The Tory Lover 38

The Tory Lover 38

"There is knowledge enough of the riches of this river, among seamen of

the English ports," acknowledged Madam Wallingford. "In Portsmouth

there are many friends of England who will not be molested, though all

our leaders are gone. Still I know that an attack upon our region has

long been feared," she ended wistfully.

 

"I told my brother that I should not leave home until there was really

such danger; we should always have warning if the enemy came on the

coast. If they burnt our house or plundered it, then I should go

farther up the country. I told Jack," continued Mary, with flushing

cheeks, "that I did not mean to leave you; and he knew I meant it, but

he was impatient, too. ’I have well-grown timber that will build a

hundred houses,’ he answered me, and was rough-spoken as to the house,

much as he loves it,—’but I shall not have one moment’s peace while I

think you are here alone. Yet, you must always look to Madam

Wallingford,’ he said more than once."

 

"Go now, my dear child; send me Susan, who is no doubt dallying in the

kitchen!" commanded the mistress abruptly. "I must not lose a minute of

this day. You must do as your brother bade you; but as for doing the

thing which would vex him above everything else,—I cannot listen to more

words. I see that you are for going home this morning; can you soon

return to me, when you have ordered your affairs? You can help me in

many small matters, and we shall be together to the last. I could not

take you with me, darling," she said affectionately. "’T was my love

for you—no, I ought to say ’t was my own poor selfishness—that tempted

my heart for the moment. Now we must think of it no more, either of us.

You have no fellowship with those to whom I go; you are no Loyalist,"

and she even smiled as she spoke. "God bless you for such dear kindness,

Mary. I think I love you far too much to let you go with me."

 

Mary’s face was turned away, and she made no answer; then she left her

friend’s side, wondering at the firm decision and strong authority which

had returned in this time of sorrow and danger. It frightened her, this

flaring up of what had seemed such a failing light of life. It was

perhaps wasting to no purpose the little strength that remained.

 

She stood at the window to look down the river, and saw the trampled

ground below; it seemed as if the last night’s peril were but the peril

of a dream. The fruit-trees were coming into bloom: a young

cherry-tree, not far away, was white like a little bride, and the

pear-trees were ready to follow; their buds were big, and the white

petals showing. It was high water; the tide had just turned toward the

ebb, and there were boats going down the river to Portsmouth, in the

usual fashion, to return with the flood. There was a large gundalow

among them, with its tall lateen sail curved to the morning breeze. Of

late the river had sometimes looked forsaken, so many men were gone to

war, and this year the fields would again be half tilled at best, by

boys and women. To country eyes, there was a piteous lack of the

pleasant hopefulness of new-ploughed land on the river farms.

 

"There are many boats going down to-day," reported Mary, in her usual

tone; "they will be for telling the news of last night at the wharves in

Portsmouth. There will be a fine, busy crowd on the Parade."

 

Then she sighed heavily; she was in the valley of decision; she felt as

if she were near to tearing herself from this dear landscape and from

home,—that she was on the brink of a great change. She could not but

shrink from such a change and loss.

 

She returned from her outlook to Madam Wallingford’s side.

 

"I must not interrupt your business. I will not press you, either,

against your will. I shall soon come back, and then you will let me

help you and stay with you, as you said. When will your brig be ready?"

 

"She is ready to sail now, and only waits her clearance papers; the

captain was here yesterday morning. She is the Golden Dolphin, as I have

already told you, and has often lain here at our river wharves; a very

good, clean vessel, with two lodgings for passengers. I have sent word

that I shall come on board to-morrow; she waits in the stream by

Badger’s Island."

 

"And you must go from here"—

 

"To-night. I have already ordered my provision for the voyage. Rodney

went down on the gundalow before you were awake, and he will know very

well what to do; this afternoon I shall send many other things by boat."

 

"I was awake," said Mary softly, "but I hoped that you were resting"—

 

"If the seas are calm, as may happen, I shall not go to Halifax,"

confessed the other; "I shall push on for Bristol. Our cousin Davis is

there, and the Russells, and many other friends. The brig is

timber-laden; if we should be captured"—

 

"By which side?" laughed Mary, and a sad gleam of answering humor

flitted over Madam Wallingford’s face.

 

"Oh, we forget that my poor child may be dead already!" she cried, with

sharp agony, next moment. "I think and think of his hurting wounds. No

pity will be shown a man whom they take to be a spy!" and she was shaken

by a most piteous outburst of tears.

 

Then Mary, as if the heart in her own young breast were made of love

alone, tried to comfort Madam Wallingford. It was neither the first

time nor the last.

 

 

 

 

*XXX*

 

*MADAM GOES TO SEA*

 

"The paths to a true friend lie direct, though he be far away."

 

 

The bright day had clouded over, and come to a wet and windy spring

night. It was past eight o’clock; the darkness had early fallen. There

was a sense of comfort in a dry roof and warm shelter, as if it were

winter weather, and Master Sullivan and old Margery had drawn close to

their warm fireplace. The master was in a gay mood and talkative, and

his wife was at her usual business of spinning, stepping to and fro at a

large whirring wheel. To spin soft wool was a better trade for evening

than the clacking insistence of the little wheel with its more demanding

flax. Margery was in her best mood, and made a most receptive and

admiring audience.

