40. CHAPTER XL.
A SAD INTERVIEW.
It was with much trepidation that Gertrude anticipated her
approaching interview with Harry, whom as yet she had not
spoken with since the hour that he bade her farewell in her own
quiet home on the banks of the Hudson—that oft-regretted hour,
when a word of kind and earnest dissuasion from her might have
kept him away from this disastrous war and all its awful consequences.
Had she not then been too anxious to conceal the one
great secret of her life, her pure and blameless affection for him,
what long and bitter hours of anguish might she not have been
spared, and what a fearful fate might have been averted from
him.
Could it yet be averted? Ah! she would not count the cost
now, whatever might be the wounds her sensitive heart must feel,
whatever censure an ill-natured world might heap upon her—she
would bear it all to atone for that one moment's remissness,
and bring him back to life and happiness, even although not to
her.
Let us not attempt to depict her emotions when, sustained by
the manly Van Vrank, she entered the gloomy precincts of that
prison-house, whence so many of her countrymen had passed to
the unknown world, and where Harry Vrail was that moment
looking forward with hopeless expectation to a similar fate. The
massive doors opening and closing with terrific clangor around
her, the long, dark corridors, echoing with the sound of her own
footfall upon the floor of stone, the checkered light of heaven entering
through the iron-barred windows—all was new to her, and
terrible in its novelty.
Clinging to her cousin, she approached the cell in which Vrail
was confined, and when near it, Garret left her for a moment, by
her own request, that he might apprise Harry of her coming.
He then conducted her to the door, and leaving her again, he
paced the hall, at a distance where he might watch over her
safety, and yet not overhear the conversation. It was early in
the day, yet the light which found entrance into the cell was, fortunately
for Harry, not sufficient to reveal either his pallor or his
great agitation at this dismal meeting.
Poor Gertrude thrust her little hand between the bars of the
door without an effort to speak, and yet without the possibility of
restraining either her tears or her sobs.
“Do not weep for me, dear Gertrude,” he said, at length; “the
worst of my suffering is already past. May the Almighty Father
bless you for all that you have done for me; for the noble heroism
with which you have befriended me, and for this last act of kindness,
which you need not tell me has been unavailing. I knew
that it would be so. I am fully prepared to hear that the governor
has refused to listen even to your intercession.”
“I did not intercede—I could not speak to him,” sobbed
Gertrude; “but oh, Harry, if you could have heard that dear
child Ruth, plead for you! His heart must be iron to resist
her.”
“Poor Ruth. I know, dear Gertrude, you will ever be her
friend.”
“She is my sister forever—but let us not talk of her now.
Listen to me, for I must speak lower, and on a different theme.”
Gertrude gazed earnestly around, to see that no one could hear
what she was about to utter, and then she hastened to impart
sparingly to Harry her new hope; for, while she was unwilling to
leave him a moment in ignorance of it, she was also fearful that
he might seize upon it with too much avidity.
She did not disclose to him all the particulars of the proposed
rescue, for there were some details which, for reasons that will
become obvious, it was designed to conceal even from him; but
she told him of the great confidence expressed by their new friend
in the success of his scheme.
Harry listened to her with a mournful silence, which gave no
token of too sanguine expectation.
“For your sake, dear Gertrude,” he said, “I will consent to
have these dead hopes revived, even though they must in part
distract my mind from those higher interests to which it should
be given; but I cannot conceal from myself that success in such
an undertaking as this would be most extraordinary, and is not to
be anticipated.”
“Not more extraordinary, Harry, than that Heaven should
raise up such a friend to aid us, when all other help fails. Be at
least hopeful enough to use all necessary means for making this
last effort.”
“I will—and if I cannot look upon what seems to me as the
rash scheme of a sanguine boy, as a token of Providential interference,
I will, at least, accept your unfalitering goodness and perseverance,
dear Gertrude, as such an intimation. I will hope, and
I will leave nothing undone on my part.”
“You give me new courage now, Harry, and I shall go about
my task with energy.”
“But I must exact one promise from you—dear Tom must not
come here. I will not have him incur any risk of taking my
place in these horrid quarters. Promise me this.”
“I certainly promise it, as far as it is under my control. But
is there not danger that if your own brother stands aloof, others
will refuse to come to your aid?”
“Not at all, for his would be a double risk, since, as an officer
of the patriot army, his life would be regarded as already forfeited,
and, if taken in this attempt, there could be no hope for him.
No—I will never consent to his coming, even if the plan must be
abandoned without him.”
“He shall know all you say.”
“But, Gertrude, there is one man, if he can be found, and can
be induced to take part in this enterprise, who will be a host in
himself; a brave, sagacious, wise man, who will find his own
coadjutors, and will lead them. Let him but be convinced that
there is any probable ground of success, and he will gladly
undertake it, although less out of regard for me, than for the
glory of the achievement, and from hatred to this government.”
“Oh, tell me his name. I will find him—I will find him. He
shall surely come and save you.”
“Ah! Gertrude, restrain these too confident hopes. Weeks
might be spent in the vain search for him of whom I speak, or if
he were to be found, it might only be to assure you of the impracticability
of all your plans. He knows too well the strength
of British prisons, and the vigilance of British guards, to
count lightly on the prospect of wresting any one from their
keeping. Of all men, I fear he would be most likely to take a
common-sense view of the enterprise, and to declare it impossible.”
“No, no, no! not when he knows all that I can tell him.”
“If he could but see Hadley”—
“He shall—he shall. I will in some way bring about an interview.
They shall certainly meet. I have been told that there
are islands very near to us on this mighty river, which do not
belong to the British crown, but which form a part of our own
country; and, better still, that some of these are uninhabited.
He shall come to one of these, and Hadley will meet him there.
I know he will, for whatever may be his motive, he is fully in
earnest in helping us.”
“Your cheerful hopes are infectious, dear Gertrude, and I
catch a portion of your sanguine spirit; but I fear the time is too
short to accomplish so much.”
“There is abundant time, with the means that I shall use; but
it must not be wasted in words. The name—tell me the name
of this powerful ally!”
“Come nearer, if you can, for it is one which I scarcely dare
to utter on Canadian soil.”
Gertrude pressed closer to the bars, and heard the faintly
whispered name, long familiar to her ears, of “William Johnson.”
“With Thomas' aid you may possibly be able to find him,”
continued Harry, “but if you fail to do so, you must accept the
next best assistance you can obtain. Your cousin Van Vrank, I
suppose, is in the secret of this undertaking?”
“Not yet, but at the proper time both he and Brom will know
all, and I count upon them both for efficient aid. Brom, I really
believe, would lay down his life to save you; and Garret, although
not quite so loyal, is brave and strong, and will be willing to
encounter great risks in your service. If you have but few friends,
they are all faithful.”
“Ah! how undeserving am I of all this kindness.”
“Before you see me again,” interrupted Gertrude, “you will
have seen Hadley, and he will have made known to you all the
particulars of his scheme. Do not mistrust him, nor fear to be
fully guided by his instructions. And now, farewell.”
“Farewell, dear Gertrude. Do not hope too much, nor fear
that my sufferings will be aggravated by failure, if we are destined
again to disappointment. I shall hope sparingly, and whether
my days be few or many, they will all be brightened by the
remembrance of your kindness. If I perish, forget me, and do
not idly mourn my fate, which you will have done all in your
power to avert.”
Gertrude did not reply; but beckoning Garret to approach, she
took his arm, and departed in silence.
