He finished. Stephen left the room without a word, turned on his heel and made his way down the street.

III

Nature is a great restorer when she pours into the gaping wounds of the jaded system the oil and wine of repose. Divine grace administers the same narcotic to the soul crushed by torture and anguish. It is then that tears are dried, and that afflictions and crosses become sweet.

Desolation, a very lonely desolation, and a deep sense of helplessness filled the soul of Stephen as he retraced his steps from the court room.

His life seemed a great burden to him, his hopes swallowed up in his bereavement. If he could but remove his mind from his travail of disappointments and bitterness, if his soul could only soar aloft in prayer to the realms of bliss and repose, he might endure this bitter humiliation. He felt the great need of prayer, humble, submissive prayer. Oh! If he could only pray!

He was invisibly directed into the little doorway of St. Joseph's. His feeling was like that of the storm tossed mariner as he securely steers for the beacon light. The church was nearly empty, save for a bare half-dozen people who occupied seats at various intervals. They were alone in their contemplation, as Catholics are wont to be, before their G.o.d, without beads or prayer-book, intent only upon the Divine Person concealed within the tabernacle walls, and announced by the flickering red flame in the little lamp before the altar. Here he felt himself removed from the world and its affairs, as if enclosed in a strange parenthesis, set off from all other considerations. And straightway, his soul was carried off into a calm, pure, lofty region of consolation and repose.

To the human soul, prayer is like the beams of light which seem to connect sun and earth. It raises the soul aloft and transports it to another and a better world. There basking in the light of the divine presence it is strengthened to meet the impending conflict. Nothing escapes the all-seeing eye of G.o.d. He only waits for the prayer of his children eager to grant their requests. Nothing is denied to faith and love. Neither can measure be set to the divine bounty.

"Miserere mei, Deus; secundum magnam misericordiam tuam."--"Have mercy on me, O G.o.d, according to Thy great mercy."

Stephen buried his face in his hands, in an agony of conflict.

The tone of the Military Governor's reprimand had left no room for speculation as to his true intents and purposes. Whatever rebuke had been administered to him was intended for the Catholic population, otherwise there was no earthly reason for holding up to reprobation the conduct of the body governing the republic. The mere fact that the Governor despised the Congress was an unworthy as well as an insufficient motive for the base attack.

The humiliated soldier felt incapable of bearing the insult without murmuring, yet he chose to accept it with perfect resignation and submission. For a time he had fought against it. But in the church he felt seized by an invisible force. On a sudden this invisible tension seemed to dissolve like a gray mist, hovering over a lake, and began to give place to a solemn and tender sweetness.

"Miserere mei Deus."

He sought refuge in the arms of G.o.d, crying aloud to Him for His mercy.

He would give his soul up to prayer and commit his troubled spirit into the hands of his intercessors before the throne of Heaven.

"Accept my punishments for the soul who is about to be released."

To the souls in Purgatory, then, he poured forth the bitterness of his heart, offering in their behalf through the intercession of the Virgin Mary, the cross which had been imposed upon him. The injustice of his trial which he knew, or thought he knew, had been tempered by the spirit of intolerance, was brought home to him now in full vigor by the severity of his reprimand. He did not deserve it, no--he could not force himself to believe that he did. Still he accepted it generously though painfully, in behalf of the sufferings of his friends.

He besought them to pray for him, that he might the more worthily endure his cross. He prayed for his tormentors that they might be not held culpable for their error. He entrusted himself entirely into the hands of his departed ones and renewed with a greater fervor his act of consecration.

"I beseech Thee, O my G.o.d, to accept and confirm this offering for Thy honor and the salvation of my soul. Amen."

He arose from his pew, made a genuflection before the Blessed Sacrament, p.r.o.nouncing as he did, "My Lord and My G.o.d," crossed himself with the holy water, and left the church.

IV

In the meantime an event of rare importance had occurred in the garden of the Shippen home. There, in the recesses of the tulips sheltered behind the cl.u.s.tering hydrangeas, Peggy accepted the fervent suit of the Military Governor and gave him her promise to become his bride. A few days later the world was informed of the betrothal and nodded its head in astonishment, and opening its lips, sought relief in many words.

