She took out pen and paper, and wrote the words Medway had begged her to say; wrote, indeed, far more than the one tender "yes" he had asked for.

Then she sealed the letter and sat with it in her hand, waiting for Neil. He was so late that she thought he must have reached his room unheard, and toward midnight she tip-toed along the corridor to his door. There was no light, no sound, and when she knocked, no response.

Anxiously she resumed her watch, and soon after twelve o'clock heard him enter the house. She went noiselessly down stairs to meet him. "Neil,"

she said, "can you find Ernest? Oh, if you can, you must carry this letter to him! Neil, it is the very greatest favor I can ever ask of you. Do not speak, if you are going to refuse me."

"My dear Maria, I know not where to find Lord Medway. He ought to have been at the dinner given to Colonel Gordon, and he was not there."

"He was here," she said wearily; "he is going South at once; he must, he must have this letter first. Neil, good, kind Uncle Neil, try and find him!"

"Be reasonable, Maria. If he is paying farewell calls--which is likely--how can I tell at whose house he may be; at any rate it is too late now for him to be out, the city is practically closed; any one wandering about it after midnight is liable to arrest, and if Ernest is not visiting, he is in his rooms, and likely to be there till near noon to-morrow. I will carry this letter before breakfast, if you say so, but----"

"I tell you he is going to General Clinton at once. He told me so."

"He cannot go until the _Arethusa_ sails. She leaves to-morrow, but the tide will not serve before two o'clock. Give me the letter; I will see he gets it very early in the morning."

With a sigh she a.s.sented to this promise, and then slipped back into the sorrowful solitude of her room. But the talk with Neil had slightly steadied her. Nothing more was possible; she had done all she could to atone for her unkindness, and after a little remorseful wandering outside the Eden she had herself closed, she fell asleep and forgot all her anxiety.

And it is this breaking up of our troubles by bars of sleep that enables us to bear them and even grow strong in conquering them. When the day broke Maria was more alert, more full of purpose, and ready for what the morning would bring her. Neil was missing at breakfast and she found out that he had left the house soon after seven o'clock. So she dressed herself carefully and took her sewing to the front window. When she saw her lover at the gate, she intended to go and meet him, and her heart was warm and eager with the kind words that she would at last comfort him with.

It was half-past eight; by nine o'clock--at the very latest by half-past nine--he would surely answer that loving letter. Nine o'clock struck, and the hands on the dial moved forward inexorably to ten o'clock--to eleven--to noon. But long before that hour Maria had ceased to sew, ceased to watch, ceased to hope. Soon after twelve she saw Neil coming and her heart turned sick within her. She could hardly walk into the hall to meet him. She found it difficult to articulate the questioning word "Well?"

He gave her the letter back. "Ernest sailed this morning at two o'clock," he said.

She looked at him with angry despair. "You might have taken that letter last night. You have ruined my life. I will never forgive you."

"Maria, listen to me. Ernest went on board an hour before you asked me.

The ship dropped down the river to catch the early tide; he was on her at half-past ten. I could not have given him the letter, even if I had tried to."

"No; of all the nights in the year, you must stop out last night until twelve o'clock! I never knew you do such a thing before; well, as grandmother says, it is destiny; I am going to my room. I want no dinner; don't let them worry me, or worry about me."

Sitting alone she faced the circ.u.mstances she had evoked, considered them in every light, and came to a conclusion as to her future:

"I will go to London, and make no fuss about it," she decided; "here I should miss Ernest wherever I went; miss him in every way, and people would make me feel he was absent. I have been a great trouble and expense to grandfather and grandmother. I dare say they will be glad to be quiet and alone again. I don't know much about father--he has always been generous with money--but I wonder if he cared much for me! He sent me away, first to nurses, then to school; I saw little of him, but I can make him care. As for Madame, my stepmother, I shall not let her annoy me. And there will be Mrs. Gordon for a refuge, if I need one. She has always been good to me, and I will see her at once. I cannot help understanding that I am come to the end of this road; but there are many roads in life, and from this moment, I am on the way to London."

Evidently it was destiny, for there was never a let or hinderance in all her preparations. The Gordons took her as a G.o.dsend, and all her arrangements went without a hitch. And when it was known she was absolutely going away from New York there was a great access of kindness toward her. The young women she had known--and not always pleasantly--brought her good-bye mementoes; books to read on the voyage, book-marks of their own working, little bags and cases of various kinds for toilet needs, and needlework; and all were given with a conspicuous intention of apology for past offense and conciliation for any future intercourse.

