The Grip of Honor

"Two great honors, surely," said the admiral, smiling pleasantly.

"I thank your Lordship for the compliment; pray proceed."

"I have here, also, a brief account of the history of another gentleman in whom I doubt not you are deeply interested."

"And that is-"

"One Barry O'Neill, Marquis de Richemont."

"Your very humble servant, sir."

"Your discrimination does you honor, marquis," said the admiral, playfully.

"Faith, sir, you read me an easy riddle."

"I find that you have been concerned in every treasonable plot against his Majesty which has been hatched on the continent since you were out of leading strings."

"Rather hard, but true, sir. Ah Irishman, you know, is naturally a rebel and a conspirator."

"Quite so; and those who are not drowned may expect to be hanged," said the admiral, sternly.

"As I am a sailor, I might reasonably have hoped for the former end, but I have forfeited my rights by coming on shore, I suppose." He paused, and as the admiral nodded gravely, he continued with well-simulated indifference: "'Tis not a pleasant mode of death, my Lord, nor one that I would have chosen, nor one that is becoming a gentleman; but I trust I shall meet it with equanimity at least," replied O'Neill, a little paler than before, but still dauntlessly smiling.

"I am glad to see that you are a man of such resolution, sir," said the admiral. "If your discretion equal your courage, the matter may be arranged."

"It is useless to try it," was the reply; "to have known your ward, to have seen her, and to know that she is destined for the arms of another, makes life a hell, and death a pleasure."

"Is it so?" said the admiral, pausing.

"Think of the days of your own youth, sir, and one that you loved, and you will understand me."

The admiral reflected. The stake he was playing for was so high, his desire was so great-like the woman who hesitated, he fell. There would be some way out of it, surely. As he drew near to the moment and to the goal, his overwhelming desire took possession of him, and blinded him; desire blinds as well as love.

"Even that," finally he said slowly, looking meaningly at O'Neill the while, "may be arranged."

"Good God!" said O'Neill, white to the lips. "What is it you would have me do? Speak! Titles, rank, station, friends, fame, opportunities, life itself, would I cheerfully give for her who has taken possession of me. Speak, my Lord!" cried the young man, entreatingly.

The heart of the girl in the picture frame in the dark corner stopped its beating. The gates of heaven, as it were, had been opened before her. What was the proposition?

"Listen!" said the admiral, slowly, at last. He was sure he had him now.

"I could settle the course of the world while I wait for your reply, sir. Delay no longer, I pray you; I am in a torture of apprehension," said O'Neill, eagerly.

"I design not to take from you rank nor station nor lands nor position," replied the admiral. "I offer you a free pardon for all your past offences; nay, it shall cover your father's as well, if you wish. There shall be a restoration of the ancient lands of your venerable house. I will put your feet upon a ladder by which you may rise to the very highest position. I open before you vistas of honorable advancement in the service of your rightful king in your native land, in which there is no limit to which a man of courage may not attain."

"These are nothing," said the young man, impetuously, "beside Lady Elizabeth Howard; some of the things you mention I now have, some I do not wish, some are nothing to me. But your ward, sir, what of her?"

"Oh, what a lover is there!" whispered to herself the girl in the picture frame, forgetting the pose, clasping her white hands and leaning forward with shining eyes, blushing cheeks, and parted lips, listening with wildly beating heart. This in her breast now was love, indeed, – in no way like to the pale affection with which she regarded the unfortunate Coventry. The admiral spoke again, fixing his eye upon the young man. His words came slowly.

"Well, sir, I will even agree to interpose no objections to your suit for the hand of my ward."

"But that is tantamount to giving your consent, my Lord," said O'Neill, coming nearer to him in great surprise, his heart bounding-and yet there must be some conditions to the royal gift. The admiral bowed. "And Major Coventry?" cried the Irishman.

"His desires must give way to-er-reasons of state," said the admiral, decisively. "I will arrange all that; if you can obtain her consent to your suit, she is yours, provided-" he paused significantly. Ah! the conditions!

"My consent!" thought Elizabeth, happiness flooding her like a wave; and then she remembered that she was a woman, and indignation found a lodgement in her being. 'Twas not thus she would be wooed and won, not in this bartering way disposed of. By what right did any one-even her guardian-presume to- O'Neill was speaking again.

