too late, and i hastened home. stevens was waiting my return with some anxiety. i apologized for my delay, and recounted to him what had just passed. he listened with more than usual interest. when i had finished,-"mervyn," said he, "you seem not be aware of your present situation. from what you now tell me, and from what you have formerly told me, one thing seems very plain to me." "pr'ythee, what is it?" "eliza hadwin:--do you wish--could you bear--to see her the wife of another?" "five years hence i will answer you. then my answer may be, 'no; i wish her only to be mine.' till then, i wish her only to be my pupil, my ward, my sister." "but these are remote considerations; they are bars to marriage, but not to love. would it not molest and disquiet you to observe in her a passion for another?" "it would, but only on her own account; not on mine. at a suitable age it is very likely i may love her, because it is likely, if she holds on in her present career, she will then be worthy; but at present, though i would die to insure her happiness, i have no wish to insure it by marriage with her." "is there no other whom you love?" "no. there is one worthier than all others; one whom i wish the woman who shall be my wife to resemble in all things." "and who is this model?" "you know i can only mean achsa fielding." "if you love her likeness, why not love herself?" i felt my heart leap.--"what a thought is that! love her i _do_ as i love my god; as i love virtue. to love her in another sense would brand me for a lunatic." "to love her as a woman, then, appears to you an act of folly." "in me it would be worse than folly. 'twould be frenzy." "and why?" "why? really, my friend, you astonish me. nay, you startle me--for a question like that implies a doubt in you whether i have not actually harboured the thought." "no," said he, smiling, "presumptuous though you be, you have not, to-be-sure, reached so high a pitch. but still, though i think you innocent of so heinous an offence, there is no harm in asking why you might not love her, and even seek her for a wife." achsa fielding _my wife_! good heaven!--the very sound threw my soul into unconquerable tumults. "take care, my friend," continued i, in beseeching accents, "you may do me more injury than you conceive, by even starting such a thought." "true," said he, "as long as such obstacles exist to your success; so many incurable objections: for instance, she is six years older than you." "that is an advantage. her age is what it ought to be." "but she has been a wife and mother already." "that is likewise an advantage. she has wisdom, because she has experience. her sensibilities are stronger, because they have been exercised and chastened. her first marriage was unfortunate. the purer is the felicity she will taste in a second! if her second choice be propitious, the greater her tenderness and gratitude." "but she is a foreigner; independent of control, and rich." "all which are blessings to herself, and to him for whom her hand is reserved; especially if, like me, he is indigent." "but then she is unsightly as a _night-hag_, tawny as a moor, the eye of a gipsy, low in stature, contemptibly diminutive, scarcely bulk enough to cast a shadow as she walks, less luxuriance than a charred log, fewer elasticities than a sheet pebble." "hush! hush! blasphemer!"--(and i put my hand before his mouth)--"have i not told you that in mind, person, and condition, she is the type after which my enamoured fancy has modelled my wife?" "oh ho! then the objection does not lie with you. it lies with her, it seems. she can find nothing in you to esteem! and, pray, for what faults do you think she would reject you?" "i cannot tell. that she can ever balance for a moment, on such a question, is incredible. _me! me!_ that achsa fielding should think of me!" "incredible, indeed! you, who are loathsome in your person, an idiot in your understanding, a villain in your morals! deformed! withered! vain, stupid, and malignant. that such a one should choose _you_ for an idol!" "pray, my friend," said i, anxiously, "jest not. what mean you by a hint of this kind?" "i will not jest, then, but will soberly inquire, what faults are they which make this lady's choice of you so incredible? you are younger than she, though no one, who merely observed your manners and heard you talk, would take you to be under thirty. you are poor: are these impediments?" "i should think not. i have heard her reason with admirable eloquence against the vain distinctions of property and nation and rank. they were once of moment in her eyes; but the sufferings, humiliations, and reflections of years have cured her of the folly. her nation has suffered too much by the inhuman antipathies of religious and political faction; she, herself, has felt so often the contumelies of the rich, the high-born, and the bigoted, that----" "pr'ythee, then, what dost imagine her objections to be?" "why--i don't know. the thought