Maria valued it pretty accurately. "It is far better than ill-will," she said to her grandmother; "but I dare say they think I am going home to be married, and as they all look forward to England eventually, they feel that Lady Medway may not be unserviceable in the future."

"Dinna look a gift-horse in the mouth, Maria. Few folks give away anything of real value to themselves. You needna feel under any special obligation for aught but the good will, and that's aye worth having. As for being Lady Medway, there is many a slip between cup and lip, and oceans between you and a' the accidents o' war, and love not unchangeable in this warld o' change; and there's your father's will that may stand in your road like a wall you can neither win round nor over. I'm real glad at this hour that your grandfather was wise enough to write naething about Lord Medway. You can now tell your ain news, or keep it, whichever seems best to you."

"Do you mean to say, grandmother, that my father has not been told about my engagement to Lord Medway?"

"Just so. At first your grandfather was too ill to write one thing or another; and by the time he was able to hold a pen, we had, baith o' us, come to the conclusion that silence anent the matter was wisdom. It would hae been a hard matter to tell, without telling the whole story, Police Court and young Bradley included, and then there was aye the uncertainty of a man's love and liking to be reckoned with; none o' us could be sure Lord Medway would hold to his promise; he might meet other women to take his heart from you; he might be killed in battle, or in a duel, for it is said he has fought three already; the chances o' the engagement coming to naething were so many on every side we came to the conclusion to leave a' to the future, and I'm sure we did the best thing we could do."

"I am so glad you did it, grandmother. I shall now go home on my own merits. If I win love, it will be because I am Maria Semple, not because I am going to be Lady Medway. And if my engagement was known I should never hear the last of it. I should be questioned about letters--whether they came or not; my stepmother might talk about the matter; my father insists on a public recognition of my position, and so on. There would be such endless discussions about Lord Medway that I should get weary to even hear his name. And I must bear my fate, whatever it is."

"Nonsense! Parfect nonsense! There is nae such thing as fate. You're in the care and guidance of a wise and loving Creator, and not in thrall to some vague, wandering creature, that you ca' _Fate_. Your ain will is your Fate. Commit your will and way to G.o.d, and He will direct your path; and you may snap your thumb and finger at that will o' the wisp--Fate!"

In such conversation over their duties together the three last days were spent, and the girl caught hope and strength from the feeble old woman as they mended and brushed clothing and put it into the trunks standing open in the hall. The Elder wandered silently about. The packing was a mournful thing to him; for, with all her impetuosities and little troublesome ways, Maria was close to his heart, and he feared he had given her the impression that she was in some way a burden. Indeed, he had not felt this, and had only been solicitous that she should obey her father's wishes, and obey them in a loving and dutiful spirit. On the last morning, however, as they rose from the breakfast table, he put even this wise intention behind his anxious love, and drawing her aside he said:

"Maria, my dearie, you will heed your father, of course, in a' things that are your duty--but--but--my dear bairn! I ken my son Alexander is a masterfu' man, and perhaps, it may be, that he might go beyond his right and your duty. I hae told you to obey him as your father, that's right, but if he is your father, he is my son, and so speaking in that relation, I may say, if my son doesna treat you right, or if he lets that strange English woman treat you wrong, then you are to come back to me--to your auld grandfather--to sort matters between you. And I'll see no one do you wrong, Maria, no one, though it be my auldest son Alexander. You are in my heart, child, and there is always room in my heart for you; and I speak for your grandmother and uncle as well as for mysel'." His voice was low and broken at this point, tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, and he clasped her tenderly in his arms: "G.o.d bless you my little la.s.sie! Be strong and of a good courage. Act for the best, and hope for the best, and take bravely whatever comes."

To such wise, tender words she set her face eastward, and the Elder and Neil watched the vessel far down the river, while in her silent home Madame slowly and tearfully put her household in order. Fortunately, the day was sunny and the Spring air full of life and hope, and as soon as they turned homeward, the Elder began to talk of the possibility of Maria's return:

"If she isna happy, I hae told her to come back to us," he said to Neil, and then added: "Your brother is sometimes gey ill to live wi', and the bit la.s.sie has had, maybe, too much o' her ain way here," and Neil wondered at the brave old man; he spoke as if his love would always be present and always sufficient. He spoke like a young man, and yet he was so visibly aging. But Neil had forgotten at the moment that the moral nature is inaccessible to Time; that though the physical man grows old, the moral man is eternally young.

