The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 17, 1902, Page 3

MOVE BUT ared Acton ed t g k to 'em!” I cried t g gh above my head. In a Y 3 n was on the table we s g the floor try to his ed the crow ? XIX ING BY THE VAUXHALL 3ARDENS, sooner saw m to a little back room, an her at most of th n s d dow and w fe ough he must be rea h at- fairs, ove e s a wonder t so long and 1 to at 1 marveled b he. “I do b ysician. So all has T the cause a visitor has ou have now for sted, and several inued with a seric d never yet has m d me by the slightest » sure, and I have episode with that house was a bad ou for that, or were it not that his ) secret t few in nd 1 only be- n when he work was out at nd >u would be in h must keep the t and no doubt they are ur rez n for being here, therefore for the rest of ht"—I thought of my ap- out. I You nd do not go ou are taken No public a: i for you, man! e Was sent to arrest you for the plan.” enough. An open- de in the high the water.. The boards out'at a moment’s notice. tis and 1, were to approach at ‘with some trusty ough the hole in the igh a window into the opened for us by an who g0t himself rnold on the ground of de- our lines. Arnoid himseif ken out of his bed, gagged, ge bag and carried out to the ce to Paulus Hook across the lines. ple plan and one'that would it had worked before but more to do with than thousands of great nto .ou tha I left Low with a long and walked slowly and the little streets so w, so foul with e smell ses and soaked refuse e in those strangely hot Low lived hard by the cess and Broad streets, and site the waste of ruins that hed since three years be- 1 the hovels, for they were rrowed out of half- the scum of the great es who scarcely d there e are in camp—who beset ong the narrow, ts, to Mrs. Hodges’, and rned again from the Broadway. where y _watching for Cu at” 1 fancied 1 had a Hazeltine from some- chance of catching n STE thing 1 had heard by going up to the top of the town—the more shame to me again that I looked into his blue eyes and told him the story—but I cannot help it, nor ‘could I then! "Twas an affair of my own and another, and I could not share it with him. So that he agreed to walit for Curtis till 10 o’clock, bringing him on with him; but if he did not come then, to follow .me himself to Vauxhall Gardens, for I told him the place. I, in turn. was to gat “ark as soon as possibie to his place in an angle of two houses where we watched for our anxiously expected friend. I set out and wandered along Broadw to Vesey street, and thence down tha muddy and unkempt-thoroughfare among the burnt houses up Barclay street to the ege, now a prison, and thence by Chambers street to Vauxhall Gardens. There I stopped and looked about. It must be near 9, and she had selected .as deserted a spot as could be well found around the city. Beyond the gardens all was wilderness and trees and muddy roads, and a nasty mist hting over every- thing, that made my clothes limp and wet. Not a soul appeared to be anywhere in sight or hearing, and so 1 walked slowly on by the side of the road looking for the four tre fearing every minute lest I miss them. Suddenly I heard a clock somewhere ring out 9, and just ahead a figure stepped out into the road. I dropped into the underbrush aamd looked long at it, but could not make the mi: take of forgetting that quick nervous movement of head and limbs I had grown to know so well It was she enough, and my heart beat a tattoo to think I was so near her in such a spot, and.that she had such faith in me as this. Her sorrow must in- deed be a terrible one. As I stepped out into the road she made a quick movement to disappear and then came toward me slowly. “You have come,” said she, under her breath. “This way.” And soon we were off the road a hundred yards and under the gloom of four great trees standing close together. “I know not what I am doing,” said she, nervously, “if you should be found here, ‘twould be your ruin.” “Would you grieve for that?’ I asked. “Would a wife grieve for her husband?" ked she gently. 1 took her hand. “Would you grieve sorely, me, Deborah?’ T whispered. “Tut, tut, sir,” said she in the same tone, drawing her hand away. “We are not come to a tryst here.” “Ah! but now that we are here, will you not let me tell you somewhat of that which has been in my mind all day, since the dinner, aye! since many a day 2" And I took her hand again. “That 1 will not, sir, nor will I permit you to press the nails out of my fingers, —if you will be so kind as to let my hand keep its shape.” And yet she did not scem S0 angry. “Its shape! Why, God bless 2, I would N0 raeae—' a: sorely for ~ ““Oh,” cried she softly, and trled to draw it away, ‘oh, God bless it. you say, and still it 5 by now but a shape- less pulp, I'll be sworn.” I lifted it to my lips once, twice,, three times and then 'twas gone under her black cape where 1 dared-not follow. “No, no, Merton,”” she hurried on. ““This is no time for such things. You sald yo would help me, and he will soon be here.” ‘Will he come?” I asked. “Never fear,” she answered strange, sad smile. “Then tell me quickly.” “I do not know how. My father is not with a over zealous for the King's cause. Yet he is not disloyal t6 sir Henry in any way. But I have a dear brother some- where on the other side and we are all suspected, and Pendleton mv own cousin, is very powerful with Sir Henry And —and do you not see, you stumd?”’ “And he tells Clinton ycur father is a traitor if you do not smile on him, and that he is"a_staunch follower of George the—of the King, if you listen tov his suit?” “Ah! that is but the half, the litfle haif!” said she, her eyes glistening in the growing moonlight. ' “Do you not see he holds it over me day by day and will not let me rest? And there is something he has to tell of papa—'" he blackmaller!” I muttered. ‘“What, I know not, but I fear day and night—I fear always—-and papa must fear too, and he does not understand why I cannot save us all by doing this dreadful thing, and Aunt Mary—" "‘\'h{’\.(v, the old—er, that is—Madam De " ves, she 1s nearly beside herself, for she thinks it a good match aceard- ing to her ldeas. In fact. she added with the quaint suspicion of a smile, “in fact, she does not think it wise to marry out of the family. No other equals it, you see.” ‘And he comes now “To settle the matter, he thinks,” she muttered, catching at her throat. “Aye, we'll settle the matter—'" “Oh, what will you do? I fear for this. T do,not know why I should have done it * “Why, dear, he cannot win you. are married already ! She looked up at me quickly with a smile and put her hand in mine. “I know! I know!" she cried, softly. “But it will count for nuught, and wiil now only make him furious and spur him on to ruin us all.” I took the hand In both mine and we ;l()f)d é‘n Inslagt, V\t'hen both started to ear the sound of some on through the underbrush. sy “He is here,” I whispered. “Now, brave heart, go out and meet him. and let me look at him and hear what he You says.” ghe shuddered a moment and then, lift- ing her head as I had meen her do so often now, walked out into the moonlight. The dark figure of a man approached her THE SFUNDAY CALL HE HAD FINISHED SPEAKING' ] —_— quickly. Debby, my darling, T am here!"” Good God, ‘that voice! I fell back against the tree an instant and then the woods faded away. and with them went Deborah Phliipse, her father and her crotchety old aunt, and J sprang out of the shadow and rushed straight at his chest and bore nim with a heavy concussion to the ground. In an instant I had him by the throat and turned him over and got his arms up by the shoulder blades before he knew what had struck him. “You cursed spy!” I cried. now! over!"” Twas but “I have you Do but move and your work iis the work of a moment to take the strap of my sword.beit and bind his wr together. And by taking a turn around his neck his hands were se- curely bound between his shoulder blades. Then I turned to her and saw her stand- ing by in terror and bewilderment and d what a moment later I uld have ven both my eyes to take back: 'Why, girl, do you know who this is' “He is my cousin, Frank Pendletou she whispered with a strange doubt in her voice. That he may be! But he is the foulest spy in the British army and his name is azeltine!” Her change of attitude gave me a sick- ening sense of loss. She shrank back from me with a cry, and looked at me as if her eyes would burn into my soul. “Yor You!” she cried, hoarsely. “I? What of me?” said I, vaguely “You have led me here to decov him? You have stood here and—and—talked to me so that you might do this wretched “You coward!” she cried, bitterly. “And I—what a_fool—what a fool I was!” and she sank down on the wet grass in a hys- terical fit of tears and laughter. But her moods flew after one another too fast to be understood. She was up in_an instant. “Come, Frank, let us go and leave this —this wretch to himself,” “But listen to me, Deborah, you do not understand—" “Do not dare to speak to me! What can I fail to understand?" “‘But this man is a spy whom I am here o “Then, if you would not let what you have said to me be a great falsehood, urbind him and let him go!” I looked at her standing before me, waiting for my reply, and groaned aloud at the misery of it. Then she turned from me with utter contempt and started toward him as he rose to his feet. 1 drew my pistol, and pointing it within two feet of his breast, I sald: “If you move but a step I'll fire! Mis- tress Philipse, do not touch that man “So It is true! it is true! Oh, you cow- ard! You coward!” and she wrung her hands and her voice broke down com- pletely. Bo we stood, misery In my heart and gloom over all the world for me, when two men rode up and I heard the voice of Curtis cry out: “So you've got him! You've got him, Balfort, at last! I should know that figura in a crowded A plercing cry was his answer, and the next moment Mistress Philipse was lying in his arms, crying as if her heart would break. 