The wheels of destiny began to turn.

PART TWO

CHAPTER I

I

It was a hot October day.

A torrid wave generated somewhere in the far west, and aided by the prevailing trade winds had swept relentlessly across the country, reaching the city at a most unusual time. It had not come unheralded, however, for the sun of yesterday had gone down a blazing red, illuminating the sky like rays from a mighty furnace, and tinging the evening landscape with the reddish and purplish hues of an Indian summer. And what a blanket of humidity accompanied it! Like a cloak it settled down upon the land, making breathing laborious and driving every living creature out of doors.

Jim Cadwalader and his wife sat on the lawn, if the patch of brown gra.s.s to the side of their little house could be termed a lawn, and awaited the close of the day. Three huge elms, motionless in the still sunshine and, like all motionless things, adding to the stillness, afforded a canopy against the burning rays of the sun. What mattered it that the cool shaded air was infested with mosquitoes and house-flies or that the coa.r.s.e gra.s.s was uneven and unkempt, from the low mounds which ran all over it or, from the profusion of leaves which had here and there fluttered down from the great trees. For it must be confessed that neither Jim nor his wife had found the time for the proper care of the premises, or if perchance, they had found the time the inclination itself had been wanting.

"Sumthins got t' turn up in sum way 'r other b'fore long. I ain't seen the sight o' work here in nigh two year."

"Guess you won't see it fur a while," responded the wife, from her straight-backed chair, her arms folded, her body erect.

"Like as not a man 'd starve t' death in these here times, with nuthin'

t' do."

Jim sat with his elbows resting upon his yellow buckskin breeches, his rough stubby fingers interlocked, his small fiery eyes piercing the distance beyond the fields.

"If this business o' war was through with, things 'd git right agin."

"But it ain't goin' t' be over, let me tell you that."

They became silent.

Sad as was their plight, it was no sadder than the plight of many of their cla.s.s. The horrors of a protracted war had visited with equal severity the dwelling places of the rich and the poor. It was not a question of the provision of the sinews of war; tax had been enacted of all cla.s.ses alike. But it did seem as if the angel of poverty had tarried the longer at the doorposts of the less opulent and had, in proportion to their indigence, inflicted the greater suffering and privation. Figuratively speaking, this was the state of affairs with Jim's house.

Everything that could stimulate, and everything that could gratify the propensities of a middle-aged couple, the blessings of health, the daily round of occupation, the joys of life and the hopes of at length obtaining possession of a little home, all these and the contentment of living, had at once been swept away from Jim Cadwalader and his wife by the calamities of war. They had lived as many had lived who have no different excuse to plead for their penury. The wages of their day's labor had been their sole means of support, and when this source of income had vanished, nothing was left. In the low and dingy rooms which they called their home there were no articles of adornment and many necessary for use were wanting. Sand sprinkled on the floor did duty as a carpet. There was no gla.s.s upon their table; no china on the cupboard; no prints on the wall. Matches were a treasure and coal was never seen.

Over a fire of broken boxes and barrels, lighted with sparks from the flint, was cooked a rude meal to be served in pewter dishes. Fresh meat was rarely tasted--at most but once a week, and then paid for at a higher price than their scanty means could justly allow.

"The way things 're goin' a pair o' boots 'll soon cost a man 'most six hundr' dollars. I heard a man say who 's good at figurin' out these things, that it now takes forty dollar bills t' make a dollar o' coin.

We can't stand that much longer."

"Unless a great blow is struck soon," observed Nancy.

"But it won't be struck. Washington's watchin' Clinton from Morristown.

The Americans are now on the offensive an' Clinton 's busy holdin' New York. The French 're here an' who knows but they may do somethin'. 'Twas too bad they missed Howe's army when it left here."

"Were they here?"

"They were at the capes when the chase was over. Lord Howe's ships had gone."

Again there was silence.

"I guess Washington can't do much without an army. He has only a handful an' I heard that the volunteers won't stay. Three thousan' o' them left t' other day. Can't win a war that way. If they'd only listen to Barry they'd have a navy now, an' if they want to catch Clinton in New York they'll need a navy."