was so aspiring; to call her _my wife_ was a height of bliss the very far-off view of which made my head dizzy." "a height, however, to attain which you suppose only her consent, her love, to be necessary?" "without doubt, her love is indispensable." "sit down, arthur, and let us no longer treat this matter lightly. i clearly see the importance of this moment to this lady's happiness and yours. it is plain that you love this woman. how could you help it? a brilliant skin is not hers; nor elegant proportions; nor majestic stature: yet no creature had ever more power to bewitch. her manners have grace and dignity that flow from exquisite feelings, delicate taste, and the quickest and keenest penetration. she has the wisdom of men and of books. her sympathies are enforced by reason, and her charities regulated by knowledge. she has a woman's age, fortune more than you wish, and a spotless fame. how could you fail to love her? "_you_, who are her chosen friend, who partake her pleasures and share her employments, on whom she almost exclusively bestows her society and confidence, and to whom she thus affords the strongest of all indirect proofs of impassioned esteem,--how could you, with all that firmness of love, joined with all that discernment of her excellence, how could you escape the enchantment? "you have not thought of marriage. you have not suspected your love. from the purity of your mind, from the idolatry with which this woman has inspired you, you have imagined no delight beyond that of enjoying her society as you now do, and have never fostered a hope beyond this privilege. "how quickly would this tranquillity vanish, and the true state of your heart be evinced, if a rival should enter the scene and be entertained with preference! then would the seal be removed, the spell be broken, and you would awaken to terror and to anguish. "of this, however, there is no danger. your passion is not felt by you alone. from her treatment of you, your diffidence disables you from seeing, but nothing can be clearer to me than that she loves you." i started on my feet. a flush of scorching heat flowed to every part of my frame. my temples began to throb like my heart. i was half delirious, and my delirium was strangely compounded of fear and hope, of delight and of terror. "what have you done, my friend? you have overturned my peace of mind. till now the image of this woman has been followed by complacency and sober rapture; but your words have dashed the scene with dismay and confusion. you have raised up wishes, and dreams, and doubts, which possess me in spite of my reason, in spite of a thousand proofs. "good god! you say she loves,--loves _me_!--me, a boy in age; bred in clownish ignorance; scarcely ushered into the world; more than childishly unlearned and raw; a barn-door simpleton; a plough-tail, kitchen-hearth, turnip-hoeing novice! she, thus splendidly endowed; thus allied to nobles; thus gifted with arts, and adorned with graces; that she should choose me, me for the partner of her fortune; her affections; and her life! it cannot be. yet, if it were; if your guesses should--prove--oaf! madman! to indulge so fatal a chimera! so rash a dream! "my friend! my friend! i feel that you have done me an irreparable injury. i can never more look her in the face. i can never more frequent her society. these new thoughts will beset and torment me. my disquiet will chain up my tongue. that overflowing gratitude; that innocent joy, unconscious of offence, and knowing no restraint, which have hitherto been my titles to her favour, will fly from my features and manners. i shall be anxious, vacant, and unhappy in her presence. i shall dread to look at her, or to open my lips, lest my mad and unhallowed ambition should betray itself." "well," replied stevens, "this scene is quite new. i could almost find it in my heart to pity you. i did not expect this; and yet, from my knowledge of your character, i ought, perhaps, to have foreseen it. this is a necessary part of the drama. a joyous certainty, on these occasions, must always be preceded by suspenses and doubts, and the close will be joyous in proportion as the preludes are excruciating. go to bed, my good friend, and think of this. time and a few more interviews with mrs. fielding will, i doubt not, set all to rights." chapter xlviii. i went to my chamber, but what different sensations did i carry into it from those with which i had left it a few hours before! i stretched myself on the mattress and put out the light; but the swarm of new images that rushed on my mind set me again instantly in motion. all was rapid, vague, and undefined, wearying and distracting my attention. i was roused as by a divine voice, that said, "sleep no more! mervyn shall sleep no more." what chiefly occupied me was a nameless sort of terror. what shall i compare it to? methinks, that one falling from a tree overhanging a torrent, plunged into the whirling eddy, and gasping and