A Song of a Single Note: A Love Story
"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 God, 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: "God bless you my little lassie! 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 lassie 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 gratitude 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, blustering 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 circumstance; but now, good-bye, and good fortune go with you."
It did not take Neil long to go to the Semple house and obtain a change of clothing, and after this short delay nothing interfered with the prosperous course of his journey. The weather was delightful, and his heart so full of hope that he felt no fatigue. And he had such confidence in all Madame Jacobus said, or did, that no doubts as to finding Agnes troubled him. It was, however, too late in the evening of the day on which he reached Philadelphia, to make a call, and he contented himself with locating the house to which he had been directed. He found it in a quiet street, a small brick house, with white wooden shutters, and a tiny plot of garden in front. No sign of light or life appeared, and after walking a while in front of it, he returned to his inn and tried to sleep.
But he was not very successful. His hopes and his fears kept him waking. He fancied the house he had been directed to looked too silent and dark to be occupied; he longed for the daylight to come that he might settle this fear; and then the possibility of its reality made him sick with anxiety and suspense, holding a measure of hope, seemed better than certain disappointment. In the morning his rigid, upright business instinct asserted itself, and he felt that he must first attend to those affairs which were the ostensible reason of his journey. So it was the early afternoon before he was at liberty to gratify the hunger of his heart.
Happily, when he reached the house indicated, there were many signs of its occupancy; the windows were open, and he saw a young woman sitting near one of them, knitting. His knock was answered by her. He heard her move her chair and come leisurely toward the door, which she opened with the knitting in her hand, and a smile on her face.
"Does Mr. Wakefield live here?" he asked.
"This is his house, but he is not at home now."
"I was told that Miss Bradley of New York was staying here."
"She is here. Does thee want to see her?"
A great weight rolled from Neil's heart. "Yes," he answered, "will you tell her that Mr. Neil Semple of New York desires to speak with her."
She bowed her head, and then took him into a small darkened parlor. He was glad the light was dim; he had a feeling that he looked worse than he had ever looked in all his life. He knew that he was pale and trembling with a score of fears and doubts, and the short five minutes of suspense seemed to him a long hour of uncertain apprehensions. Yet it was barely five minutes ere he heard Agnes coming down the stairs, and her steps were quick and eager; and he took courage from the welcoming sound in them, and as the door opened, went with open arms to meet her. He held her in his embrace, her cheek was against his cheek – what need was there for speech? Both indeed felt what they had no power to express, for as all know who have lived and loved, there is in the heart feelings yet dumb; chambers of thought which need the key of new words to unlock them. Still, in that heavenly silence all was said that each heart longed for, and when at length they sat down hand in hand and began to talk, it was of the ordinary affairs of the individual lives dear to them.
Neil's first inquiry concerned John Bradley and his son, and he was glad to notice the proud pleasure with which Agnes answered him. "My father is now in his proper place," she said, "and I have never seen him so well and so happy."
"Is he under arms?"
"Not unless there is fighting on hand; but he is in camp, and all day he is busy mending the accoutrements of the soldiers. At night he sings to them as they sit round the camp fires, or he holds a prayer meeting, or he reads the Bible; and every Sunday he preaches twice. St. Paul made tents, and as he stitched found time to preach Jesus Christ crucified; my father mends saddles and bridles, and does the same thing, and he is happy, oh, so happy! What is better still, he makes the men around him happy and hopeful, and that is a great thing to do, when they are hungry, and naked, and without pay. Sometimes, when the camp is very bare and hungry, he takes his implements and goes to the outlying farms, mends all their leather, and begs in return corn, and flour, and meat for the men. He never fails in getting some relief; and often he has so moved the poor farmers that they have filled a wagon with food and driven it to the perishing soldiers."
"And Harry? Where is he?"
"With the greatest and best of men. He is now a regular soldier in Washington's own regiment."
"I am glad, and my dear one, are you happy here?"
"As I can be, out of my own home. There are six women in this house; all the men are at the war; some at Morristown; some are gone South. We spend our time in knitting stockings for the soldiers, or in any needlework likely to be of service. But how is Maria? Tell me about her. I thought you might have brought me a letter."