Not long after the departure of Maria, Neil was one morning sorting and auditing some papers regarding the affairs of Madame Jacobus. Suddenly the thought of Agnes Bradley came to him with such intense clarity and sweetness that his hands dropped the paper they held; he remained motionless, and in that pause had a mental vision of the girl, while her sweet voice filled the chambers of his spiritual ears with melody. As he sat still, seeing and listening, a faint, dreamy smile brightened his face, and Madame softly opening the door, stood a moment and looked at him. Then advancing, the sound of her rustling silk garments brought Neil out of his happy trance, and he turned toward her.

"Dreaming of St. Agnes?" she asked, and he answered, "I believe I was Madame."

"Sometimes dreams come true," she continued. "Can you go to Philadelphia for me? Here is an offer from Gouverneur Morris for my property on Market Street. He proposes to turn the first floor into storage room. At present it is a rather handsome residence, and I am not sure the price he offers will warrant me making the change."

Neil was "ready to leave at any time," he said, and Madame added, "Then go at once. If it is a good offer, it will not wait on our leisure."

He began to lock away the papers under his hands, and Madame watched him with a pleasant smile. As he rose she asked, "Have you heard anything yet from Miss Bradley?"

"Not a word."

"Do you know where she is?"

"I have not the least idea. I think the Hurds know, but they will not tell me."

"I will tell you then. Agnes is in Philadelphia."

"Madame! Madame! I----"

"I am sure of it. On this slip of paper you will find her address. She boards with a Quaker family called Wakefield--a mother and four daughters; the father and brothers are with the American army. I suppose you can leave to-day?"

"In two hours I will be on the road. I need but a change of clothing and a good horse."

"The horse is waiting you in my stables. Choose which animal you wish, and have it saddled: and better mount here; you can ride to Semple house quicker than you can walk."

Neil's face spoke his thanks. He waited for no explanations, he was going to see Agnes; Madame had given him her address, it was not worth while asking how she had procured it. But as he left the room he lifted Madame's hand and kissed it, and in that act imparted so much of his feeling and his grat.i.tude that there was no necessity for words.

"Poor fellow!" sighed Madame, and then she walked to the window and looked sadly into Broadway. "Soldiers instead of citizens," she murmured, "war horses instead of wagon horses; that screaming fife! that braying, bl.u.s.tering drum! Oh, how I wish the kings of earth would fight their own battles! Wouldn't the duello between George of England and George of America be worth seeing? Lord! I would give ten years of my life for the sight."

With the smile of triumph on her face she turned to see Neil re-entering the room. "Madame," he said, "I must have appeared selfishly ungrateful.

My heart was too full for speech."

"I know, I know, Neil. I have been suffering lately the same cruel pain as yourself. I have not heard from Captain Jacobus for nearly a year.

Something, I fear, is wrong; he takes so many risks."

"He is sailing as an American privateer. If he had been captured by the English, we should have heard of the capture."

"That is not all. I will tell you just what Jacobus would do, as soon as he was fairly out at sea, he would call his men together on deck, and pointing to the British colors, would say something like this: 'Men, I don't like that bunting, and I'm going to change it for the flag of our own country. If there is any one here that doesn't like the American flag, he can leave the ship in any way he chooses,' then down would go the British flag, and up, with rattling cheers, the American. So far he would be only in ordinary danger, but that is never enough for Jacobus; he would continue after this extraordinary fashion: 'Men, you have all heard of these French and Spanish alliances. As the son of a hundred thousand Dutchmen, I hate the Spaniards, and I'm going to fight and sink every Spanish ship I meet. _Allies!_ To the deep sea with such allies!

We want no Spanish allies; we want their ships though, and we'll take them wherever on the wide ocean we can find them.' Then he would put his hand on his first mate's shoulder and continue, 'Here's Jack Tyler, an Englishman from beard to boots, born in the city of London, and there's more on board like him. What does an Englishman want with Frenchmen?

Nothing, only to fight them, and that we'll do wherever we meet them!

And as for English ships coming our way, they're out of their course, and we'll have to give them a lesson they'll remember. So then, all of you, keep your eyes open for English, French, or Spanish sails. Nothing but American colors in American waters, and American water rolls round the world, as I take it.' So you see, Neil, Jacobus would always have a threefold enemy to fight, and I have not a doubt that was his first thought when he heard of our alliance with France and Spain. And though we might hear of his capture by a British vessel, it is not likely we should do so if he fell into the hands of a French or Spanish privateer.

When you come from Philadelphia we will consider this circ.u.mstance; but now, good-bye, and good fortune go with you."