struggling while he sinks to rise no more, would feel just as i did then. nay, some such image actually possessed me. such was one of my reveries, in which suddenly i stretched my hand, and caught the arm of a chair. this act called me back to reason, or rather gave my soul opportunity to roam into a new track equally wild. was it the abruptness of this vision that thus confounded me? was it a latent error in my moral constitution, which this new conjuncture drew forth into influence? these were all the tokens of a mind lost to itself; bewildered; unhinged; plunged into a drear insanity. nothing less could have prompted so fantastically; for, midnight as it was, my chamber's solitude was not to be supported. after a few turns across the floor, i left the room, and the house. i walked without design and in a hurried pace. i posted straight to the house of mrs. fielding. i lifted the latch, but the door did not open. it was, no doubt, locked. "how comes this?" said i, and looked around me. the hour and occasion were unthought of. habituated to this path, i had taken it spontaneously. "how comes this?" repeated i. "locked upon _me_! but i will summon them, i warrant me,"--and rung the bell, not timidly or slightly, but with violence. some one hastened from above. i saw the glimmer of a candle through the keyhole. "strange," thought i; "a candle at noonday!"--the door was opened, and my poor bess, robed in a careless and hasty manner, appeared. she started at sight of me, but merely because she did not, in a moment, recognise me.--"ah! arthur, is it you? come in. my mamma has wanted you these two hours. i was just going to despatch philip to tell you to come." "lead me to her," said i. she led the way into the parlour.--"wait a moment here; i will tell her you are come;"--and she tripped away. presently a step was heard. the door opened again, and then entered a man. he was tall, elegant, sedate to a degree of sadness; something in his dress and aspect that bespoke the foreigner, the frenchman. "what," said he, mildly, "is your business with my wife? she cannot see you instantly, and has sent me to receive your commands." "your _wife_! i want mrs. fielding." "true; and mrs. fielding is my wife. thank heaven, i have come in time to discover her, and claim her as such." i started back. i shuddered. my joints slackened, and i stretched my hand to catch something by which i might be saved from sinking on the floor. meanwhile, fielding changed his countenance into rage and fury. he called me villain! bade me avaunt! and drew a shining steel from his bosom, with which he stabbed me to the heart. i sunk upon the floor, and all, for a time, was darkness and oblivion! at length, i returned as it were to life. i opened my eyes. the mists disappeared, and i found myself stretched upon the bed in my own chamber. i remembered the fatal blow i had received. i put my hand upon my breast; the spot where the dagger entered. there were no traces of a wound. all was perfect and entire. some miracle had made me whole. i raised myself up. i re-examined my body. all around me was hushed, till a voice from the pavement below proclaimed that it was "past three o'clock." "what!" said i; "has all this miserable pageantry, this midnight wandering, and this ominous interview, been no more than--_a dream_?" it may be proper to mention, in explanation of this scene, and to show the thorough perturbation of my mind during this night, intelligence gained some days after from eliza. she said, that about two o'clock, on this night, she was roused by a violent ringing of the bell. she was startled by so unseasonable a summons. she slept in a chamber adjoining mrs. fielding's, and hesitated whether she should alarm her friend; but, the summons not being repeated, she had determined to forbear. added to this, was the report of mrs. stevens, who, on the same night, about half an hour after i and her husband had retired, imagined that she heard the street door opened and shut; but, this being followed by no other consequence, she supposed herself mistaken. i have little doubt that, in my feverish and troubled sleep, i actually went forth, posted to the house of mrs. fielding, rung for admission, and shortly after returned to my own apartment. this confusion of mind was somewhat allayed by the return of light. it gave way to more uniform but not less rueful and despondent perceptions. the image of achsa filled my fancy, but it was the harbinger of nothing but humiliation and sorrow. to outroot the conviction of my own unworthiness, to persuade myself that i was regarded with the tenderness that stevens had ascribed to her, that the discovery of my thoughts would not excite her anger and grief, i felt to be impossible. in this state of mind, i could not see her. to declare my feelings would produce indignation and anguish; to hide them from her scrutiny was not in my power; yet, what would she think of my estranging myself from her society? what