Chapter 24

Harper gently raised her, and placed her on the stool, saying, "Miss Wharton, that I bear no mean part in the unhappy struggle between England and America, it might now be useless to deny. You owe your brother's escape this night to my knowledge of his innocence and the remembrance of my word. I could not openly have procured his pardon, but now I can control his fate, and prevent his recapture. But this interview, and all that has passed between us, must remain a secret confined to your own bosom."

Frances gave the desired assurance.

"The pedlar and your brother will soon be here; but I must not be seen by the royal officer, or the life of Birch might be the forfeit. Did Sir Henry Clinton know the pedlar had communion with me, the miserable man would be sacrificed at once. Therefore be prudent; be silent. Urge them to instant departure. It shall be my care that there shall be none to intercept them."

While he was speaking, the voice of the pedlar was heard outside in loud tones. "Stand a little farther this way, Captain Wharton, and you can see the tents in the moonshine."

Harper pressed his finger to his lip to remind Frances of her promise, and, entering a recess in the rock behind several articles of dress, was hid from view.

The surprise of Henry and the pedlar on finding Frances in possession of the hut may be imagined.

"Are you alone, Miss Fanny?" asked the pedlar, in a quick voice.

"As you see me, Mr. Birch," said Frances, with an expressive glance towards the secret cavern, a glance which the pedlar instantly understood.

"But why are you here?" exclaimed her astonished brother.

Frances related her conjecture that this would be the shelter of the fugitives for the night, but implored her brother to continue his flight at once. Birch added his persuasions, and soon the girl heard them plunging down the mountain-side at a rapid rate.

Immediately the noise of their departure ceased Harper reappeared, and leading Frances from the hut, conducted her down the hill to where a sheep-path led to the plain. There, pressing a kiss on her forehead, he said, "Here we must part. I have much to do and far to ride. Forget me in all but your prayers."

She reached her home undiscovered, as her brother reached the British lines, and on meeting her lover, Major Dunwoodie, in the morning learned that the American troops had been ordered suddenly by Washington to withdraw from the immediate neighbourhood.

_VI.--Last Scenes_

The war was drawing to its close when the American general, sitting in an apartment at his headquarters, asked of the aide-de-camp in attendance, "Has the man I wished to see arrived, sir?"

"He waits the pleasure of your excellency."

"I will receive him here, and alone."

In a few minutes a figure glided in, and by a courteous gesture was motioned to a chair. Washington opened a desk, and took from it a small but apparently heavy bag.

"Harvey Birch," said he, turning to the visitor, "the time has arrived when our connection must cease. Henceforth and forever we must be strangers."

"If it be your excellency's pleasure," replied the pedlar meekly.

"It is necessary. You have I trusted most of all. You alone know my secret agents in the city. On your fidelity depend not only their fortunes, but their lives. I believe you are one of the very few who have acted faithfully to our cause, and, while you have passed as a spy of the enemy, have never given intelligence that you were not permitted to divulge. It is impossible to do you justice now, but I fearlessly entrust you with this certificate. Remember, in me you will always have a secret friend, though openly I cannot know you. It is now my duty to pay you your postponed reward."

"Does your excellency think I have exposed my life and blasted my character for money? No, not a dollar of your gold will I touch! Poor America has need of it all!"

"But remember, the veil that conceals your true character cannot be raised. The prime of your days is already past. What have you to subsist on?"

"These," exclaimed Harvey Birch, stretching forth his hands.

"The characters of men much esteemed depend on your secrecy. What pledge can I give them of your fidelity?"

"Tell them," said Birch, "that I would not take the gold."

The officer grasped the hand of the pedlar as he exclaimed, "Now, indeed, I know you!"

* * * * *

It was thirty-three years after the interview just related that an American army was once more arrayed against the troops of England; but the scene was transferred from the banks of the Hudson to those of the Niagara.

The body of Washington had long lain mouldering in the tomb, but his name was hourly receiving new lustre as his worth and integrity became more visible.