"Maria is on her way to England. Her father has married again. He has obtained an excellent place in the government and furnished a home in London. Naturally, he desired Maria to join him at once. You know that she is engaged to Lord Medway?"
"No. Poor Harry! He still dreams that Maria is faithful to him. I think she might have given Harry one year's remembrance."
"What did she tell you about Harry in your last interview?"
"Nothing. She was more fretful and unreasonable than I ever before saw her. She could only cry and make reproaches; we parted in sorrow, and I fear in misunderstanding."
"Yes, if you do not know the price paid for your brother's life."
"The price paid! What do you mean, Neil?"
"The night Harry was condemned to death Lord Medway came to see Maria. He told her he would save Harry's life, if she would marry him. He would listen to no compromise, and she accepted the terms. It was a decision bitter as death at the time, but she has learned to love Medway."
Agnes did not appear to listen, she was occupied with the one thought that Maria had been the saviour of her brother.
"It seems incredible," she said at length; "why did she not tell me that last – last time I saw her. It would have changed everything. Oh, Maria! Maria! how I have misjudged you!"
"You had better tell Harry, and be very positive, there is really not a shadow of hope for him. Maria had to forget; it was her first duty."
Neil spent nearly three days with his beloved, and then they had to part. But this parting was full of hope, full of happy plans for the future, full of promises in all directions. In those three days Neil forgot all the sorrowful weeks of his despairing love. As a dream when one awaketh, they slipped even from his memory. For Agnes was loving and faithful, a steady hand to hold, and a steady heart to trust. And oh, she was so lovely and desirable! As he rode joyfully home, he could think of nothing but Agnes; of her eyes, gray as mountain lakes and full of light and shadow; of her smile, that filled even silence with content; her white arms, her brown hair, the warm pallor of her cheeks catching a rosy glow from the pink dimity she wore! Oh, how perfect she was! Beauty! Love! Fidelity! all in one exquisite woman, and that one woman loved him!
Ah, well! Love wakes men once in a lifetime, and some give thanks and rejoice, and some neglect and betray; but either way, love, and their childhood's unheeded dream
Is all the light, of all their dayCHAPTER XI.
THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE
Maria reached London in the early days of June. Her voyage had been uneventful, and though long, not unpleasant. Still she was glad to feel the earth beneath her feet, and the stir of trafficking humanity around her. They landed late in the afternoon and she remained with the Gordons all night, but early the following morning the colonel took her to Bloomsbury. Mr. Semple's house was not difficult to find; it was the largest in the fine square, an imposing mansion of red brick with a wide flight of stone steps leading to its main entrance. This entrance impressed Maria very much. It was so ample and so handsome.
"I think, indeed," said the Colonel to her, "two sedan chairs could easily be taken in, or out, at the same time."
Her welcome, if not effusive, was full of kindness and interest; she was brought at once to the sunny parlor at the back of the house where her father and stepmother were breakfasting, and nothing could have been more properly affectionate than the latter's greeting. And although she had breakfasted with the Gordons, she found it pleasant enough to sit down beside her father and talk of the voyage and the war, and the conditions of life in America. He was obviously both astonished and delighted with his daughter; her beauty was so great, her manner so charming, her conversation so full of clever observations, that he felt her to be a personal credit. "There are very few young girls so perfectly formed, so admirably finished," he said to himself; and he rose and walked loftily about the room, proudly aware of the piquant loveliness and intelligence of the girl who called him father. The word sounded well in his ears, and even touched his heart; and she herself was a crowning grace to his splendid habitation. And for her, and for all her beauties and graces and accomplishments, he took the entire credit. She was his daughter, as much his property as his wife, or his house, or his purse.
This appropriation of herself did not then displease Maria. She was longing to be loved, longing to be cared for and protected. And she loved her father, and felt that she could easily love him a great deal more. His appearance invited this feeling. He was a strikingly handsome man, though touching fifty years of age, tall and erect like her grandfather, but with a manner much more haughty and dictatorial. He was dressed in a dark blue cloth coat lined with white satin and ornamented with large gilt buttons; his long vest and breeches were of black satin, his stockings of black silk, and his low shoes clasped with gold latches. He wore his own hair combed back from his large ruddy face and tied behind with a black ribbon.