 

"Well, may God keep us!" she exclaimed, at the end of a story. "’T was

as big a row as when the galleries fell in Smock Alley theatre. I often

heard of that from my poor father."

 

Master Sullivan was pleased with his success; Margery was not always so

easy to amuse, but he was in no mind for a conflict. Something had made

his heart ache that day, and now her love and approval easily rescued

him from his own thought; so he went on, as if his fortunes depended

upon Margery’s favor and frankly expressed amusement.

 

"One night there was a long-legged apprentice boy to a French

upholsterer; this was in London, and I a lad myself stolen over there

from Paris with a message for Charles Radcliffe. He had great leanings

toward the stage, this poor boy, and for the pride of his heart got the

chance to play the ghost in Hamlet at Covent Garden. Well, it was then

indeed you might see him at the heighth of life and parading in his

pasteboard armor. ’Mark me!’ says he, with a voice as if you’d thump

the sides of a cask. ’_I’ll mark you!_’ cries his master from the pit,

and he le’pt on the stage and was after the boy to kill him; and all the

lads were there le’pt after him to take his part; and they held off the

master, and set the ghost in his place again, the poor fellow; and they

said he did his part fine, and creeped every skin that was there. He’d

a great night; never mind the beating that fell to him afterward!"

 

The delighted listener shook with silent laughter.

 

"’T was like the time poor Denny Delane was in Dublin. I was there but

the one winter myself," continued the master. "He came of a fine

family, but got stage-struck, and left Trinity College behind him like a

last year’s bird’s nest. Every woman in Dublin, old and young, was

crazy after him. There were plays bespoke, and the fashion there every

night, all sparked with diamonds, and every officer in his fine uniform.

There was great dressing with the men as you’d never see them now: my

Lord Howth got a fancy he’d dress like a coachman, wig and all; and Lord

Trimlestown was always in scarlet when he went abroad, and my Lord

Gormanstown in blue. Oh, but they were the pictures coming in their

coaches! You would n’t see any officer out of his uniform, or a doctor

wanting his lace ruffles! ’T was my foolish young self borrowed all the

lace from my poor mother that she’d lend me, and I but a boy; and then

I’d go help myself out of her boxes, when she’d gone to mass. She’d a

great deal of beautiful lace, and knew every thread of it by heart. I

’ve a little piece yet that was sewed under a waistcoat. Go get it now,

and we ’ll look at it; ’t is laid safe in that second book from the end

of the shelf. You may give it to the little lady, when I ’m gone, for a

remembrance; ’t is the only—ah, well; I ’ve nothing else in the world

but my own poor self that ever belonged to my dear mother!"

 

The old master’s voice grew very sad, and all his gayety was gone.

 

"’Deed, then, Miss Mary Hamilton ’ll get none of it, and you having a

daughter of your own!" scolded Margery, instantly grown as fierce as he

was sad. Sometimes the only way to cure the master of his dark sorrows

was to make him soothe her own anger. But this night he did not laugh at

her, though she quarreled with fine determination.

 

"Oh me!" groaned the master. "Oh me, the fool I was!" and he struck his

knee with a hopeless hand, as he sat before the fire.

 

"God be good to us!" mourned old Margery, "and I a lone child sent to a

strange country without a friend to look to me, and yourself taking

notice of me on the ship; ’t was the King I thought you were, and you’d

rob me now of all that. Well, I was no fit wife for a great gentleman;

I always said it, too. I loved you as I don’t know how to love my God,

but I must ask for nothing!"

 

The evening’s pleasure was broken; the master could bear anything better

than her poor whimpering voice.

 

"You look at a poor man as if he were the front of a cathedral," he

chided her, again trying to be merry. But at this moment they were both

startled into silence; they both heard the heavy tread of horses before

the house.

 

"Come in, come in, whoever you are!" shouted Master Sullivan, as he

threw open the outer door. "Are ye lost on the road, that ye seek light

and lodging here?"

 

The horses would not stand; the night was dark as a dungeon; the heavy

rain blew in the old man’s face. His heart beat fast at the sound of a

woman’s voice.

 

"By great Jupiter, and all the gods! what has brought you here, Mary

Hamilton, my dear child?" he cried. "Is there some attack upon the

coast? ’T is the hand of war or death has struck you!"

 

The firelight shone upon Mary’s face as she entered, but the wind and

rain had left no color there; it was a wan face, that masked some high

resolve, and forbade either comment or contradiction. She took the

chair to which the master led her, and drew a long breath, as if to

assure herself of some steadiness of speech.

 

A moment later, her faithful friend, Mr. John Lord, opened the door

softly, and came in also. His eyes looked troubled, but he said nothing

as he stood a little way behind the others in the low room; the rain

dropped heavily from his long coat to the floor. The Sullivans stood at

either side the fireplace watching the pale lady who was their guest.

John Sullivan himself it was who unclasped her wet riding cloak and

threw it back upon the chair; within she wore a pretty gown of soft

crimson silk with a golden thread in it, that had come home in one of

her brother’s ships from Holland. The rain had stained the breast of it

where the riding cloak had blown apart; the strange living dyes of the

East were brightened by the wet. The two old people started back, they

believed that she had sought them because she was hurt to death. She

lifted her hand forbiddingly; her face grew like a child’s that was striving against tears.