Let none be glad until all are free; The song be still and the banner furled, Till all have seen what the poets see And foretell to the world!

CHAPTER IV.

A SONG OF A SINGLE NOTE.

The next morning, very soon after breakfast, Maria came down stairs ready to visit her friend. She was dressed like a schoolgirl in a little frock of India chintz, her black hair combed backward and plaited in two long, loose braids. One morning she had tied these braids with red ribbon, and been scornfully criticised by her grandmother for "makin' a show of herself." The next morning she had tied them with blue, and been heart-pained by her grandfather's sigh and look of reproach; so this morning they were tied with ribbons as black as her hair, and as she turned herself before the long mirror she was pleased with the change.

"They make my braids look ever so much longer," she said with a pretty toss of her head; "and grandmother can not say I am making a show of myself. One must have ribbons of some color, and black is really distinguished. I suppose that is the reason Uncle Neil wears so much black cloth and velvet."

To these thoughts she ran gaily down stairs. The Elder was reading Rivington's _Royal Gazette_; Madame had a hank of wool over two chairs, and was slowly winding it. She looked at Maria with a little disappointment. Her hat was on her head, her books in her hand, and she understood where the girl was going; yet she asked: "Is it Agnes Bradley again, Maria?"

"Yes, grandmother. I said no lessons yesterday. We were watching the soldiers pa.s.s, and the people, and I was expecting Neil, and there seemed no use in beginning then. I told Agnes I would say extra lessons to-day."

"And I'm doubting, even with the 'extra,' if the lessons amount to much."

"Oh grandmother! I have learned a page of 'Magnall's Questions,' and studied a whole chapter in 'Goldsmith's History' about King John."

"King _who?"_ asked Madame, suspiciously. "I never heard tell o' a King John. David, and Robert, and James I ken; but John! No, no, la.s.sie!

There's nae King John."

"Maria means John of England," explained the Elder. "He was a vera bad king."

"John of England, or George of England!" answered Madame disdainfully, "kings are much of a muchness. And if he was a bad king, he was a bad man, and ye ought to put your commandments on your granddaughter, Elder, to learn naething about such wicked men. Ye ken as well as I do, that the Almighty forbid the children o' Israel even to _inquire_ anent the doings of thae sinners, the Canaanites. And it is bad enough to hae to thole the evil doings o' a living king, without inquiring after the crimes o' a dead one."

"I will give up my history if you wish it, grandmother. I care nothing about King John."

"Maria must learn what other people learn," said the Elder. "She has to live in the world, and she has sense enough to make her own reflections.

Give me a kiss, dearie, and study King John if you like to, he was a bad man, and a bad king, but----"

"Others worse than him!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Madame.

"Give me a kiss, darling grandmother, one for myself, and one for Agnes; she always asks for it."

"Oh, you flattering la.s.sie!" But the old lady gave the two kisses, and with a sweeping courtesy, Maria closed the door and went humming down the garden walk: _"Who Saw Fair Pamela?"_

She had not gone far before she met Moselle, the only slave Bradley possessed. She was in her Sunday clothing, and she said Missee had given her a whole day's holiday. In that case Agnes would be alone, and Maria hastened her steps onward. The little house was as calm and peaceful looking as usual, the windows all open, the mignonette boxes on their sills in full bloom; the white shades gently stirring in the wind. The door was closed, but on the latch, and Maria turned the handle and went into the parlor. It was empty, but the ruffle Agnes was gathering was on the table, and Maria took off her bonnet and laid it and her books down on the cushioned seat within the window recess. As she lifted her head an astonishing sight met her eyes. In the middle of the yard there was a very handsome young man. He was bareheaded, tall, and straight as a ramrod, and stood with one hand on his hip and his face lifted to the sunshine. Maria's heart beat quick, she lifted her bonnet and books, retreated to the front door, and called "Agnes" in a clear, eager voice.

In a moment or two, Agnes came in at the opposite door. "Maria!" she cried, "I am glad to see you. Is your uncle with you? No? That is well.

Come with me to the kitchen. I have given Moselle a holiday. Maria, I have a friend--a very dear friend. I am cooking him some breakfast. Come and help me."