The sound of cannon and musketry was heard above the roar of the cataract. On both sides repeated and bloody charges had been made. While the action was raging an old man wandering near was seen to throw down suddenly a bundle he was carrying and to seize a musket from a fallen soldier. He plunged headlong into the thick of the fight, and bore himself as valiantly as the best of the American soldiers. When, in the evening, the order was given to the shattered troops to return to camp, Captain Wharton Dunwoodie found that his lieutenant was missing, and taking a lighted fusee, he went himself in quest of the body. The lieutenant was found on the side of the hill seated with great composure, but unable to walk from a fractured leg.

"Ah, dear Tom," exclaimed Dunwoodie, "I knew I should find you the nearest man to the enemy!"

"No," said the lieutenant. "There is a brave fellow nearer than myself. He rushed out of our smoke to make a prisoner, and he never came back. He lies just over the hillock."

Dunwoodie went to the spot and found an aged stranger. He lay on his back, his eyes closed as if in slumber, and his hands pressed on his breast contained something that glittered like silver.

The subject of his care was a tin box, through which the bullet had pierced to find a way to his heart, and the dying moments of the old man must have been passed in drawing it from his bosom.

Dunwoodie opened it, and found a paper on which he read:

"Circumstances of political importance, which involve the lives and fortunes of many, have hitherto kept secret what this paper reveals. Harvey Birch has for years been a faithful and unrequited servant of his country. Though man does not, may God reward him for his conduct! GEO. WASHINGTON."

It was the spy of the neutral ground, who died as he had lived, devoted to his country.

* * * * *

MRS. CRAIK

John Halifax, Gentleman

Dinah Maria Mulock, whose fame as a novelist rests entirely on "John Halifax, Gentleman," was born at Stoke-upon-Trent, England, on April 20, 1826. She was thirty-one when "John Halifax" came out, and immediately found herself one of the most popular novelists, her story having a great vogue throughout the English-speaking world, and being translated into half a dozen languages, including Greek and Russian. In 1864 Miss Mulock married George Lillie Craik, and until her death, on October 12, 1887, she actively engaged herself in literary work. In all, forty-six works stand to her credit, but none show unusual literary power. Even "John Halifax" leaves much to be desired, and its great popularity arises, perhaps, from its sentimental interest. The character of the hero, conceived on the most conventional lines, has at least the charm that comes from the contemplation of a strong and upright man, and although many better stories have not enjoyed one tithe of its popularity, "John Halifax, Gentleman" still deserves to be read as a wholesome and profitable story.

_I.--The Tanner's Apprentice_

"Get out o' Mr. Fletcher's road, you idle, lounging, little----"

"Vagabond" was no doubt what Sally Watkins, the old nurse of Phineas Fletcher, was going to say, but she had changed her mind in looking again at the lad, who, ragged and miserable as he was, was anything but a "vagabond."

On their way home a downpour of rain had drawn Mr. Fletcher and his son Phineas to shelter in the covered alley that led to Sally's house. Mr. Fletcher pushed the little hand-carriage in which his weak and ailing son was seated into the alley. The ragged boy, who had also been sheltering there, lent a hand in bringing Phineas out of the rain, Mr. Fletcher saying to him kindly, after Sally's outburst, "Thee need not go into the wet. Keep close to the wall, and there will be shelter enough both for us and thee."

Mr. Fletcher was a wealthy tanner in Norton Bury. Years ago his wife had died, leaving him with their only child, Phineas, now a sickly boy of sixteen.

The ragged lad, who had seemed very grateful for the Quaker's kind words to him, stood leaning idly against the wall, looking at the rain that splashed on the pavement of the High Street. He was a boy perhaps of fourteen years; but, despite his serious and haggard face, he was tall and strongly built, with muscular limbs and square, broad shoulders, so that he looked seventeen or more. The puny boy in the hand-carriage was filled with admiration for the manly bearing of the poor lad.