expedient could i honestly adopt to justify my absence, and what employments could i substitute for those precious hours hitherto devoted to her? "_this_ afternoon," thought i, "she has been invited to spend at stedman's country-house on schuylkill. she consented to go, and i was to accompany her. i am fit only for solitude. my behaviour, in her presence, will be enigmatical, capricious, and morose. i must not go: yet what will she think of my failure? not to go will be injurious and suspicious." i was undetermined. the appointed hour arrived. i stood at my chamber-window, torn by a variety of purposes, and swayed alternately by repugnant arguments. i several times went to the door of my apartment, and put my foot upon the first step of the staircase, but as often paused, reconsidered, and returned to my room. in these fluctuations the hour passed. no messenger arrived from mrs. fielding, inquiring into the cause of my delay. was she offended at my negligence? was she sick and disabled from going, or had she changed her mind? i now remembered her parting words at our last interview. were they not susceptible of two constructions? she said my visit was too long, and bade me begone. did she suspect my presumption, and is she determined thus to punish me? this terror added anew to all my former anxieties. it was impossible to rest in this suspense. i would go to her; i would lay before her all the anguish of my heart; i would not spare myself. she shall not reproach me more severely than i will reproach myself. i will hear my sentence from her own lips, and promise unlimited submission to the doom of separation and exile which she will pronounce. i went forth to her house. the drawing-room and summer-house were empty. i summoned philip the footman: his mistress was gone to mr. stedman's. "how?--to stedman's?--in whose company?" "miss stedman and her brother called for her in the carriage, and persuaded her to go with them." now my heart sunk, indeed! miss stedman's _brother_! a youth, forward, gallant, and gay! flushed with prosperity, and just returned from europe, with all the confidence of age, and all the ornaments of education! she has gone with him, though pre-engaged to me! poor arthur, how art thou despised! this information only heightened my impatience. i went away, but returned in the evening. i waited till eleven, but she came not back. i cannot justly paint the interval that passed till next morning. it was void of sleep. on leaving her house, i wandered into the fields. every moment increased my impatience. "she will probably spend the morrow at stedman's," said i, "and possibly the next day. why should i wait for her return? why not seek her there, and rid myself at once of this agonizing suspense? why not go thither now? this night, wherever i spend it, will be unacquainted with repose. i will go; it is already near twelve, and the distance is more than eight miles. i will hover near the house till morning, and then, as early as possible, demand an interview." i was well acquainted with stedman's villa, having formerly been there with mrs. fielding. i quickly entered its precincts. i went close to the house; looked mournfully at every window. at one of them a light was to be seen, and i took various stations to discover, if possible, the persons within. methought once i caught a glimpse of a female, whom my fancy easily imagined to be achsa. i sat down upon the lawn, some hundred feet from the house, and opposite the window whence the light proceeded. i watched it, till at length some one came to the window, lifted it, and, leaning on her arms, continued to look out. the preceding day had been a very sultry one: the night, as usual after such a day and the fall of a violent shower, was delightfully serene and pleasant. where i stood was enlightened by the moon. whether she saw me or not, i could hardly tell, or whether she distinguished any thing but a human figure. without reflecting on what was due to decorum and punctilio, i immediately drew near the house. i quickly perceived that her attention was fixed. neither of us spoke, till i had placed myself directly under her; i then opened my lips, without knowing in what manner to address her. she spoke first, and in a startled and anxious voice:-"who is that?" "arthur mervyn; he that was two days ago your friend." "mervyn! what is it that brings you here at this hour? what is the matter? what has happened? is anybody sick?" "all is safe; all are in good health." "what then do you come hither for at such an hour?" "i meant not to disturb you; i meant not to be seen." "good heavens! how you frighten me! what can be the reason of so strange----" "be not alarmed. i meant to hover near the house till morning, that i might see you as early as possible." "for what purpose?" "i will tell you when we meet, and let that be at five o'clock; the sun will then be risen; in the cedar-grove under the bank; till when, farewell." having said this, i