stammered Mr. Wharton.
"This gentleman!" repeated the other, as he contemplated Captain Wharton
with a lurking smile, and then, with a low bow, continued, "I am sorry
for the severe cold you have in your head, sir, causing you to cover
your handsome locks with that ugly old wig."

Then, turning to the father, he proceeded, "Then, sir, I am to
understand a Mr. Harper has not been here?"

"Mr. Harper?" echoed the other; "yes, I had forgotten; but he is gone,
and if there is anything wrong in his character we are in entire
ignorance of it."

"He is gone--how, when, and whither?"

"He departed as he arrived," said Mr. Wharton, gathering confidence, "on
horseback, last evening; he took the northern road."

The officer turned on his heel, left the apartment, and gave orders
which sent some of the horsemen out of the valley, by its various roads,
at full speed.

Then, re-entering the room, he walked up to Wharton, and said, with some
gravity, "Now, sir, may I beg to examine the quality of that wig? And if
I could persuade you to exchange this old surtout for that handsome blue
coat, I think you never could witness a more agreeable metamorphosis."

Young Wharton made the necessary changes, and stood an extremely
handsome, well-dressed young man.

"I am Captain Lawton, of the Virginian Horse," said the dragoon.

"And I, sir, am Captain Wharton, of His Majesty's 60th Regiment of
Foot," returned Henry, bowing.

The countenance of Lawton changed from quaintness to great earnestness,
as he exclaimed, "Then, Captain Wharton, from my soul I pity you!"

Captain Lawton now inquired if a pedlar named Birch did not live in the
valley.

"At times only, I believe, sir," replied Mr. Wharton cautiously. "He is
seldom here; I may say I never see him."

"What is the offence of poor Birch?" asked the aunt.

"Poor!" cried the captain; "if he is poor, King George is a bad
paymaster."

"I am sorry," said Mr. Wharton, "that any neighbour of mine should incur
displeasure."

"If I catch him," cried the dragoon, "he will dangle from the limbs of
one of his namesakes."

In the course of the morning Major Dunwoodie, who was an old friend of
the family, and the lover of Frances, the younger daughter, arrived,
took over the command of the troop, and inquired into the case of his
friend the prisoner.

"How did you pass the pickets in the plains?" he asked.

"In disguise," replied Captain Wharton; "and by the use of this pass,
for which I paid, and which, as it bears the name of Washington, is, I
presume, forged."

Dunwoodie caught the paper eagerly, and after gazing at the signature
for some time, said, "This name is no counterfeit. The confidence of
Washington has been abused. Captain Wharton, my duty will not suffer me
to grant you a parole--you must accompany me to the Highlands."


_IV.--Justice by Evasion_


The Wharton family, by order of Washington, now removed to the
Highlands, out of the region of warlike operations, and Captain Wharton
was brought to trial. The court condemned him to execution as a spy
before nine o'clock on the morning following the trial, the president,
however, expressing his intention of riding to Washington's headquarters
and urging a remission of the punishment. But the sentence of the court
was returned--_approved_. All seemed lost.

"Why not apply to Mr. Harper?" said Frances, recollecting for the first
time the parting words of their guest.

"Harper!" echoed Dunwoodie, who had joined the family consultation.
"What of him? Do you know him?"

"He stayed with us two days. He seemed to take an interest in Henry, and
promised him his friendship."

"What!" exclaimed the youth, in astonishment, "did he know your
brother?"

"Certainly; it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise."

"But," said Dunwoodie, "he knew him not as an officer of the royal
army?"

"Indeed he did, and cautioned him against this very danger, bidding him
apply to him when in danger and promising to requite the son for the
hospitality of the father."

"Then," cried the youth, "will I save him. Harper will never forget his
word."

"But has he power," said Frances, "to move Washington's stubborn
purpose?"

"If he cannot," shouted Dunwoodie, "who can? Rest easy, for Henry is
safe."

*       *       *       *       *

It was while these consultations were proceeding that a divine of
fanatical aspect, preceded by Caesar, sought admission to the prisoner to
offer him the last consolations of religion, and so persistent were his
demands that at last he was allowed a private interview. Then he
instantly revealed himself as Harvey Birch, and proceeded to disguise
Captain Wharton as Caesar, the black servant, who had entered the room
with him. So complete was the make-up that the minister and Wharton
passed unsuspected through the guard, and it was only when the officer
on duty entered the room to cheer up the prisoner after his interview
with the "psalm-singer" that the real Caesar was discovered, and in
fright hurriedly revealed that the consoling visitor had been the pedlar
spy.

The pursuit was headlong and close, but when once the rocky fastnesses
were reached the heavy-booted dragoons were, for the moment, out of the
chase, and Harvey Birch conducted Captain Wharton at leisure towards one
of his hiding-places, while the mountain was encircled by the watchful
troopers.


_V.--Unexpected Meetings_


When passing into the Highlands from her now desolated home, Frances
Wharton had noticed under the summit of one of the rockiest heights, as
a stream of sunlight poured upon it, what seemed to be a stone hut,
though hardly distinguishable from the rocks. Watching this place, for
it was visible from her new home, she had fancied more than once that
she saw near the hut a form like that of Harvey Birch. Could it be one
of the places from which he kept watch on the plains below? On hearing
of her brother's escape, she felt convinced that it was to this hut that
the pedlar would conduct him, and there, at night, she repaired alone--a
toilsome and dangerous ascent.

The hut was reached at last, and the visitor, applying her eye to a
crevice, found it lighted by a blazing fire of dry wood. Against the
walls were suspended garments fitted for all ages and conditions, and
either sex. British and American uniforms hung side by side. Sitting on
a stool, with his head leaning on his hand, was a man more athletic than
either Harvey or her brother. He raised his face and Frances instantly
recognised the composed features of Harper. She threw open the door of
the hut and fell at his feet, crying, "Save him, save my brother;
remember your promise!"

"Miss Wharton!" exclaimed Harper. "But you cannot be alone!"

"There is none here but my God and you, and I conjure you by His sacred
Name to remember your promise!"

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