The rain at length gave promise of ceasing, and Mr. Fletcher, pulling out his great silver watch, never known to be wrong, said, "Twenty-three minutes lost by this shower. Phineas, my son, how am I to get thee home? Unless thee wilt go with me to the tanyard--"

Phineas shook his head, and his father then called to Sally Watkins if she knew of anyone who would wheel him home. But at the moment Sally did not hear, and the ragged boy mustered courage to speak for the first time?"

"Sir, I want work; may I earn a penny?" he said, taking off his tattered old cap and looking straight into Mr. Fletcher's face. The old man scanned the honest face of the lad very closely.

"What is thy name, lad?"

"John Halifax."

"Where dost thee come from?"

"Cornwall."

"Hast thee any parents living?"

The lad answered that he had not, and to many other questions with which the tanner plied him he returned straightforward answers. He was promised a groat if he would see Phineas safely home when the rain had ceased, and was asked if he would care to take the piece of silver now.

"Not till I've earned it, sir," said the Cornish lad. So Mr. Fletcher slipped the money into his boy's hand and left them. Only a few words were spoken between the two lads for a little while after he had gone, and John Halifax stood idly looking across the narrow street at the mayor's house, with its steps and porticoes, and its fourteen windows, one of which was open, showing a cluster of little heads within. The mayor's children seemed to be amused, watching the shivering shelterers in the alley; but presently a somewhat older child appeared among them, and then went away from the window quickly. Soon afterwards a front door was partly opened by someone whom another was endeavoring to restrain, for the boys on the other side of the street could hear loud words from behind the door.

"I will! I say I will----"

"You sha'n't, Miss Ursula!"

"But I will!" And there stood the young girl, with a loaf in one hand and a carving-knife in the other. She hastily cut off a slice of bread.

"Take it, poor boy! You look so hungry," she said. "Do take it!" But the door was shut again upon a sharp cry of pain; the headstrong little girl had cut her wrist with the knife.

In a little, John Halifax went across and picked up the slice of bread which had fallen on the doorstep. At the best of times, wheaten bread was then a dainty to the poor, and perhaps the Cornish lad had not tasted a morsel of it for months.

Phineas, from the moment he had set eyes on John, liked the lad, and living a very lonely life, with no playfellows and no friends of his own age, he longed to be friends with this strong-looking, honest youth who had come so suddenly into his life, while John had been so tender in helping Phineas home that the Quaker boy felt sure he would make a worthy friend.

It later appeared that John had heard of his own father as a sad, solemn sort of man, much given to reading. He had been described to him as "a scholar and a gentleman," and John had determined that he, too, would be a scholar and a gentleman. He was only an infant when his father died, and his mother, left very poor, had a sore struggle until her own death, when the boy was only eleven years old. Since then the lonely lad had been wandering about the country getting odd jobs at farms; at other times almost starving.

Thus had he wandered to Norton Bury; and now, thanks to Phineas, Mr. Fletcher gave him a job at the tannery, although at first the worthy Quaker was not altogether sure of John's character.

Soon, however, the two lads were fast friends, and spent much of their time together. John Halifax could read, but he had not yet learnt to write; so Phineas became his friendly tutor, and repaid his devotion by teaching him all he knew.

The years wore away, John Halifax labouring faithfully, if not always contentedly, in the tannery; and in time, old Mr. Fletcher finding him worthy of the highest trust, John came to be manager of the business, and to live in the house of his master. In knowledge, too, he had grown, for Phineas had proved a good tutor, and John so apt a pupil that before long Phineas confessed that John knew more than himself.

_II.--Ursula March_

It happened that John and Phineas were spending the summer days at the rural village of Enderley, where they lived at Rose Cottage. Enderley was not far from Norton Bury, and every day John rode there to look after the tannery and the flour-mill which had recently been added to Mr. Fletcher's now flourishing business.

This Rose Cottage was really two houses, in one of which the young men lived while an invalid gentleman and his daughter occupied the other. John Halifax had noted this young lady in his walks across the breezy downs, and thought her the sweetest creature he had seen. Later, when he got to know that her name was Ursula, he was thrilled with happy memories of the little girl who had thrown him the slice of bread, for he had heard her called by that same name. He wondered if this might be she grown into a young woman.