Agnes spoke in a hurried, excited manner very unusual to her, and as she did so, the two girls went into the little outside kitchen. The coffee was ready, the steak broiled, and as Agnes lifted the food she continued, "yes, I have a friend this morning. He is going to eat in the summer-house, and you will help me to wait upon him. Will you not, Maria? Oh, my dear, I am so happy!" And Maria, who remembered only too vividly the bare-headed youth she had seen for a moment, gladly accepted the office. A spirit of keen pleasure was in the dingy little kitchen, and the girls moved gaily to it. "You shall carry the coffee, and I will carry the steak," said Agnes; "the bread and the china are already placed." So laughing and chatting, and delighted with their service the two girls entered the summer-house.

"Harry," said Agnes, "this is my friend, Maria Semple; and Maria, this is Harry Deane." And Harry looked with frank eyes into Maria's eyes, and in a moment they knew each other. What was this strange impression made by a look? Not a word was spoken, but the soul salutation through meeting eyes was a far more overwhelming influence than any spoken word could have evoked. Then came the current forms of courtesy, and the happy tones of low laughter slipping in between the mingling of voices, or the soft tinkling of gla.s.s and china, and everyone knows that as soon as talking begins the divine gates close. It mattered not, Maria knew that something wonderful had happened to her; and never in all her subsequent life could she forget that breakfast under the clematis vines.

Swiftly the hot, still hours of the mid-day pa.s.sed. The city was torpid in the quivering heat. There was no stir of traffic--no lumbering sound of loaded wagons--no noise of shouting drivers--no footsteps of hurrying men. The streets were almost empty; the very houses seemed asleep. Only the cicadas ran from hedge to hedge calling shrilly; or now and then a solitary trumpet stirred the drowsy air, or, in the vicinity of the prisons, the moaning of the dying men, made the silence terribly vocal.

"Let us go into the house," said Agnes, "it will be cooler there." And they took Maria's hands and went to the shaded parlor. Then Harry drew some cool water from the well, and as they drank it they remembered the men in the various prisons and their pitiful need of water at all times.

"They are the true heroes," said Agnes; "tortured by heat and by cold, by cruel hunger and more cruel thirst, in all extremities of pain and sorrow, they are paying their life blood, drop by drop, like coin, for our freedom."

"And when our freedom is won," answered Harry, "we will give to the dead their due. They, too, have saved us."

"Do you think, Harry, this French alliance is going to end the war?"

"Those who know best say it will. But these Frenchmen are giving Washington no end of trouble. They are mostly military adventurers. They worry Washington for promotion and for increase of pay; they have only their own interest in view. They scorn our privations and simplicity, and their demands can only be gratified at the expense of native officers whose rights they unjustly wish to invade. Yet I am told that without French money and French help we should have to give up the struggle. I don't believe it. Starving and demoralized as our army is, there are many who will never give up while Washington is alive to lead them."

"If I was a rebel," said Maria, "I should want our freedom won by our own hands only. The French are coming here at the last hour, and they will get all the credit. Do you think it is for love of freedom they help the Americans? If so, why do they not give freedom to France? She has the most tyrannical and despotic of governments; Uncle Neil says so; and yet she pretends to thrill with indignation because England violates the liberties of her colonies. France had better mind her own affairs, or, as grandmother says, she will scald herself with other people's broth."

"G.o.d made the French, and He may understand them, I do not," answered Harry. "Fancy the French government allowing our Declaration of Independence to be translated and scattered broadcast all over the country! No wonder that Lafayette smiled grimly when he heard of it; no wonder he said that 'the principles of government we had announced would soon be heard from in France.' He can see the results, but the king and queen--who catch up every fashion and every enthusiasm with childish levity--do not imagine any one will have the audacity to apply American principles of government to the French monarchy. 'Give me good news from our dear American republicans,' is always Marie Antoinette's greeting to Franklin, and he himself is one of her prime favorites."

"Oh, he is a cunning old man," said Maria. "I have heard grandfather talk about him. I am sure he is disagreeable; yet the French have his picture on their snuff-boxes and rings and brooches. It is such foolishness. And Uncle Neil--who is a very clever lawyer--says some very disparaging things about this famous Declaration. It is at least most inconsistent."

