Now and then a taunt was hurled at the lad, and occasionally a jibe far more tangible, but of neither missile did he show the least consciousness. The presence of his father touched the rudest heart. He removed his hat when he saw his son's uncovered head, and his grey hairs evoked far more pity than contempt. When they passed through the fashionable residence streets, the sympathy was even remarkable; windows were thrown up, handkerchiefs fluttered, and now and then a shrill little "bravo!" made Harry look up and catch the influences of pity and admiration that women, young and lovely, and women, old and wayworn, rained down on him. As Medway predicted, the crowd melted away long before the barrier was reached, for the mood of mischief was not in it. The fifes screamed and the drums beat, but could not summon the devilish spirit of mob violence, and Harry Bradley's tramp to the Rogue's March was a much more quiet and orderly affair than the Police Court intended it to be.
At the barrier the gate was flung open, and, in the midst of a fanfaronade of discordant sounds and scornful shouts Harry was hustled outside. But his father had found opportunity to give him gold and to tell him a negro was waiting with a swift horse behind the gates; and just at the last moment, amid the scoffing and jeering of the soldiers, he put his arms about his son's neck and kissed and blessed him. He had drunk the shameful cup to the dregs with the lad, and he turned to the little gathering a face that awed them. As one man they moved aside to let him pass, and for a few moments watched him, as, with a mighty stride he took the road homeward. For he looked beyond his nature large and commanding, and he walked as if moved by some interior force that was beyond his control. Men gazed at him with awe and pity, but no one ventured to speak to him.
As he approached his home the inner momentum that had carried him without let or hinderance at a marvelous speed seemed to fail; he faltered, looked round wearily, and then stumbled forward, as if he had charged his spirit for the last mile of life. When he reached his gate he could not open it, and Agnes ran out to help him; speech was impossible, but with a pitiful glance he let her lead him into the house. Leaning on her, he stumbled forward until he reached the sofa, then, with a great cry he fell backward.
Fortunately, Neil Semple at that moment entered the house, and he was instantly at Bradley's side, rendering, with Agnes, the help at once necessary, and soothing the afflicted man with words of such sympathy and affection as few mortals had ever heard pass the lips of Neil Semple. "Mr. Bradley," he entreated, "do not fail yourself at this hour! We are all so sorry for you—all ready to weep with you—think of Agnes—are you suffering?—Shall I go for a physician? What is the matter? Speak to me, Mr. Bradley."
"Sir," he answered, stretching out his trembling arms, "sir, I can neither see nor hear."
CHAPTER IX.
THE TURN OF THE TIDE.
Every misfortune has its horizon, but as yet Maria was not able to lift up her eyes and see any comfort coming from afar. It seemed to her that all the joy and glory of living was over. It was not only that Harry was taken out of her schemes of happiness for the future; the present, also, was denuded of every hope and clouded by very real annoyances. She felt bitterly the publicity given to her name, and she knew that this publicity would supply those who disliked her with continual opportunities for her humiliation.
"I shall have to stop at home," she thought; "and grandmother is sick and grandfather fretful, and Neil's whole care is given to Agnes Bradley. I think he might consider me a little; but nobody does; I am only Maria. Yet my life is ruined, quite ruined;" and the unhappy child wept over herself and wondered how she was to live through the long, long years before her.