Ere long he came to know his pretty neighbour, to companion her in rural walks. No artist ever painted a more attractive picture than these two made stepping briskly across the wind-swept uplands; she with her sparkling dark eyes, her great mass of brown curls escaping from her hood, and John with his frank, ruddy face, and his fine, swinging, manly figure.

Ursula's father, who had come here ailing, died at the cottage, and was buried in Enderley churchyard. He had been the same Henry March whose life John had saved years before when the Avon was in flood. He was cousin to Squire Brithwood, who also owed his life to John on the same occasion. Unhappily, Ursula's fortune was left in the keeping of that highly undesirable person.

John was very sad at the thought of Ursula leaving the cottage for the squire's home at Mythe House, for he knew that she had been happier there in the sweet country retreat than she would ever be in the ill-conducted household of her guardian. She, too, had regrets at the thought of going, as John and she had become fast friends. He told her that Mr. Brithwood would probably deny his right to be considered a friend of hers, and would not allow his claim to be thought a gentleman, though a poor one.

"It is right," he pursued, on her expression of surprise, "that you should know who and what I am to whom you are giving the honour of your kindness. Perhaps you ought to have known before; but here at Enderley we seem to be equals--friends."

"I have indeed felt it so."

"Then you will the sooner pardon my not telling you--what you never asked, and I was only too ready to forget--that we are _not_ equals-- that is, society would not regard us as such, and I doubt if even you yourself would wish us to be friends."

"Why not?"

"Because you are a gentlewoman, and I am a tradesman."

She sat--the eyelashes drooping over her flushed cheeks--perfectly silent. John's voice grew firmer, prouder; there was no hesitation now.

"My calling is, as you will hear at Norton Bury, that of a tanner. I am apprentice to Abel Fletcher, Phineas's father."

"Mr. Fletcher!" She looked up at him, with a mingled look of kindliness and pain.

"Ay, Phineas is a little less beneath your notice than I am. He is rich, and has been well educated; I have had to educate myself. I came to Norton Bury six years ago--a beggar-boy. No, not quite so bad as that, for I never begged. I either worked or starved."

The earnestness, the passion of his tone made Miss March lift her eyes, but they fell again.

"Yes, Phineas found me starving in an alley. We stood in the rain opposite the mayor's house. A little girl--you know her, Miss March-- came to the door and threw out to me a bit of bread."

Now indeed she started. "You! Was that you?"

John paused, and his whole manner changed into softness as he resumed.

"I never forgot that little girl. Many a time when I was inclined to do wrong, she kept me right--the remembrance of her sweet face and her kindness."

That face was pressed against the sofa where she sat. Miss March was all but weeping.

"I am glad to have met her again," he went on, "and glad to have been able to do her some small good in return for the infinite good she once did me. I shall bid her farewell now, at once, and altogether."

A quick, involuntary turn of the hidden face seemed to ask him "Why?"

"Because," John said, "the world says we are not equals; and it would be neither for Miss March's honour nor mine did I try to force upon it the truth--which I may prove openly one day--that we _are_ equals."

Miss March looked up at him--it were hard to say with what expression, of pleasure, of pride, or simple astonishment; perhaps a mingling of all; then her eyelids fell. Her left arm was hanging over the sofa, the scar being visible enough. John took the hand, and pressed his lips to the place where the wound had been.

"Poor little hand--blessed little hand!" he murmured. "May God bless it evermore!"

_III.--The Rise of John Halifax_

After John Halifax had returned to Norton Bury he was seized with fever, and for a time his recovery seemed doubtful. In his delirium he called aloud for Ursula, and dreamed that she had come to sit with him, asking him to live for her sake. Phineas, in his anxiety for his friend, brought Ursula to him, and the dream came true, for she did ask him to live for her sake.

Not long after his recovery John Halifax became Mr. Fletcher's partner. Going to London on behalf of the business, he met there the great statesman, Mr. Pitt, who was impressed with the natural abilities of the young man. John's reputation for honesty and sound commonsense had now grown so great at Norton Bury that when he returned there he found himself one of the most respected men in the town.