Harry looked his dissent, and Agnes said: "Perhaps you did not understand your uncle, Maria."

"I am not quite a fool, Agnes. In one respect I am cleverer than Mr.

Jefferson. Imagine an a.s.sembly composed largely, like himself, of slave-owners, saying 'that all men were created equal, and were given by G.o.d an unalienable right to liberty.' And do you think if I were king or queen of France I would scatter a paper in every house telling my miserable, starving subjects, that 'whenever a government did not do what it ought to do, it was the right of the people to alter or abolish it.' Indeed, I think King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette will be sorry some day for teaching their people American ideas of government."

"What do they say in England about the French alliance?" asked Agnes.

"The Parliament declares we have not only rebelled against the mother-country, but also mortgaged ourselves to her enemy; and that if we are to become an accession to France, self-preservation requires England to make that accession of as little value as possible. That does not sound very bad, Agnes, but it means killing men, women and children, burning houses, ravaging land, and making life so wretched that death will be preferable. Now you understand such expeditions as Matthew's and Tryon's. So I say with Miss Semple, it is a pity for many reasons we had to beg foreign help; especially from the three nations who are hereditary foes of England."

"The French did not help you much at Newport," said Maria scornfully.

"They left us in the very oncoming of the battle; as soon as Lord Howe came in sight--sailed away to the West Indies, where they had plans of their own to carry out. The indignation of our army was beyond description; no one but Washington could at this time have kept peace between the French and American soldiers. Their jealousy was flaming, and Washington could not help saying he wished there was not a foreigner in the army but Lafayette. But when Necessity compels, it becomes Destiny, eh, Agnes?"

"Yes. I think England must now be in a very dangerous predicament, Harry."

"She has thirteen colonies in revolt; France, Spain, Holland, uniting against her, and a large majority of her own people conspicuously in our favor. Our old mother-country! I am sorry for her, for she _is ours_, and we are her sons, even though we have been compelled to rebel against her."

"I think it is England that has rebelled against us," said Agnes. "She has repudiated our chartered rights, and made us aliens to the laws and privileges which are our natural heritage. England is traitor to America, and I don't see why you should be sorry for her."

"Can you take the English blood out of my heart? No. I want our Independence, that we must have, nothing less will now satisfy us; but I don't want to see three other nations, who have no business in our family quarrel, badgering the old mother. If you had a liking for some n.o.ble old mastiff, and saw him attacked by three strange dogs, how would you feel?"

"Well, Harry, if the mastiff was hurting me, I might feel obliged to the strange dogs. I do not wonder that France, Spain, and Holland should take this opportunity to fight England; but I do wonder that Englishmen, living in England, should be on our side."

"They have been so from the very first. The King has found it impossible to get soldiers to fight us. They regard us as their countrymen. They refuse to acknowledge the war as an 'English' war; they call it 'The King's War'; and they look upon our victories as triumphs for representative government. I saw a letter from Judge Curwen of Boston, in which he says he visited a large factory in Birmingham where they were making rifles to be used by the English troops in America; and he found that the proprietor, as well as every man thus employed, was enthusiastically on our side. Fox spoke of an English success on Long Island as 'the terrible news from America'; and many say that the Whig party, of which he is the leader, adopted blue and buff for their colors, because Washington had chosen them for his troop. In both houses of Parliament we have many powerful friends, and the American cause is spoken of throughout England as the cause of Liberty."

"Oh, you must be mistaken!" cried Maria. "Grandfather says things very different; and if England is for us, why does the war go on? Whose fault is that."

"It is the fault of King George; the most stupid of men, but with a will as indomitable as the beasts of the desert. Not even King Charles was so determined to ruin himself and the nation. He is cruel as he is immovable. It is _The King's War_, my mistresses, and only the King's friends and sycophants and the clergy defend it."

"And what will those Englishmen who would not lift a finger against us do against our allies?"

"Do? They are preparing with joyful enthusiasm to fight their old enemies. It made my heart throb to hear how they were jumping to arms, at the mere idea of a French and Spanish fleet in the English Channel."