The Tory Lover 37

The Tory Lover 37

"I ’ll learn ye to strike a poor lame old man like me! Ye are no honest

Patriots, but a pack of thieves and blackguards! The worst pest of

these colonies!" he cried, with sound blows to right and left for

emphasis. He laid out one foe after another on the soft grass as on a

bed, until there was no one left to vanquish, and his own scant breath

had nearly left his body. The trampling horses had helped their riders’

work, and were now for neighing and rearing and taking to their heels.

The town constable was bawling his official threats, as he held one of

the weaker assailants by the collar and pounded the poor repentant

creature’s back. It had suddenly turned to a scene of plain comedy, and

the mob was nothing but a rabble of men and boys, all running for

shelter, such as could still run, and disappearing down toward the river

shore.

 

The old judge got stiffly from his tall Narragansett pacer, and came

into the hall.

 

"Madam Wallingford’s friends stop here to-night," he told the old

servant, who appeared from some dark corner. Poor Rodney was changed to

such an ashen color that he looked very strange, and as if he had rubbed

phosphorus to his frightened eyes. "You may tell your mistress and Miss

Hamilton that there is no more danger for the present," added the judge.

"I shall set a watch about the house till daylight."

 

Major Haggens was panting for breath, and leaned his great weight

heavily against the wainscoting. "I am near an apoplexy," he groaned

faintly. "Rodney, I hope I killed some of those divils! You may fetch

me a little water, and qualify it with some of Madam’s French brandy of

the paler sort. Stay; you can help me get to the dining parlor myself,

and I ’ll consider the spirit-case. Too violent a portion would be my

death; ’t would make a poor angel of me, Rodney!"

 

 

Early in the morning, Judge Chadbourne and his neighbor Squire Hill, a

wise and prudent man, went out to take the morning air before the house.

They were presently summoned by Madam Wallingford, and spoke with her in

her chamber. The broken glass of the window still glittered on the

floor; even at sunrise the day was so mild that there was no chill, but

the guests were struck by something desolate in the room, even before

they caught sight of their lady’s face.

 

"I must go away, my good friends," she declared quietly, after she had

thanked them for their service. "I must not put my friends in peril,"

she said, "but I am sure of your kind advice in my sad situation.

 

"We wait upon you to say that it would be best, Madam," said the judge

plainly. "I hear that New Hampshire as well as Massachusetts has in

consideration an act of great severity against the presence or return of

Loyalists, and I fear that you would run too much risk by staying here.

If you should be proscribed and your estates confiscated, as I fear may

be done in any case, you are putting your son’s welfare in peril as well

as your own. If he be still living now, though misfortunes have

overtaken him, and he has kept faith, as we who know him must still

believe, these estates which you hold for him in trust are not in

danger; if the facts are otherwise"—and the old justice looked at her,

but could not find it in his heart to go on.

 

Madam Wallingford sat pondering the matter with her eyes fixed upon his

face, and was for some time lost in the gravest thoughts.

 

"What is this oath?" she asked at last, and her cheeks whitened as she

put the question.

 

The judge turned to Mr. Hill, and, without speaking, that gentleman took

a folded paper from among some documents which he wore in his pocket,

and rose to hand it to the lady.

 

"Will you read it to me?" she asked again; and he read the familiar oath

of allegiance in a steady voice, and not without approval in his tone:—

 

"I do acknowledge the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA to be free, independent;

and sovereign states, and declare that the people thereof owe no

allegiance or obedience to GEORGE THE THIRD, KING OF GREAT BRITAIN: and

I renounce, refuse, and abjure any allegiance or obedience to him; and I

do swear that I will, to the utmost of my power, support, maintain, and

defend the said UNITED STATES against the said KING GEORGE THE THIRD,

his heirs and successors, and his or their abettors, assistants, and

adherents, and will serve the said United States in the office ... which

I now hold, with fidelity, according to the best of my skill and

understanding."

 

As he finished he looked at the listener for assent, as was his habit,

and Judge Chadbourne half rose in his eagerness; everything was so

simple and so easy if she would take the oath. She was but a woman,—the

oath was made for men; but she was a great land holder, and all the

country looked to her. She was the almoner of her own wealth and her

husband’s, and it were better if she stood here in her lot and place.

 

"I cannot sign this," she said abruptly. "Is this the oath that Roger,

my son, has taken?"

 

"The same, Madam," answered Mr. Hill, with a disappointed look upon his

face, and there was silence in the room.