"What are the conditions-what is it you wish me to do? If it be in human power, 'tis done. Torment me no more; as you are a man and have a heart, speak!" In his agitation the younger man seized the elder by the arm.

"I desire you to go back to your ship and arrange to put in my possession the person of John Paul Jones," said the admiral, with the greatest deliberation, concealing his anxiety by an appearance of great firmness, as he nonchalantly helped himself to a pinch of snuff. An accurate observer would have noticed that the trembling of his hands belied his simulated calmness.

It was out now! What would the man say or do? Elizabeth sank back appalled. So this was the condition; this was the test. He was to choose between her and black treachery-dishonor! His answer, what would it be? Had her idol feet of clay, after all? Her fate hung in the balance; she could never survive his shame if he fell; if not-ah!

O'Neill released the admiral at once, stared at him a long moment in horrified silence, shrank away from him, and sank down in the chair and buried his face in his hands for a little space; his two auditors waited, hope for different results trembling in either heart. Presently he looked up and rose to his feet.

"Treachery-dishonor-shame! And with her innocence and youth and beauty you bait your trap!" ejaculated O'Neill, brokenly. The admiral still played with his snuffbox, his eyes averted, his hands trembling still. Was it age, or-

"Oh, my God, my God!" continued the sailor, stricken to the very heart, "to raise my hopes to such a pitch-to put the cup of happiness to my very lips-to open the gates of heaven in my very presence-and couple your propositions with this-this infamy! I am a lover, sir, you know it well; but you should not have forgotten that I am, before everything else, a gentleman. How could you do it? It ill becomes your years," he went on impetuously, in mounting indignation. "I am your prisoner-your captive; but I knew not that misfortune gave you a right to insult me thus My Lord, my Lord, the ladder upon which you put my feet leads down, not up; hell, not heaven, is its end!"

"Think!" said the admiral, doggedly, feeling the game was lost, but, like a desperate gamester, playing on. "The Lady Elizabeth is at the end, where'er it be."

"I love her, God only knows how much I love her; from the moment I saw her I have had no thought but for her. I could not look her in the face and be guilty of this thing." The girl in the picture almost cried aloud for joy in this triumph of her lover's honor.

"She shall never know," replied the admiral. "I will pledge my word of honor."

The honor of the tempter, for the dishonor of the tempted! O'Neill laughed bitterly.

"It has not in forty years of service been called in question," replied the old man, stifling his growing shame.

"Nor has mine," said O'Neill, "until this hour. You are her guardian-an old man-your gray hairs should protect you; but 'tis well for you that I have no sword, for I swear I would plunge it first into your heart and then into my own!"

"Think what it is I offer," persisted the other. "Compare it to what you now have in the way of worldly honor. What do you care for that bit of striped bunting and those beggarly rebels who have presumed to declare a republic? What is a republic, anyway, and what function has it in a gentleman's life, pray? What have we to do with the common people? What are their aspirations to you? What affiliations have you for that low-born gardener, turned pirate and buccaneer to ravage our coasts, dishonor our flag? This is the kingdom in which you were born. Here your rightful allegiance is due. I offer you, for the giving up of a-sentiment which possesses you, the favor of your king and the hand of the woman you love, – every earthly thing to make you happy. You are an exile, a wanderer, a soldier of fortune. I give you a country again."

"And do you, a man of honor, advise me to-"

"Damnation, sir! I advise nothing, I offer; the decision rests with you."

"Ah, I thought so; and what would you do in my place, sir?"

"I'm not there, thank God!" said the old man, fervently; "and I repeat, you must decide yourself."

"Very good, sir. It is true that I like not that republic, its principles are nothing to me; but I have found that gardener's son a man-ay, a gentleman! You have called me a landless man, an exile, a soldier of fortune, – that, too, is true. But to Captain Jones and his service I have pledged my honor; 'tis all I have; the stars and stripes are become my flag; I wear the uniform, I eat the bread, of the United States. You may break my heart, destroy my life; you cannot break my word. There is not power and place enough in the three kingdoms, no, not even on their throne, not beauty enough even in Elizabeth Howard to tempt me-to compel me to do that. Say no more. You have your answer."

