A Song of a Single Note: A Love Story

"The woman, Mrs. Hurd, she called herself, told me Agnes did not know she was to leave New York until fifteen minutes before she started."

"When will they return?" asked Madame.

"God knows," answered Neil, going to the fire and stooping over it. "I am cold and sick, mother," he said. "It was such a shock. No one at the shop expected such an event; everything was as busy as possible there, but the house! the house is desolate."

"When did they go, Neil?"

"Last night, mother, at eleven o'clock. Mr. Bradley came in about twenty minutes before eleven, put Mr. and Mrs. Hurd in possession, and told Agnes to pack a change of clothing for herself in a leather saddlebag he gave her. There was a boat waiting for them, and they went away in the darkness without a word. O Agnes!"

"What did the Hurds say?"

"They know nothing."

"Did Agnes leave no letter?" asked Maria, looking with pitying eyes at her uncle.

"How could she? The poor child, how could she? She had no time. Some one had taken away her pens and pencils. She left a message with Mrs. Hurd. That was all."

That was all. The next day New York City knew that John Bradley had left his business and his home and disappeared as completely as a stone dropped into the river. No one had suspected his intention; not his foreman, nor any of the fifteen men working in his shop; not his most intimate friends, not even his daughter. But it was at once surmised that he had gone to the rebel army. People began to murmur at the clemency shown to his son, and to comment on the almost offensive sympathy of the father for him. For a few days John Bradley was the absorbing topic of conversation; then he was forgotten by every one but Neil. His shop, indeed, was kept open by the foreman, under control of the government, but the name of Bradley was removed from above its entrance and the royal cipher G. R. put in its place. And in a few weeks his home was known as Hurd's place, and had lost all its little characteristics. Neil passed it every day with a heavy heart. There was no sweet face at the window to smile him a greeting; no beautiful woman to stand with him at the gate, or, hand in his hand, lead him into the little parlor and with ten minutes' conversation make the whole day bright and possible. The house looked forlorn; fire or candlelight were never visible, and he could only think of Agnes as driven away in the dark night by Destiny and wandering, he knew not where.

Maria, too, was unhappy. Her last visit to Agnes had been such a mockery of their once loving companionship. Her last visit! That word "last" took hold of her, reproached her, hurt her, made her sorry and anxious. She felt also for her uncle, who looked old and gray in his silent sorrow. Poor Neil! he had suffered so many losses lately; loss of money, loss of business, loss of friends, and to crown all these bereavements, the loss of the woman on whom he had fixed the love and light and hopes of his life. No wonder he was so mournful and so quiet; he, who had just begun to be really happy, to smile and be gracious and pleasant to every one, yes, and even to sing! Madame could not help noticing the change. "He is worse than ever he was before," she said with a weary pity. "Dear me! what lots of sorrow women do manage to make!"

This remark Maria did not approve of, and she answered it with some temper. "All this sorrow came from a man's hand, grandmother," she said, "and no woman is to blame."

"Not even yoursel', Maria?"

"I, least of all. Do you think that I would have met any man by the river side at nine o'clock at night?"

"I'll confess I have had my doubts."

"Then you ought to say, 'Maria, I am sorry I have had one doubt of you.' When you were Janet Gordon, would you have done a thing like that?"

"Not a man in Scotland could have trysted me at an hour when all my folk were in their rooms and maybe sleeping."

"Not a man in America could make such a tryst with me. I am your granddaughter."

"But that letter, Maria."

"It was a shame! A wrong I cannot forgive. I called it an impertinence to Agnes, and I feel it so. He had no reason to suppose I would answer such a request, such an order, I may say. I am telling you the truth, grandmother."

"I believe you, Maria; but the pity of it is that you canna advertise that fact."

"I know that. I know that everyone will doubt me or shun me. I shall be made to suffer, of course. Well, I can suffer and smile as well as any woman, – we all have that experience at some time or other."

"Men have it, too. Look at your uncle."

