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

"You ought to have told him----"

"I know."

"What can I do?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing there, Agnes? What has happened?"

She spoke one word only, but that word went like a sword to the father's heart,--_"Harry!"_

He repeated the word after her: "Harry! Is he ill? Let me see the letter, where is he? With Doctor Brudenel? Can't you speak, girl?"

"Harry is here, in New York, in prison?"

The words fell shivering from her lips; she raised herself, watching her father's face the while, for she thought he was going to fall. He shook like a great tree in a storm, and then retreated to the door of his room and stood with his back against it. He could not speak, and Agnes was afraid.

"Father," she said in a low, pa.s.sionate voice of entreaty, "we have the boy to save. Do not lose yourself. You have _your Father_ to lean upon."

"I know! I feel! Go and make me a cup of coffee. I will be ready when you call me."

Then he went back into his room and shut the door, and Agnes, with a sick, heavy heart, prepared the necessary meal. For though danger, sorrow and death press on every side, the body must have sustenance; and every-day meals, that look so tragically common and out of place must go on as usual. But it was a little respite and she was grateful, because in it her father would talk the trouble over with G.o.d before she had to explain it to him. The interval was a short one, but during it John Bradley found Him who is "a very present help in every hour of need." He came down to his coffee in full possession of himself and ready for the fight before him. But he had also realized the disobedience which had brought on this sorrow, and the deception which had sanctioned the boy in his disobedience. Therefore Agnes was afraid when she saw his severe eyes, and shrank from them as from a blow, and large tears filled her own and rolled down her white cheeks unchecked.

"Agnes," he said, "tell me the whole truth. I must know everything, or you may add your brother's murder to the other wrongdoing. When did he come back to America?"

"Six months after you sent him to England. He said he could not, durst not, stay there. He thought that G.o.d might have some work that needed _just him_ to do it. I think Harry found that work."

"Why did you not tell me at the time?"

"I was in Boston, at school, when Harry first came to me, and we talked together then about telling you. But at that time both of us supposed you to be a King's man, and the party feeling was then riotously cruel.

Harry had been three months with Washington, and his peculiar fitness for the New York Secret Service had been found out. Still, Washington took no unfair advantage of his youth and enthusiasm. He told him he would be one of a band of young men who lived with their lives in their hands. And when Harry answered, 'General, if I can bring you information that will help Freedom forward one step, my life gladly for it,'

Washington's eyes shone, and he gave Harry his hand and said, 'Brave boy! Your father must be a happy man.'"

She paused here and looked at the father, and saw that his face was lifted and that a n.o.ble pride strove with a n.o.ble pain for the mastery.

So she continued: "Harry _has_ helped Freedom forward. He found out, while pretending to fish for the garrison at Stony Point, the best way across the marsh and up the rocks. He helped to set afloat the reports that brought Tryon back from Connecticut, and the garrison from Rhode Island. He has prepared the way for many a brave deed, taken all the danger and the labor, getting no fame and wanting none, his only aim to serve his country and to be loved and trusted by Washington. If we erred in keeping these things from you, it has been an error of love. And when we knew you also were serving your country in your own way, Harry was sure you would do it better and safer if you were not always looking for him--fearing for him. Oh, father! surely you see how his presence would have embarra.s.sed you and led to suspicion."

"I would like to have seen the boy," he said, softly, as if he were thinking the words to himself.

"He saw you often, never came to the city without pa.s.sing the shop to see you; and it made both of us happy to believe that very soon now he would dare to speak to you and to say, 'Father, forgive me.'"

"I must go to him, Agnes. Harry's life must be saved, or I, John Bradley, will know the reason why. Yes, and if he has to die there are some big men here, playing double-face, that will die with him. I know them----"

"Oh, father! father! What are you saying? Vengeance is not ours. Would it bring Harry back to us?"

"It is more than I can bear. Who was the informer? Tell me that. And where was he taken?"

"I cannot tell who informed. He was taken with his little boat at Elder Semple's landing by a party of Scotch Highlanders."