CHAPTER XII

Gentlemen All

"Look, you fool!" said the admiral, roughly, furious with rage at being balked in this way, though, in spite of himself, his heart exulted in the nobility of the man. "Look, you beggarly Irishman!" he exclaimed, turning the surprised young man about before he could recover himself, – "look on the picture of her whom you reject! Gaze upon it! If you love her, say whether or no your high-flown sentiments of honor can stand against that prospect." It was his final appeal, win or lose; he had staked all upon the throw.

There in the great frame stood the most beautiful picture that the eyes of either man had ever seen. Elizabeth was standing. One tiny hand clutched tightly her heaving bosom; the other arm was stretched out with upraised palm like a goddess in command. The light of the flickering candles cast subtle shadows upon her face. The dusk of the room intensified the illusion and spiritualized her beauty. O'Neill looked at her with all his life in his gaze; so glorious, so splendid, so perfect a creature would shake the very soul of honor itself!

The admiral had played his last card; this was the end of his resource, and he watched the Irishman with all the intensity of a tiger about to spring on its prey. The moments fled. He knew that he had lost. Elizabeth had risen in the stress of her anxiety, the strain had been too much for her; she had been about to intervene between them, when the glances of the two men arrested her step. She waited, one little foot outstretched, her body leaning forward slightly, a picture of triumph, her eyes as two lambent flames playing upon her lover. He watched her in awestruck silence, sank on his knees, stretched out his arms, murmuring softly, -

"Thou knowest that I love thee. I have dreamed sometimes that in happier days thou mightest have given me thy heart, but I could not take it with a bar sinister of shame between us! No-" Was she moving! Was that some trick of the wavering light!

"Good heavens!" cried O'Neill, fearfully, rising. "See-is it a spirit? She shakes her head! Look you, my Lord, she is alive; the picture fell last night, you remember- 'Tis herself! Elizabeth, Elizabeth, you have heard and seen-have I not decided well?"

"How dare you, my Lord!" exclaimed the girl, coming down from the dais and stepping swiftly toward the astonished admiral, who shrank back from her, – "how dare you make my hand the reward of treachery; my person the bait for dishonor? And by what right do you dispose of me without consulting me? Am I a slave, that you force me upon this gentleman? My word is given to your son; you yourself insisted upon it. You would play the traitor double, and would fain make him do the same. And for what? To compass the death of one poor man to whom I owe life and honor, who is only fighting for what he calls his freedom! Shame upon your gray hairs, sir! Oh, the insult to my modesty-to be thus bandied about between two men- And you, sir!" she cried, in tempestuous passion, turning to O'Neill, – "you do me the honor to refuse me-to reject me-me-me-Elizabeth Howard-look at me-you would have none of me-"

"My honor-" cried O'Neill, amazed at her sudden change and inconsistency.

"Your honor-have I any honor, sir? Would you have left me a shadow of it between you? Stand back, sir! My Lord, is it thus you discharge the trust committed to you by my mother? To give this gentleman opportunity to return to France, and say that he has refused my hand?"

"He shall not go back to France, Lady Elizabeth," said the admiral, sternly.

"Why not, pray?" asked Elizabeth, faltering, her passionate anger checked by the admiral's word and look.

"Because he shall be tried and hanged to-morrow as an American spy or a captured traitor, whichever he may elect."

She stood as if petrified at these cruel words.

"It is right, sir," said O'Neill. "I submit; and if you would make me die happy, say that the hideous proposition I have had from you was but the test of my honor."

"Oh, sir!" cried Elizabeth, in agony, throwing herself upon her knees before the admiral, "forgive me for my wild, intemperate speech; I know not what I say. You have been a father to me from the beginning, and I have ever loved you as one; I have turned to you for everything. Unsay your cruel words! Retract this order! You cannot condemn this honest gentleman. Dispose of me as you will. I love him-I love him-ay, let the truth be heard-even for his rejection of me! Nay, had he not done so, I would have hated him. Spare his life-I will marry Edward, do anything you wish-grant me this boon!"

"I cannot," said the admiral, slowly; "I pity you, from my soul I do, and him as well, but I dare not. There is but one thing that would excuse my clemency to his Majesty-there is the alternative he has nobly rejected: die he must, or give up his captain!"