"Men don't smile when they suffer; they don't even try to. Uncle suffers, any one can see that, but he does not dress up in velvet and silk, and laugh, and dance, and talk nonsense merrily over the grave where all his hopes are buried. No, indeed! He looks as if he had lost the world. And he shuts himself in his room and swears at something or somebody; he does not cry like a woman and get a headache, as well as a heartache; he swears at his trouble and at everything connected with it. That is the way with men, grandmother, you know it is. I have heard both my grandfather and my uncle comforting themselves after this fashion. Grandfather, I thought, even seemed to enjoy it."

Madame smiled and then admitted "men had their ain ways, and so couldna be judged by woman's ways." Moreover, she told Maria in regard to Agnes that a friendship which had begun to decay was best cut off at once. And Maria, in spite of certain regrets, felt this to be a truth. Things were not the same between Agnes and herself; it was, then, more comfortable that they should not be at all.

Only, as day after day went by and no one took the place of Agnes or showed the slightest desire to do so, her life became very monotonous. This was specially remarkable, because New York was at a feverish point of excitement. General Clinton was hurrying his preparations for the reduction of the South. Any hour the troops might get marching orders, and every entertainment had the gaiety and the melancholy of a farewell feast. All day long troops were moving hither and thither, and orderlies galloping in every direction. There was a constant rumble of army wagons in motion; trumpets were calling men together, drums beating them to their stations; and through all the blare and movement of a great military town in motion there was the tinkling of sleigh-bells and the glancing of splendidly caparisoned sleighs, full of women brilliantly dressed.

Now, although the Semple house was beyond the actual throng and tumult of these things, Maria heard the confused murmur of their activity; and Neil told her bare facts, which she easily clothed with all the accessories of their existence and movement. But although there were dinner parties and sleighing parties, nightly dances, and the promise of a fine theatrical season, with the officers of the army as actors, no one remembered her. She was shocked when she realized that she had been cut off from all social recognition. Setting aside the fact that Harry Bradley was a rebel, she had done nothing to deserve such ostracism; but, though conscious of her innocence, she did not find this inner approval as satisfying a compensation for outward respect and pleasant company as it is supposed to be.

As the days went on, she began to wonder at Lord Medway's absence. At least, if she was to be his wife he ought to show her some care and attention. She remembered that in their last important interview she had told him not to trouble her; but he ought to have understood that a woman's words, in such trying circumstances, meant much less or much more than their face value.

Household anxieties of all kinds were added to these personal ones. Madame Semple was sick and full of domestic cares. Never had there been known in New York such bitter frost, such paralyzing cold. Snow lay four to six feet deep; loaded teams or galloping cavalry crossed the river safely on its solid ice. Neil had made arrangements for wood in the summer months, but only part of it had been delivered; the rest, though felled, could not be extricated from the frozen snowdrifts. The sale of the Mill Street property had left them a margin of ready money, but provisions had risen to fabulous prices and were not always procurable at any price. New York was experiencing, this cruel winter, all the calamities of a great city beleaguered both by its enemies and the elements.

Yet the incessant social gaiety never ceased. Thousands were preparing for the battlefield; thousands were dying in a virulent smallpox epidemic; thousands were half-frozen and half-fed; the prisons were crowded hells of unspeakable agonies; yet the officers in command of the city, and the citizens in office, the rich, the young and the beautiful, made themselves merry in the midst of all this death and famine, and found very good recreation in driving their jingling sleighs over the solid waters of the river and the bay.

In these bad times Neil was the stay and comfort of the Semple household. He catered for their necessities cheerfully, but his heart was heavy with anxious fear; and when he saw those he loved deprived of any comfort, he reproached himself for the pride which had made him resign offices so necessary for their welfare. This pinch of poverty, which he must conceal, made his whole being shrink with suffering he never named to any one. And besides, there was always that desolate house to pass and repass. How was it that its shut door affected him so painfully? He could only feel this question; he could not answer it. But, though he was not conscious of the fact, never had Neil Semple in all his life been at once so great and so wretched: great because he was able to put his own misery under the feet of those he loved; to forget it in noble smiles that might cheer them and in hopeful words, often invented for their comfort.

