The Tory Lover 36

The Tory Lover 36

"I go to Madam Wallingford’s," said Mary; and in the dusk she saw them

cast sidewise glances at each other, while their oars lost stroke and

fouled. They had thought it lucky that there should be a card party,

and their young mistress out of sight and hearing, if the threats meant

anything and there should be trouble that night alongshore. Miss

Hamilton said nothing further,—she was usually most friendly in her

speech with these old servants; but she thanked them in a gentle tone as

she landed, and bade them be ready at any moment for her return. They

looked at her with wonder, and swore under their breath for mere

astonishment, as she disappeared from their sight with hurrying steps,

along the winding way that led up to the large house on the hill. As

Mary passed the old boathouse, and again as she came near the

storehouses just beyond, she could see shadowy moving figures like

ghosts, that were gone again in an instant out of sight, crouching to

the ground or dodging behind the buildings as they saw her pass. Once

she heard a voice close under the bank below the road; but it ceased

suddenly, as if some one had given warning. Every dark corner was a

hiding place, but the girl felt no fear now there was something to be

done. There was no light in the lower story of the great house, but in

Madam Wallingford’s chamber the firelight was shining, and by turns it

darkened and brightened the windows. For the first time Mary felt weak

at heart, but there was that within her which could drive out all fear

or sense of danger. As she stood on the broad doorsteps, waiting and

looking riverward, she smiled to see that Peggy had lighted their own

house as if for some high festival. It had a look of cheerfulness and

security there beyond the elms; she gave a sigh of relief that was like

a first acknowledgment of fear. She did not remember that one person

might have come safely from the boat, where two could not go back.

 

Again she struck the heavy knocker, and this time heard Rodney’s anxious

voice within, whispering to ask whether she were friend or foe before he

timidly unbarred the door.

 

 

"They tell me there is some danger of a mob, my child." Madam

Wallingford spoke calmly, as if this were some ordinary news. Mary had

found her sitting by the fire, and kissed her cheek without speaking.

The room was so quiet, and its lady looked so frail and patient,

unconscious that danger already hemmed them in on every side.

 

"I fear that this house may be burnt and robbed, like the Salem houses,"

she said. "Poor Rodney and the women are afraid, too. I saw that they

were in a great fright, and forced the truth from them. I think my

troubles have robbed me of all my strength. I do not know what I must

do. I feel very old, Mary, and my strength fails me," she faltered. "I

need my son—oh, I have had dreadful news"—

 

"I have come to take you home with me to-night, dear," answered Mary.

"Come, I shall wrap you in my warm red cloak; the night is chilly.

These are Peggy’s orders, and we must follow them. She would not have

you frighted ever so little, if there is any danger. She is making you

some hot drink this very minute, and I have brought our steady boat with

the four old rowers. They are waiting for us below."

 

"Good Peggy!" exclaimed Madam Wallingford, who saw the bright smile that

lighted Mary’s face, and was now rallying all her forces. "She was here

herself this afternoon; I wish that I had seen her. We shall not obey

her this once; you see that I cannot go. If there is an attack, I must

be here to meet it,—the men may hear to reason; if there is no real

danger, I am safe to stay," and she cast a fond look about the room.

 

Mary saw it with compassion; at the same moment she heard cries outside,

as if some fresh recruits were welcomed to the gathering fray.

 

"My safety and the safety of our house lies in my staying here," said

the lady, sitting straight in her great chair. "I am not easily made

afraid; it is only that my strength failed me at the first. If God

sends ruin and death this night, I can but meet it. I shall not go

away. You were a dear child to come; you must make my kind excuses to

Peggy. Go, now, my dear, and Rodney shall put you in your boat." There

was a proud look on Madam Wallingford’s face as she spoke.

 

"I shall stay with you," answered Mary. "Alas, I think it is too late

for either of us to go," she added, as her quick ears were aware of

strange noises without the house. There was a sharp rapping sound of

stones striking the walls, and a pane of glass fell shattering into the

room.

 

"In Salem they took an old man from his dying bed, and destroyed his

habitation. He had been a judge and a good citizen. If these be our

own neighbors who think me dangerous, I must follow their bidding; if

they are strangers, we must be in danger. I wish that you had not come,

Mary!"

 

Mary was already at the window; the shutters were pushed back, and the

sweet night air blew through the broken pane upon her face. The heavy

sliding shutter caught as she tried to stir it, and she saw that the

moving crowd had come close about the house. At the sight of her they

gave an angry roar; there were musket shots and a great racket of noise.

"Come out, come out," they cried, "and take the oath!"

 

"So the mob has come already," said Madam Wallingford calmly, and rose

from her seat. "Then I must go down. Is it a great company?"

 

"I could not have believed so many men were left," answered Mary

bitterly. "They should be fighting other battles!" she protested,

trembling with sudden rage. "Where go you, Madam?" for Madam

Wallingford was hurrying from the room. As she threw open the door, all

the frightened people of the household were huddled close outside; they

fell upon their knees about her and burst into loud lamentations. They

pressed as near their mistress as they could; it was old Rodney and

Susan who had kept the others from bursting into the room.

