New York - The Novel

judge and order the lives of others.
    If a man in Philadelphia cared to read, well enough, so long as he didn’t seek to impose his books on you. Too much learning, too much attainment, too much success, too much of anything that might disturb the leafy quiet and genteel comfort of its deep pastures and broad valleys was, from its beginnings, anathema to happy Philadelphia. If John Master knew his business, and came from a good family, and was a friendly sort of fellow, then that was all a nice Philadelphia girl required.
    John Master was wrong about one thing, though. He thought Mercy hadn’t noticed that he looked like a Greek god. Of course she had! The very first time he spoke to her, it had taken all Mercy’s sound Quaker upbringing to keep a calm countenance. I must see the inner man, not the outer show, she had reminded herself, again and again. Yet how was it possible, she wondered, that this divine-looking being wants to spend time with a plain little person like me? For a long time, she had assumed that he saw her as a harmless friend. No one could suppose there was more to it than that. When, once or twice, he had given hints of something further, she had wondered whether he might be trifling with her. But even when it seemed his feelings might be stronger, there was still one thing that worried Mercy Brewster.
    She was not sure that he was kind. Oh, he was kind enough in a general, everyday sort of way. He loved his parents. He seemed to have some honest friends. But in this regard, the Quaker girl was more demanding than John knew. Had he shown, she asked herself, true thought for others, anywhere in his life? He was young, of course, and the young are selfish; but on this point she must be satisfied.
    This doubt was not something she could let him know. If he suspected her concern, it would have been too easy for him to contrive some gesturethat would satisfy her. All she could do was to watch, and wait, and hope. For without this reassurance, she could not love him.
    He never guessed it, but the preaching they had attended on the Common had been a test. If he’d refused to go, she would have quietly withdrawn herself, secretly closed an inner door, remained a friend, but nothing more. During Whitefield’s sermon, though John had not noticed, she had been watching him. She had seen how he was moved, seen the tears in his eyes, and been pleased. He is good, she had told herself. His heart is warm. But was this only when he was moved by Whitefield’s preaching, or was it something more serious and solid? She continued to observe him. Even after it became plain that he was ready to confess his love for her, she would not allow herself to be moved from this point, and she continued to be uncertain, and to maintain her distance from him.
    And this was not easy for her since, for some months now, she had been completely, and agonizingly, in love.
    This evening he was coming. She knew what he was going to say. But she still was not sure what she was going to answer.

    Young Hudson hadn’t been having any luck. He’d tried a few inns, but been told there was no room. There were some disreputable places where he knew he could stay, but he’d avoided those so far. He’d gone to the house of a tailor he knew, hoping to get a berth there, but the man had left the city because times were bad. Another friend, a free black man like himself, had been thrown in jail. He’d been on his way to a ropemaker he knew when, passing by Vesey Street, he’d made a terrible mistake.
    He’d noticed the smoking chimney at once. It belonged to a house a few doors down the street. Even in the gathering darkness, he could see the thick black smoke coming out of it, although he saw no sign of any flames. Somebody had better take a look at that, he’d thought, but not wanting to get involved, he’d been going on his way when the two watchmen came round the corner.
    They saw the smoke too. And they saw a black man. And they stared at him. They were staring at him hard.
    And then he’d panicked.
    He knew what they were thinking. Was he a black man starting a fire? He could stay where he was, of course, and protest he was innocent. Butwould they believe him? In any case, with the ship’s captain looking for him, he hardly wanted to be questioned by the authorities. There was only one thing to do. He took to his heels and ran. The watchmen shouted and came after him, but he was faster than they were. A quick turn down an