"A thousand deaths rather than that!" answered O'Neill. "Rise, Lady Elizabeth; your appeal is vain. Rejoicing in your approval of my action, thankful to God that I have heard you say, 'I love you,' I shall die happy."

"No, no!" said the girl, spreading her arms protectingly before him, and then throwing herself upon his breast, "you cannot die-you shall not die! Oh, my love, my love, I knew not until I heard you speak what this feeling was. I cannot let you go! Surely, you would never be so cruel as to part us now?" she cried brokenly, looking back at the impassive old man; his hands were steady enough now, – they never trembled but from shame. "What has he done? He came here to see me, – me alone, – to take me in his arms as he holds me now; and you condemn him to death for that! Did you never love when you were young? They whispered that it was my mother who had your heart. They told me that she was unhappy because they forced you apart. 'Twas to you she confided me. Have pity, in her name, have mercy!"

"Enough!" said the admiral; "it is not that I will not, but I cannot. He has chosen; he must die."

"Then may death come to me," said Elizabeth; "because, for all eternity, I love him!"

"And this," broke in the cold, stern voice of Major Coventry, who had entered the room at that moment, "is the welcome I receive from my bride of to-morrow, and this is the reward of the efforts I have made to secure the release of the Marquis de Richemont, my friend! May God have pity on me, – my sweetheart and my friend!"

"Sir!" said O'Neill, brokenly, "I crave your forgiveness. I knew that she was yours-I do not understand how we got into this position," passing his hand over his forehead in bewilderment; "but this I know, – I am to die! There is no choice. She will yet be yours."

"Never-never!" cried Elizabeth, turning to him. "Edward, if you have truly loved me, – if I have rightly estimated you, your nobility of soul, your generosity of heart, – you will plead for us with your father. You will give me up; you are too proud to take an unwilling bride, and one who in spite of herself-for I have fought against it for your sake-confesses that she loves another. You will intercede with your father-I will bless you all the days of my life. Edward, Edward, the companion of my childhood's hours-my friend-my brother-my only hope is in you! Speak!" She fell at his feet and clasped his hand, which she covered with kisses. There was another silence. Coventry covered his face with his other hand; the sweat of agony bedewed his brow.

"Rise, Elizabeth, you shall not put your trust in me in vain," he cried hoarsely, at last. "Father, can nothing be done? I will not stand in the way."

"My son-Lady Elizabeth-Lieutenant O'Neill-there is nothing that can be done. My duty is perfectly clear. The only possible salvation of the prisoner would be in the action which he has refused even to consider; and, sir, if it were my duty to effect, if possible, the capture of your captain and his ship through you, I can only say that I am glad that I have failed. I apologize to you; you are a man of honor, indeed, sir. I know few who would have resisted such a plea as this. Say no more, Elizabeth, it is not that I will not-I cannot! Edward, here is my seal. Make out the warrant for an order for a court-martial to-morrow morning; it is a necessary form, of course. The execution of Lieutenant O'Neill will follow at once." Elizabeth did not faint, – no, not yet; there would be time for that later. She clung to O'Neill and listened.

"What shall be the manner of my death, sir?" queried the latter.

"Hanging, sir. 'Tis the penalty prescribed by the law."

"It is a poor death for a man, my Lord, but 'twill serve. A last request, sir. I am a sailor-may I be hanged upon a ship?" he asked again, pressing the trembling woman to his breast.

"I grant that-would that I could grant more! Major Coventry, you will direct Captain Pearson of the Serapis to execute the sentence of the court, which will meet on his ship, the prisoner to be confined there meanwhile. You will find the papers in the library; here is my seal; hasten, and get the painful matter over." Coventry left the room at once, in obedience to his orders.

"And at what time, sir, will the sentence be carried out?" asked O'Neill, Elizabeth still clinging to him, covering him with incoherent caresses, and fighting against despair.

"To-morrow evening at half after six o'clock."

"Very well, my Lord."

At this moment the old sergeant entered the room and saluted the admiral.

"A French officer, wich he says he's from the American Continental squadron, has come ashore in a small cutter, under a flag of truce, an' desires to speak with your Lordship. He asks for a safe-conduct."

"Tell him he shall return as freely as he came, on the word of a British officer, and admit him."

A slender, dapper little man, in the brilliant uniform of a French marine officer, his head covered with a powdered wig, entered the room a moment later, and bowed profoundly. Elizabeth started violently as she beheld him.