 

"Silence among ye!" said Madam Wallingford. "I shall do what I can, my

poor people. I am going down to speak to these foolish men."

 

"They have come to rob us and murder us!" wailed the women.

 

"Rodney, you will go before me and unbar the door!" commanded the

mistress. "Susan shall stay here. Quiet this childishness! I would

not have such people as these think that we lack courage."

 

She went down the wide staircase as if she were a queen, and Mary her

maid of honor. Rodney was for hanging back from those who pounded to

demand entrance, and needed an angry gesture before he took the great

bar down and flung the door wide open. Then Madam Wallingford stepped

forward as if to greet her guests with dignity, and Mary was only a step

behind. There was a bonfire lit before the house, and all the portraits

along the paneled hall seemed to come alive in the blazing light that

shone in, and to stand behind the two women like a guard.

 

"What do you wish to say to me?" asked Madam Wallingford.

 

"The oath! the oath!" they cried, "or get you hence!" and there was a

shaking of firebrands, and the heads pressed closer about the door.

 

"You are Sons of Liberty, and yet you forbid liberty to others," said

the old gentlewoman, in her clear voice. "I have wronged none of you."

For very sight of her age and bravery, and because she was so great a

lady, they fell silent; and then a heavy stone, thrown from the edge of

the crowd, struck the lintel of the door, beside her.

 

"Is there no man among you whom you will choose to speak fairly with me,

to tell your errand and whence you come?"

 

"We are some of us from Christian Shore, and some are Dover men, and

some of us are men of your own town," answered a pale, elderly man, with

the face of a fanatic; he had been a preacher of wild doctrines in the

countryside, and was ever a disturber of peace. "We want no Royalists

among us, we want no abettors of George the Third; there ’s a bill now

to proscribe ye and stop your luxury and pride. We want no traitors and

spies, neither, to betray the cause of the oppressed. You and your son

have played a deep game; he has betrayed our cause, and the penalty must

fall."

 

There was a shout of approval; the mob was only too ready to pour into

the house.

 

"My son has put his name to your oath, and you should know that he has

not broken it, if some of you are indeed men of our own town," said the

mother proudly, and they all heard her speak. "I can promise that this

is true. Cannot you wait to hear the truth about him, or is it only to

rob us and make a night of revel you have come? Do not pay sin with

sin, if you must hold those to be sinners who are Loyalists like me!"

 

"Burn the old nest!" cried an impatient voice. "She may be hiding some

King’s men,—who knows? Stop her prating, and let’s to business; we are

done with their Royalties," and the crowd pushed hard. They forced the

two women and old Rodney back into the hall; and at the sound of heavy

trampling, all the women on the stair above fell to shrieking.

 

Mary put herself before Madam Wallingford for safety’s sake, and held up

her hand. "Stop, stop!" she begged them. "Let me first take my friend

away. I am Mary Hamilton of the Patriots, and you all know my brother.

I ask you in his name to let us go in peace."

 

Her sorrowful face and her beauty for one instant held some of them

irresolute, but from the back of the crowd a great pressure urged the

rest forward. There was a little hush, and one man cried, "Yes, let them

go!" but the wild and lawless, who were for crowding in, would not have

it so. It was a terrible moment, like the sight of coming Death. There

was a crash; the women were overpowered and flung back against the wall.

 

Suddenly there was a new confusion, a heavier din, and some unexpected

obstacle to this onset; all at once a loud, familiar voice went to

Mary’s heart. She was crouching with her arms close about her old

friend, to shield her from bruises and rough handling as the men pushed

by; in the same moment there were loud outcries of alarm without. What

happened next in the hall seemed like the hand of Heaven upon their

enemies. Old Major Tilly Haggens was there in the midst, with friends

behind him, dealing stout blows among those who would sack the house.

Outside on their horses were Judge Chadbourne and General Goodwin, who

had ridden straight into the mob, and with them a little troop of such

authorities as could be gathered, constables and tithing men; and old

Elder Shackley in his scarlet cloak; Parson Pike and Mr. Rollins, his

chief parishioner, were all there together. They rode among the

brawling men as if they were but bushes, and turned their good horses

before the house. The crowd quick lost its solid look; it now had to

confront those who were not defenseless.

 

"We are Patriots and Sons of Liberty, all of us who are here!" shouted

the minister, in a fine, clear voice. "We are none of us, old or young,

for the King, but we will not see a Christian woman and kind neighbor

made to suffer in such wise as this. Nor shall you do vengeance upon

her son until there is final proof of his guilt."

 

"We can beat these old parsons!" shouted an angry voice. "To it, lads!

We are three to their one!" But the elderly men on horseback held their

own; most of them were taught in the old school of fighting, and had

their ancient swords well in hand, ready for use with all manly courage.

Major Tilly Haggens still fought as a foot soldier in the hall; his

famous iron fist was doing work worthy of those younger days when he was

called the best boxer and wrestler in the plantations. He came forth

now, sweeping the most persistent before him out of the house.