One day as he was walking down Broadway he saw a sleigh coming toward him. It was drawn by four black horses blanketed in scarlet, glittering with silver harness and tossing their plumed heads to the music of a thousand bells. As it drew nearer a faint smile came to his lips. He saw the fantastically-dressed driver and footman, and the brilliant mass of color surrounded by minever furs, and he knew it was Madame Jacobus, out to defy any other sleigh to approach her.

He expected only a swift, bright smile in passing, but she stopped, called him imperatively, and then insisted that he should take a seat beside her. "I have caught you at last," she said with a laugh. "It is high time. I asked you to come soon and see me, and you said you would. You have broken your word, sir. But nothing is binding where a woman is concerned; we have to live on broken scraps of all kinds, or perish. You are going to dine with me. I shall take it very ill if you refuse;" then, more soberly, "I have some important things to say to you."

"It will be a great pleasure to dine with you," answered Neil.

"First, however, we will gallop a mile or two, just to show ourselves and get an appetite;" and the grave smile of pleasurable assent which accepted this proposition delighted her. In and out of the city ways they flew, until they reached the Bowery road; there they met the sleighs of generals and governors, dandy officers and wealthy commissioners, and passed them all. And Neil shared the thrill of her triumph and the physical delight of a pace no one could approach. Something like his old expression of satisfied consideration came into his face, and he was alive from head to feet when he reached Madame's fine house in lower Broadway, – a handsome, luxurious house, filled with treasures from every part of the world; no shadow of limitation in anything within it. The lunch, elaborately laid for Madame, was instantly extended for the guest, and Neil marvelled at the dainty liberality of all its arrangements. It was, indeed, well known that the Jacobus wealth was enormous, but here was a room warmed as if wood was of no great value; broiled birds, the finest of wheat bread, the oldest and best of wines.

"You see, I take good care of myself, Neil," said Madame. "I don't wish to die till the war is over. I am resolved to see Troy taken."

"You mean New York."

"I mean New York, of course."

"Do you really think the rebels will take New York?"

"The Greeks got into Troy by trying. I think others can do the same."

This was the only allusion made to public events during the meal; but when it was over and the servants had disappeared she set her chair before the roaring fire, spread out her splendid scarlet skirt, and, holding a gemmed fan between her face and the blaze, said:

"Now we will talk. You must tell me everything, Neil, without holdbacks. You are a lawyer and know that everything must be told or nothing. Do you feel that you can trust me?"

Then Neil looked into the dark, speaking face, bending slightly toward him. Kindness lighted its eyes and parted its lips, but, above all, it was a countenance whose truth was beyond question. "Madame," he answered, "I believe you are my friend."

"In plain truth, I am your friend. I am also your mother's friend. She is the best of women. I love her, and there's an end of it. When I came to New York first I was a stranger and people looked curiously, even doubtfully, at me. Janet Semple stood by me like a mother just as long as I needed her care. Do I forget? That is far from Angelica Jacobus. I never forget a kindness. Now, Neil, I have known you more than twenty years. What can I do for you?"

"O Madame, what can you not do? Your sympathy has put new life into me. I feel as if, perhaps, even yet there may be happy days in store."

"Plenty of them. I hear you paid the fines immediately. Did they pinch you much?"

"No. Jacob Cohen bought a piece of land from me. I do believe he bought it out of pure kindness."

"Pure kindness and good business. He knows how to mingle things. But that Jew has a great soul. Jacobus has said so often, and no one can deceive Jacobus. But what are these stories I hear about your lovely niece? Is there any truth in them?"

"None, I'll warrant," answered Neil warmly. "But I will tell you the exact truth, and then you may judge if little Maria deserves to be treated as people are now treating her."

Then Neil succinctly, and with clearness and feeling, told the story of Maria's entanglement with Harry Bradley, laying particular stress on the fact that she never had met him clandestinely, and that his note had been a great offense and astonishment to her. "I was present," he said, "when my father told her of the note, and of its being read in the Police Court, and I shall never forget her face. It is an easy thing to say that a person was shocked, but Maria's very soul was so dismayed and shocked that I seemed to see it fly from her face. She would have fallen had I not caught her. Why was that note written? I cannot understand it."