1 heard an exclamation of sur- prise break from him as he said in sud- den bewilderment: ““How came you here, Debby? What is it? Stop and tell me the trouble.’ “Oh, Rob, my dear, dear brother,” she cried.” “Take me away from this dreadful place! Take me away! and save Frank ficm that man 1 saw him make a sudden movement. He stood a moment and then set her quickly away from him. A stride brought him up to Hazeltine, and, grasp- ing the man by the arm, he turned him around so that they stood face to face. “God in heaveni" whispered the as- tounded man hoarsely, as Hazeltine stood looking him in the face without a word. Curtis_gazed at him long and steadil as if he were coming out of a dream. Then he twirled Hazeltine about again and looked at his back as the man stood with his long cape over his shoulders. A moment and the dazed man had turned the other face to face again. “Great God In heaven!" he groaned un- der his breath. “Well, cousin, do you know me?" said Hazeltine with a forced attempt at hi- larity. “Do I know thee, thou foul spy? Do I know thee? Aye. now I do! But not till this moment did T suspect the fiend Haz- eltine could be my own cousin, Frank Pendleton!” “'Tis a mistake, Rob. You have the Wwrong man.” “He les, Curtis!” T cried, “les in his teeth! I've followed him and caught him now and bound him, and we have but to take him across the river to fill one of the orders that sends us here.” “Never fear, Merton. 1 could never mis- take that figure. I've followed him these three months,” and I saw his strong face set in grim resolution and turned to look at Mistress Philipse. She was standing by in silent horror at what she had heard, but as she saw me approaching her she ran to Curtis. “My brother, from this man? ‘“Why, Debby dear, do you not know Merton_Balfort? What harm would he do you? None, dear sister, none.” “He has already! He led me here to decoy our cousin Frank to his ruin. And —I—1"— and she broke down completely again, “'Tis not so, Mistress Philipse. I came vill you not protect me “Do not dare to address a word to me, sir,” cried the girl, jumping from her brother’s side and stamping her foot. And sba was back again sobbing in his arms. 'Tis a gross misunderstanding, Cur- * said I, at my wits' ends. “Yop are her brother?” He nodded. ago. I knew it, aye, knew it all along. Yet did I never understand it till now. Well, then, I came here to help her in: in another matter—look not at me so, Robert Curtis! Myj conscience is as clear as a bell—but when I came here this man appeared and I knew him at once for Hazeltine, and no more suspected his re- lationship to you and to her than you ten minutes age.” “’Tis a lie!” ¢ Eross— distress Philipse, I'cannot answer you as I would a man. I can but say to you —aye, swear to you—that you are Wrong. And may God forgive you for your hard words and your lack of faith in one who —who—would watch over your welfare.” “'I cannot understand the thing,” mut- d Curtis. Let us get this man away In safety, friend,” said I; “and then I will explain.” And T walked up to Hazeitine and bade him precede me. “’Tis impossible,” sald Curtis. “'Tis what?’ cried I, wheeling about at him. “He cannot go thus to the commander in chief,” replied the man with that quiet firmness and distinctness that always be- longed to him. *‘Twill be simply an ex- ecution by hand.” “Aye, that it will,'ma and simpler the better,” “It is quite impossibie,” the same tone. “Robert, my friend, ye have lost your bearings. ' Do you take your sister and leave him to me,” and I signed to Hazel- tine to move toward the road. “Merton, if you attempt to remove this man you must first cross swords with me,” said Cur#s in a cold wiry voice, the more terrible in its meaning because its tone was not raised one whit beyond the ordinary. “What mean you, man?’ =wked I in amazement, unconsciously drawing my sword an inch or two. He did not move, but, folding his arms, said in the same cold voice: “Precisely ‘'what I say. If you try to Temove him you must first overcome me, and whatever the result of our struggle there will be more than time for him to make good his escape.” Then, turning to Hazeltine, he walked slowly up (o within a foot of him, with folded arms, and satd slowly and distinctly in that same wiry voice: “Frank Pendleton, you are my cousin. Therefore shall you not, if T can prevent it, g0 to the gailows, as God knows you should. . But I have within this hour léarned that you are the veriest traitor in this land; for you have acted as spy to both armies In this war, and therefore shall you not go from this spot till either ed the girl, passionate- tes and the sooner id I he repeated in I have killed you or you me. Turn round.” “Do not do it, Curtls,” I cried. *'Tis a foolish sense of honor, and the man does “I felt it