"Whom have I the honor of addressing?" asked the admiral.

"The Vicomte de Chamillard, a colonel of marines in the navy of France, serving as a volunteer in the American squadron," was the reply.

"And you come on behalf of-"

"Captain John Paul Jones, to protest against your unlawful detention of another French officer, the Marquis de Richemont, my Lord."

"He is a spy, caught in the very act: he has admitted it; and if that were not enough, I find he is an attainted traitor. A court is ordered for to-morrow morning on the Serapis; his execution, which will be inevitable, is set for half after six o'clock in the evening; he shall hang from one of the frigate's yard-arms."

"De Chamillard," said O'Neill, "you can do nothing."

"The laws of war-" persisted the Frenchman.

"It is in accordance with those laws that I do what I do," replied the admiral, shortly; "and you may say to your captain that if I catch him he shall swing from the first yard-arm that comes in the harbor."

"I am answered, then. Very good; I shall remember your courteous words, my Lord; and now I enter my formal protest against this unwarranted action on your part concerning the Marquis de Richemont. The King of France will have something to say about it. I bid you farewell."

"Farewell, sir," said the admiral, indifferently turning away.

"De Richemont, good-bye; embrace me." As the two men came together, the Frenchman whispered, "This woman-is she your friend?"

"Yes," replied O'Neill, quickly.

"Mademoiselle," said De Chamillard, turning to Elizabeth with a keen look in his eyes. Recognizing him at last, she stretched out her hand to him. He murmured as he bent low over it, "Delay the execution for at least six hours, and I will save him." Elizabeth sank down in her chair, a gleam of hope in her heart.

"I salute you," he said, turning away.

"Sergeant," cried the admiral, "attend the Vicomte de Chamillard and see him safely bestowed on his vessel."

As the Frenchman turned toward the door, he came face to face with Major Coventry returning with the orders he had prepared.

"Paul Jones, by Heaven!" shouted the latter.

"At your service," said the supposed Frenchman, promptly tearing off his wig and laying his hand on his sword.

"Ha!" cried the admiral. "Have you dared to come here! I have you now! Call the guard! Sergeant, arrest this rebel-this traitor-this pirate-disarm him! You shall never leave this castle but for the ship, sir. The yard-arm is there."

"Stop, my Lord!" answered Jones, calmly, as the men crowded toward him; "stand back, sergeant, back, men! You cannot touch me; I have that which will protect me wherever flies the English flag."

"And that is-" said the admiral, smiling contemptuously.

"Your word, sir, – the word of an English officer."

The old man bit his lip in chagrined silence. He struggled with himself, looking at the easy, insouciant Scotsman before him.

"In seventy years it has not been broken," he said at last. "Well for you that you secured it. Go! You are free! You are a bold man, sir, but, I warn you, do not cross my path again."

"I am proud to have met so true a gentleman. Will you honor me?" said Paul Jones, presenting his snuffbox to the admiral. The old man hesitated, laughed in spite of himself, and finally helped himself to a pinch.

"The d-d insolence of the man!" he exclaimed. "I'd like to have met you in my young days, yard-arm to yard-arm."

"I would have endeavored to occupy you, sir," said Jones, coolly; "and now I bid you farewell."

He shot one meaning glance at Elizabeth, and his lips seemed to form the words "six hours," as he departed from the room.

"Here is the warrant, sir," said Coventry. "Again I ask, and this time I ask my father, can nothing be done?"

"Nothing, sir, less as a father than in any other capacity. Sergeant, take your prisoner. Major Coventry, you will conduct him on the Serapis, and remain there as my representative until the execution is over. Sir, you have borne yourself well this day; I would shake you by the hand. Good-bye."

O'Neill clasped the proffered hand warmly, and then looked from Coventry, standing erect, immovable, white-faced, to Elizabeth, who was still sitting with bowed head, a world of entreaty in his glance. Coventry nodded and turned away. O'Neill stepped quickly to the girl's side, took her hand in his, bowed low over it, pressed a long kiss upon it.

"May you be happy!" he said. "Farewell!" She looked at him in dazed silence.

"Sir," he continued, turning back to Coventry, and saluting him, "I am ready. Lead on."