 

"I must make me ready to go," said Madam Wallingford at last, and the

tears stood deep in her eyes. "But if my son gave his word, he will keep

his word. I shall leave my trust and all our fortunes in your hands, and

you may choose some worthy gentlemen from this side of the river to

stand with you. The papers must be drawn in Portsmouth. I shall send a

rider down at once with a message, and by night I shall be ready to go

myself to town. I must ask if you and your colleagues will meet me

there at my house.... You must both carry my kind farewells to my

Barvick friends. As for me,"—and her voice broke for the first time,—"I

am but a poor remainder of the past that cannot stand against a mighty

current of change. I knew last night that it would come to this. I am

an old woman to be turned out of my home, and yet I tell you the truth,

that I go gladly, since the only thing I can hope for now is to find my

son. You see I am grown frail and old, but there is something in my

heart that makes me hope.... I have no trace of my son, but he was left

near to death, and must now be among enemies by reason of having been

upon the ship. No, no, I shall not sign your oath; take it away with

you, good friends!" she cried bitterly. Then she put out her weak hands

to them, and a pathetic, broken look came upon her face.

 

"’T was most brotherly, what you did for me last night. You must thank

the other good men who were with you. I ask your affectionate

remembrance in the sad days that come; you shall never fail of my

prayers."

 

And so they left her standing in the early sunshine of her chamber, and

went away sorrowful.

 

 

An hour later Mary Hamilton came in, bright and young. She was dressed

and ready to go home, and came to stand by her old friend, who was

already at her business, with many papers spread about.

 

"Mary, my child," said Madam Wallingford, taking her hand and trembling

a little, "I am going away. There is new trouble, and I have no choice.

You must stay with me this last day and help me; I have no one to look

to but you."

 

"But you can look to me, dear lady." Mary spoke cheerfully, not

understanding to the full, yet being sure that she should fail in no

service. There was a noble pride of courage in her heart, a gratitude

because they were both safe and well, and the spring sun shining, after

such a night. God gives nothing better than the power to serve those

whom we love; the bitterest pain is to be useless, to know that we fail

to carry to their lives what their dear presence brings to our own.

Mary laid her hand on her friend’s shoulder. "Can I write for you just

now?" she asked.

 

"I am going to England," explained Madam Wallingford quietly. "Judge

Chadbourne and Mr. Hill have both told me that I must go away... I

shall speak only of Halifax to my household, but my heart is full of the

thought of England, where I must find my poor son. I should die of even

a month’s waiting and uncertainty here; it seems a lifetime since the

news came yesterday. I must go to find Roger!"

 

All the bright, determined eagerness forsook Mary Hamilton’s face. It

was not that the thought of exile was new or strange, but this poor

wistful figure before her, with its frayed thread of vitality and thin

shoulders bent down as if with a weight of sorrow, seemed to forbid even

the hard risks of seafaring. The girl gave a cry of protest, as if she

felt the sharp pain of a sudden blow.

 

"I have always been well enough on the sea. I do not dread the voyage

so much. I am a good sailor," insisted Madam Wallingford, with a smile,

as if she must comfort a weaker heart than her own. "My plans are

easily made, as it happens; one of my own vessels was about to sail for

West Indian ports. It was thought a useless venture by many, but the

captain is an impatient soul, and an excellent seaman. He shall take us

to Halifax, Susan and me. I thought at first to go alone; but Susan has

been long with me, and can be of great use when we are once ashore. She

is in sad estate on the ocean, poor creature, and when we went last to

Virginia I thought never to distress her so much again."

 

There was a shining light on the girl’s face as she listened.

 

"I shall go with you, not Susan," she said. "Even with her it would be

like letting you go alone. I am strong, and a good sailor too. We must

leave her here to take care of your house, as I shall leave Peggy."

 

Madam Wallingford looked at Mary Hamilton with deep love, but she lifted

her hand forbiddingly.

 

"No, no, dear child," she whispered. "I shall not think of it."

 

"There may be better news," said Mary hopefully.

 

"There will be no news, and I grudge every hour that is wasted," said

the mother, with strange fretfulness. "I have friends in England, as

you know. If I once reach an English port, the way will be easy. When

prison doors shut they do not open of themselves, in these days, but I

have some friends in mind who would have power to help me. I shall take

passage from Halifax for Bristol, if I can; if no better vessel offers,

I shall push on in the Golden Dolphin rather than court delay."

 

Mary stood smiling into her face.

 

"No, no, my dear," said Madam Wallingford again, and drew the girl

closer. "I cannot let you think of such a thing. Your young heart

speaks now, and not your wise reflection. For your brother’s sake I

could not let you go, still less for your own; it would make you seem a

traitor to your cause. You must stand in your own place."

 

"My brother is away with his troop. He begged me to leave everything

here, and go farther up the country. The burning of Falmouth made him

uneasy, and ever since he does not like my staying alone in our house," insisted Mary.