prevented all expostulation, by turning the angle of the house, and hastening towards the shore of the river. i roved about the grove that i have mentioned. in one part of it is a rustic seat and table, shrouded by trees and shrubs, and an intervening eminence, from the view of those in the house. this i designed to be the closing scene of my destiny. presently i left this spot, and wandered upward through embarrassed and obscure paths, starting forward or checking my pace, according as my wayward meditations governed me. shall i describe my thoughts? impossible! it was certainly a temporary loss of reason; nothing less than madness could lead into such devious tracks, drag me down to so hopeless, helpless, panicful a depth, and drag me down so suddenly; lay waste, as at a signal, all my flourishing structures, and reduce them in a moment to a scene of confusion and horror. what did i fear? what did i hope? what did i design? i cannot tell; my glooms were to retire with the night. the point to which every tumultuous feeling was linked was the coming interview with achsa. that was the boundary of fluctuation and suspense. here was the sealing and ratification of my doom. i rent a passage through the thicket, and struggled upward till i reached the edge of a considerable precipice; i laid me down at my length upon the rock, whose cold and hard surface i pressed with my bared and throbbing breast. i leaned over the edge; fixed my eyes upon the water and wept--plentifully; but why? may _this_ be my heart's last beat, if i can tell why? i had wandered so far from stedman's, that, when roused by the light, i had some miles to walk before i could reach the place of meeting. achsa was already there. i slid down the rock above, and appeared before her. well might she be startled at my wild and abrupt appearance. i placed myself, without uttering a word, upon a seat opposite to her, the table between, and, crossing my arms upon the table, leaned my head upon them, while my face was turned towards and my eyes fixed upon hers. i seemed to have lost the power and the inclination to speak. she regarded me, at first, with anxious curiosity; after examining my looks, every emotion was swallowed up in terrified sorrow. "for god's sake!--what does all this mean? why am i called to this place? what tidings, what fearful tidings, do you bring?" i did not change my posture or speak. "what," she resumed, "could inspire all this woe? keep me not in this suspense, arthur; these looks and this silence shock and afflict me too much." "afflict you?" said i, at last; "i come to tell you what, now that i am here, i cannot tell----" there i stopped. "say what, i entreat you. you seem to be very unhappy--such a change--from yesterday!" "yes! from yesterday; all then was a joyous calm, and now all is--but then i knew not my infamy, my guilt----" "what words are these, and from you, arthur? guilt is to you impossible. if purity is to be found on earth, it is lodged in your heart. what have you done?" "i have dared--how little you expect the extent of my daring! that such as i should look upwards with this ambition." i stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she sat, looked earnestly in her face:--"i come only to beseech your pardon. to tell you my crime, and then disappear forever; but first let me see if there be any omen of forgiveness. your looks--they are kind; heavenly; compassionate still. i will trust them, i believe; and yet" (letting go her hands, and turning away) "this offence is beyond the reach even of _your_ mercy." "how beyond measure these words and this deportment distress me! let me know the worst; i cannot bear to be thus perplexed." "why," said i, turning quickly round and again taking her hands, "that mervyn, whom you have honoured and confided in, and blessed with your sweet regards, has been----" "what has he been? divinely amiable, heroic in his virtue, i am sure. what else has he been?" "this mervyn has imagined, has dared--will you forgive him?" "forgive you what? why don't you speak? keep not my soul in this suspense." "he has dared--but do not think that i am he. continue to look as now, and reserve your killing glances, the vengeance of those eyes, as for one that is absent.----why, what--you weep, then, at last. that is a propitious sign. when pity drops from the eyes of our judge, then should the suppliant approach. now, in confidence of pardon, i will tell you; this mervyn, not content with all you have hitherto granted him, has dared--to _love_ you; nay, to think of you as of _his wife_!" her eye sunk beneath mine, and, disengaging her hands, she covered her face with them. "i see my fate," said i, in a tone of despair. "too well did i predict the effect of this confession; but i will go--_and unforgiven_." she now partly uncovered her face. the hand was withdrawn from her cheek, and stretched towards me. she looked at me. "arthur! i _do_ forgive thee."