Although still far from being rich, he was no longer a poor worker, and as Ursula was willing to share his life, they boldly determined to be married, in spite of her guardian, who asserted that John would never touch a penny of Ursula's fortune. They contrived, however, to be happy without it, for he refused to go to law to recover his wife's money, and was determined he would work honestly to support her.

With the death of old Mr. Fletcher, however, came misfortune, for it was found that the tannery was no longer a paying property, and there were only the mills to go on with. At this time Ursula's relative, Lord Luxmore, who was anxious to see the Catholic Emancipation Bill passed, thought he could use John Halifax for his purpose by offering to get him returned to parliament for the "rotten borough" of Kingswell, the member for which was then elected by only fifteen voters. Twelve of these were tenants of Lord Luxmore, and the other three of Phineas. But although John would have supported the Bill, he was too honest to let himself be elected for a "rotten borough." So he declined, and Luxmore next tried to win him over by offering the lease of some important cloth-mills he owned; but these he would not take on credit, and he had no money to pay for them.

At this juncture, Ursula told Luxmore about the behaviour of his kinsman Brithwood, with the result that his lordship went to Brithwood and made him turn over the money to her. When John now purchased the lease of the mills, his lordship thought that he had secured him firmly, and that Halifax would use his great and growing influence with the people of the district to further Luxmore's political schemes.

While all this was going on, young Lord Ravenel, the son and heir of Luxmore, had been a constant visitor at the Halifax home, and delighted in the company of John's daughter. Halifax had now three children: two boys, named Guy and Edmund, and Muriel, who, alas! had been born blind. Perhaps on account of her infirmity she had been the pet of her parents; but she was of a gentle nature, and was beautiful to look upon, even with her sightless eyes.

The time for the election of the member for Kingswell had come round, and as Luxmore had failed to induce John Halifax to stand, he put up a pliable nominee. But he was greatly mistaken in supposing that John would use his influence to make the handful of voters, most of whom were employed in his mills, vote for Luxmore's man. Instead of that, Halifax advised them to be honest, and vote as they thought right; with the result that Luxmore promptly evicted them from their homes. But John found new homes for them.

As his riches increased, he bought a stately country mansion, named Beechwood, not far from Rose Cottage, ever dear in memory to him. Another son, Walter, was born there, and everything seemed to smile on him in his beautiful country home. Luxmore now sought to injure him by diverting the water from his cloth-mills, and leaving his great wheels idle. Halifax could have taken him to law; but, instead of that, he set up a strange, new-fangled thing, called a steam-engine; and his mills did better than ever.

Finding it useless to fight against the resourceful Halifax, Luxmore went abroad, and left his son, Lord Ravenel, alone at Luxmore Hall. The young man, despite his father's unfriendly conduct, was still a frequent visitor at Beechwood, and when poor Muriel died, his grief at her loss was only less than that of her parents.

The years passed by, and happiness still reigned at Beechwood; but Ravenel had deserted them, until one day John Halifax met him, greatly changed from the gentle youth of the past, at Norton Bury. John invited him to ride over with him to Enderley.

"Enderly? How strange the word sounds! Yet I should like to see the place again," said Ravenel, who decided to accompany John Halifax and Phineas Fletcher in their drive back to Beechwood. He inquired kindly for all the family, and was told that Guy and Walter were as tall as himself, while the daughter----

"Your daughter?" said his lordship, with a start. "Oh, yes; I recollect--Baby Maud! Is she at all like--like----"

"No," said John Halifax. Neither said more than this; but it seemed as if their hearts warmed to one another, knitted by the same tender remembrance.

_IV.--The Journey's End_

Lord Ravenel had returned to reside again at Luxmore Hall, and his visits to Beechwood became as regular as they had been in the old days at the Halifax home, when Muriel was alive. It was the society of Maud in which his lordship now delighted, though he never forgot the serene and happy days he had spent with her blind sister.