His new wife was very suitable to him. She was thirty-eight years old and distinctly handsome, tall and fair, rather highly colored, and dressed with great care in a morning robe of Indian silk. She was very cheerful and composed, had fine health, lived in the unruffled atmosphere of her interests, and had no nerves worth speaking of – a nice woman apparently, who would always behave as nice women were then taught to behave. And yet there were within her elements much at variance with that habitual subservience she showed her husband. Maria was not long in discovering that, though she spoke little and never boasted, she got all she wished to get and did all she wished to do.
After Mr. Semple had gone to business she took Maria to the rooms prepared for her. They were light and airy and prettily furnished, and Mrs. Semple pointed out particularly the little sitting-room attached. It contained a small library of books which are now classic, a spinnet for practice, maps and globes, and a convenient desk furnished with all the necessary implements for writing or correspondence.
Maria had fully resolved not to be forced into any kind of study, but as she stood listening to her stepmother's plans and explanations she changed her mind. She resolved rather to insist on the finest teachers London could furnish. She would perfect herself in music and singing; she would enlarge her knowledge and accomplishments in every direction, and all this that she might astonish and please Lord Medway when he came for her. That he would do so she never doubted; and he could not doubt her love when he saw and heard what she had done to make herself more worthy of him.
But this incitement she kept to herself. She permitted her father and stepmother to believe that the fulfilling of their desires was her sole motive, and this beautiful obedience gave her much liberty in other directions. So the weeks and months went past very pleasantly. She had an Italian singing master and a French dancing master, Kalkbrenner gave her music lessons, Madame Jermyn taught her embroidery and lace, and two hours every day were spent in the study of history and geography, and her much neglected grammar. It was all pleasant enough; every master or mistress brought in a fresh element, a little gossip, a different glimpse of the great city in which they all lived. And the preparation of her studies and the practice of her music gave her almost unbounded control of her time. If things were not agreeable down stairs her study was a safe retreat, and she began to take off their shelves the books provided for her amusement and instruction, and to make friends of them and become familiar with their thoughts and opinions.
The evenings were often spent at the theatre or opera, and still more frequently at Vauxhall or Ranelagh gardens, and at the latter places she was always sure of a personal triumph. Her beauty was so remarkable and so admirably set off by her generally fine toilets that she quickly became a noted visitor. Sir Horace Walpole had called her on one occasion "The American Beauty," and the sobriquet clung like a perfume to her. When the Semples had a box and a supper in the rotunda the most noble and fashionable of the young bloods hung round it, paraded past it, or when possible took a box in such close proximity that their toasts to "The Divine American" could be distinctly or indistinctly heard. Both Mr. and Mrs. Semple were proud of this notoriety. It was quite in keeping with the social élat of the age that every glass should be raised when they entered their box at the theatre or opera; quite honorable and flattering to walk between the admiring beaux who watched their entry into the gardens. Maria gave them distinction, exhilarating notice and attention. She was spoken of in the papers as "the lovely Miss Semple, the beautiful daughter of our new collector," and her début at the next spring functions of the Court was confidently predicted.
The break in this generally agreeable life came, of course, through a man's selfish desires, dignified with the name of love. Mrs. Semple had a cousin who was largely engaged in the Mediterranean trade – then entirely in English hands – and when Maria had been about eighteen months in London he returned to that city after a sojourn in Turkey and the Greek islands of nearly three years. He had been named at intervals to Maria, but his existence had made no impression upon her, and she was astonished on coming to the dinner table one day to meet him there. The instinct of conquest was immediately aroused; she smiled and he was subdued. The man who had snubbed Turkish bashaws and won concessions from piratical beys in Tunis and Algiers was suddenly afraid of a woman. He might have run away, but he did not; he was under a spell, and he went with her to the opera, and became her willing slave thereafter.
Now during her residence in London, Maria had had many admirers; some she had frowned away, some her father had bowed out, but Richard Spencer was a very different man to be reckoned with. He was Mrs. Semple's cousin, and Mrs. Semple was strongly attached to every member of her family. Cousin Richard's suit was advocated, pressed, even insisted upon by her. He was present at every meal and went with them to every entertainment, and the generality of Maria's admirers understood that he was her accepted lover.