--with what accents was this uttered! with what looks! the cheek that was before pale with terror was now crimsoned over by a different emotion, and delight swam in her eye. could i mistake? my doubts, my new-born fears, made me tremble while i took the offered hand. "surely," faltered i, "i am not--i cannot be--so blessed." there was no need of words. the hand that i held was sufficiently eloquent. she was still silent. "surely," said i, "my senses deceive me. a bliss like this cannot be reserved for me. tell me once more--set my doubting heart at rest." she now gave herself to my arms:--"i have not words--let your own heart tell you, you have made your achsa----" at this moment, a voice from without (it was miss stedman's) called, "mrs. fielding! where are you?" my friend started up, and, in a hasty voice, bade me begone. "you must not be seen by this giddy girl. come hither this evening, as if by my appointment, and i will return with you."--she left me in a kind of trance. i was immovable. my reverie was too delicious;--but let me not attempt the picture. if i can convey no image of my state previous to this interview, my subsequent feelings are still more beyond the reach of my powers to describe. agreeably to the commands of my mistress, i hastened away, evading paths which might expose me to observation. i speedily made my friends partake of my joy, and passed the day in a state of solemn but confused rapture. i did not accurately portray the various parts of my felicity. the whole rushed upon my soul at once. my conceptions were too rapid and too comprehensive to be distinct. i went to stedman's in the evening. i found in the accents and looks of my achsa new assurances that all which had lately passed was more than a dream. she made excuses for leaving the stedmans sooner than ordinary, and was accompanied to the city by her friend. we dropped mrs. fielding at her own house, and thither, after accompanying miss stedman to her own home, i returned upon the wings of tremulous impatience. now could i repeat every word of every conversation that has since taken place between us; but why should i do that on paper? indeed, it could not be done. all is of equal value, and all could not be comprised but in many volumes. there needs nothing more deeply to imprint it on my memory; and, while thus reviewing the past, i should be iniquitously neglecting the present. what is given to the pen would be taken from her; and that, indeed, would be--but no need of saying what it would be, since it is impossible. i merely write to allay these tumults which our necessary separation produces; to aid me in calling up a little patience till the time arrives when our persons, like our minds, shall be united forever. that time--may nothing happen to prevent--but nothing can happen. but why this ominous misgiving just now? my love has infected me with these unworthy terrors, for she has them too. this morning i was relating my dream to her. she started, and grew pale. a sad silence ensued the cheerfulness that had reigned before:--"why thus dejected, my friend?" "i hate your dream. it is a horrid thought. would to god it had never occurred to you!" "why, surely, you place no confidence in dreams?" "i know not where to place confidence; not in my present promises of joy,"--and she wept. i endeavoured to soothe or console her. why, i asked, did she weep? "my heart is sore. former disappointments were so heavy; the hopes which were blasted were so like my present ones, that the dread of a like result will intrude upon my thoughts. and now your dream! indeed, i know not what to do. i believe i ought still to retract--ought, at least, to postpone an act so irrevocable." now was i obliged again to go over my catalogue of arguments to induce her to confirm her propitious resolution to be mine within the week. i, at last, succeeded, even in restoring her serenity, and beguiling her fears by dwelling on our future happiness. our household, while we stayed in america,--in a year or two we hie to europe,--should be _thus_ composed. fidelity, and skill, and pure morals, should be sought out, and enticed, by generous recompenses, into our domestic service. duties which should be light and regular.--such and such should be our amusements and employments abroad and at home: and would not this be true happiness? "oh yes--if it may be so." "it shall be so; but this is but the humble outline of the scene; something is still to be added to complete our felicity." "what more can be added?" "what more? can achsa ask what more? she who has not been _only_ a wife----" but why am i indulging this pen-prattle? the hour she fixed for my return to her is come, and now take thyself away, quill. lie there, snug in thy leathern case, till i call for thee, and that will not be very soon. i believe i will abjure thy company till all is settled with my love. yes; i _will_ abjure thee; so let _this_ be thy last office, till mervyn has been made the happiest of men. the end.