long ‘e, nor look at me. not belong to us But he proceeded, and soon Hazeltine’s arms were free. Curtis did not even look at me, but kept his eye on Hazeitine all the time, only vouchsafing: “Hold thy peace, Merton! This affair is between only God, tnat man and me.” And they were at it there in the dim moonlight before he had finished speak- ing. And a weird sight it was to see these two men, one fighting to save his life, knowing he must cope afterward with me, the other, cool. sure, as fine a swordsman as 1 ¢ver saw, standing for his honor and crossing swords with his own cousin whom he had lived and played with through all their boyhood, whom he now detested, but would not hang. And under the dim blue light of the moon & few yaras away stood the girl, watching them with wide eyes, silently I hovered about them with drawn sword, resoived that, honor or no homor, this man should not escape, but restrained more by my Instinctive respect for Cur- tis’ standards than by any sense of chiv- alry from taking active part. So in my bewilderment and with the misery of the episode In_my heart 1 did not see till too late how Hazeltine, as he twisted about, gradually approached the big trees, nor guess Lis purpose, until on a sudden he made two long lunges and then, turning tail like any cur, darted in under them and, hidden by the darkness, made off. I both my pistois at him, but he was gore. And then I turned on Curtis: “%,w you ses what your miserable honor has done for us!" I cried. “What matter?” answered he coolly, It but shows him the greater dastard.” ““But what good does that do, since your idiotic standai® has let the man go? It will be a fine reason to give our gen- eral! And do you perchance realize that neither your life nor mine is worth a penny from now on?" “The cowar sald Curtis quietly, as he sheathed his sword. “Who could have thought he would so run from a fair fight? Fear not, man!” he added haslily, as I made a gesture of disgust, for by that I was beyond words. “Fear not! He is not worth a thought. When I next meet him I'll erush him like a worm.” “I cannot understand you, man,” cried I, bitterly. “I cannot talk of it. Let us $0, in God's name, from this place.” And we did. Mistress Philipse would not speak to And as I stepped to her side, placing her between her brother and myself, she crossed in front of him to the farther side. In all that walk back she vouchsafed not a word, neither to me nor to him, and nothing happened as we walked on in silence, except that we came upon Acton stationed some distance .below, brought there by Curtis when he had arrived in the city and de- cided to follow us at once, fearing an am- buscade. So we came to old St. Paul's church- yard, hard by which Judge Philipse lived, and as Acton and I walked on in silence I saw her cling to her new-found brother, and heard her sob and beseech him to stay, not to leave her. And as we passed out of earshot I could hear her crying softly, “Oh, Rob, Rob, dear, why s it ail so strange and wrong, my brother, dear?" Soon he was by us again, alone, with the same cool, calm face, that nqw to us, Acton and me, had a deep and dreadful meaning in its forever somber and sad lines. Then we came to lower Broadway and to No. 2, where he bade us all enter; for, he sald, we should be found at Mrs. Hodges’, and the old half-ruined house was now free from suspicion and deserted. There we lay for the rest of the night. [ could not sieep, for my anger at the man’s escape soon faded before the wretched- ness and misery that fate and her lack of belief in me had brought upon me. I cared little whether we were taken or not, for with this evening and day hope and prom- ise of the future died. It was not true love that could doubt quickly! And, God forgive me for it, in my hopelessness I told myself that she wasg not what I had come to believe her. And then, as I looked back upon it, I be- gan to see that, feeling as she did against the American cause, and knowing what I was in the city for, she might well think 1 had taken advantage of her situation to draw my man. And f put my head in my hands, as I sat there in the darkness, and cried like any beby for the very wretched- ness of it all, for the loss of so many fair hopes. for the end of a day-dream that I had thought a reality. CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH A WOMAN DENIES AND A MAN DIES. All the next day we must of necessity He close in the old rat hole, with one of us always on guard at a window over- looking the street. I tried to forget my- self in planiing for the coming night's work, and all the time another resolution was_evolving in my head. We laid the whole plan before Curtls, and he ap- proved. Once or twice he recurred to the episode of the evening before, but I could ro discuss it with him. 'Twas.not in me tobelieve that his course was right, yet in the few weeks I had known him I hed come to believe In him and his strong na~