"What on earth was he doing at Semple's? Do you think the Elder, or that fine gentleman Neil, gave information?"

"They were both arrested with Harry. They also are in prison."

"Am I losing my senses? The Semples! They are royalists, known royalists, bitter as gall. What was Harry doing at their place? Tell me."

"I do not certainly know, father. I think he may have gone there hoping that Maria would come down to the river to say a good-bye to him."

_"Maria!_ That is it, of course. If a man is to be led to destruction and death, it is some woman who will do the business for him. I warned you about that Maria. My heart misgave me about the whole family. So Harry is in love with her! That is your doing, girl. What business had you to let them meet at all? If Harry perishes, I shall find it hard to forgive you; hard to ever see you again. All this sorrow for your sentimental nonsense about Maria. If she had been kept out of Harry's life, he would have gone safely and triumphantly on to victory with the rest of us. But you must have your friend and your friend's brother, and your own brother must pay the price of it."

"Oh, father, be just! Even if you cannot pity me, be just. I am suffering as much as I can bear."

Then he rose and put on his hat and coat. "Stay where you are," he said.

"I will not have women meddling with what I have now to do. Don't leave the house for anyone or anything."

"You will send me some word, father. I shall be in an agony of suspense."

"If there is any word to send, I will send it." Then he went away without kissing her, without one of his ordinary tender words; he left her alone with her crushing sorrow, and the consciousness that upon her he would lay the blame of whatever disaster came to Harry. She had no heart for her household duties, and she left the unwashed china and went back to her room. She was yet in a state of pitiful bewilderment; her grief was so certain, its need was so urgent, and at that hour Heaven seemed so far off; and yet she questioned her soul so eagerly for the watchword that should give her that stress of spirit which would connect her with the Unseen World and permit her to claim its invincible help.

Agnes had told her father that it was Highlanders who arrested Harry, and Bradley went first to their quarters. There he learned that the young man had disclaimed connection with any regiment whatever; and, being in citizen's clothes and wearing no arms, his claim had been allowed and his case turned over to the Military Court of Police. So far it was favorable; the cruel haste of a court martial shut the door of hope; but John Bradley knew the Court of Police was composed of men who put financial arguments before all others. He was, however, too early, an hour too early, to see any one; and the prisoner was under watch in one of the guard-houses and could not be approached.

He wandered back to his shop utterly miserable and restless and wrote a letter to Thomas Curtis, a clever lawyer, and a partner of Neil Semple, explaining the position of his son and begging him to be at the Court of Police when it opened. This letter he carried to the lawyer's office and paid the boy in attendance to deliver it immediately on the arrival of his master. Then he went back to his shop for money, and as he was slowly leaving the place Lord Medway spoke to him. He had his rifle over his shoulder and was going with a friend to Long Island to shoot birds.

The sight of the man made John Bradley's heart leap and burn. He had been waiting for some leading as to the way he ought to take, and he felt that it had been given him.

"Good morning, Mr. Bradley," said the n.o.bleman.

"My lord, turn back with me to my shop. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you."

Medway smiled: "My hunting is of the greatest importance at present, Mr.

Bradley, for my friend, Colonel Pennington, is waiting for me; but if I can be of service----"

"I think you can; at least, listen to me."

Medway bent his head in acquiescence, and Bradley led the way to the small room behind his shop, which had been his sitting and dining room while his daughter was at school. He plunged at once into the subject of his anxieties.

"There was a prisoner taken last night."

"A young man in a boat; I heard of it. General Clinton thinks they may have made an important arrest."

"He is my son--my only son! I did not know until an hour ago that he was in America. I sent him to England at the beginning of the war--to a fine school there--and I thought he was safe; and he has been here, one of Washington's scouts, carrying messages from camp to camp, in and out of New York in all kinds of disguises, spreading reports and gathering reports, buying medicines, and clothing, and what not; doing, in short, duties which in every case were life and death matters. For three years or more he has done these things safely; last night he was discovered."