The Tory Lover 39

The Tory Lover 39

"Dear friends, it is not so bad as you think; it is because I am so full

of hope that I have come to you," she said to the anxious, kind old

faces. There was such a sweetness in the girl’s voice, and her

beautiful dress was so familiar, so belonging to the old quiet times and

happy hospitalities, that the two men felt a sharp pain of pity, and

because there was nothing else to do they came nearer to her side.

Master Sullivan looked questioningly at young Mr. Lord, but old Margery

found instinctive relief in a low, droning sort of moan, which sometimes

lifted into that Irish keening which is the voice of fear and sorrow.

She was piling all her evening fagots at once upon the fire.

 

"Speak now!" said the master. "If my old heart knows the worst, it can

begin to hope the best. What is it that could not wait for the morning

of such a night as this?"

 

"There is bad news," replied Mary; "there are letters come from the

Ranger. They have attacked a large seaport town on the coast of

England, and spread great alarm, though their chief projects were

balked. They have fought with an English frigate in the Irish Sea, and

taken her captive with some rich prizes. Roger Wallingford was left

ashore in Whitehaven. They believe on the ship that he tried to betray

his companions and warned the town; but he was badly wounded ashore, and

thrown into prison. There is a great rising of the Patriots against

Madam Wallingford, who is warned to leave the country. They threatened

her very life last night." Mary was standing now, and the quick

firelight, sprung afresh, made her look like a bright flame. The master

made a strange outcry, like a call for hidden help, and looked hastily

at the walls of the room about him, as if he sought some old familiar

weapons.

 

"I am going away with her for a time," said Mary, speaking now without

any strain or quiver in her voice. "My brother does not need me, since

he is with the army, and Mr. Lord knows our business here, if any be

left. Peggy can stand bravely for me in the house. Dear master!" and

she came close to the old man’s side; her young slender body was almost

as tall as his; she put her arm about his neck and drew down his head so

that he must look into her upturned face. "Dear master," she said, in a

low voice, "you told me once that you still had friends in England, if

the worst should come to Roger, and I think now that the worst has

come."

 

"You may bring the horses at once," said the master, turning quickly to

Mr. Lord. "Stay, Margery; you must light your old lantern and give it

him; and I would wrap you well and hold it for him to rub them off with

a wisp of thatch, and let them have a mouthful of corn to satisfy their

minds."

 

Mary felt for that one moment as if Hope were like an old frail friend

with eyes of living fire; she had known no other father than the master,

when all was said. He put her hand gently away from its unconscious

clinging hold of his shoulder, and, with a woman’s care, took the wet

cloak, as he placed her again in his own chair, and spread its dry inner

folds to the fire, so that they might warm a little.

 

Then, without speaking, he went to the shelf of books, and took from one

of them a thin packet of papers.

 

"I am an old man," he said gently. "I have been fearful of all this,

and I made ready these things, since it might some day please God to let

me die. I have heard of the fray last night, but you will find letters

here that will be of service. Come, warm you now by the fire, and put

them in the bosom of your gown. I think you will find them something

worth; but if you keep their words in your heart or near it, ’t will be

far the best. And burn them quick if there is need; but you shall read

them first, and send their messages by word of mouth, if need be.

Listen to me now; there are a few things left for me to say."

 

The girl’s face was full of a sweet relief; she did not thank him, save

with one long look, and put the packet where he had bidden her. She

looked into the fire as she listened to his counsels, and suddenly was

afraid of tears, the errand being safely done.

 

"Forgive me, sir, for this new trouble!"

 

She spoke with a different impulse and recognition from any she had

known before, and looked brave as a young soldier. This was a friend

who knew indeed the world whither she was going.

 

"Why should you not come to me?" asked the master. "’Men were born for

the aid and succor of men,’" he added with a smile. "You do not know

your Rabelais, my little lady."

 

The horses had come up; they trod the ground outside impatiently. She

knelt before the old man humbly, and he blessed her, and when she rose

she kissed him like a child, and looked long in his face, and he in

hers; then she put on her heavy cloak again, and went out into the rainy

night.

 

 

Next day, in Portsmouth, Madam Wallingford, pale and stately, and Susan,

resolute enough, but strangely apathetic, put off into the harbor from

Langdon’s wharf. They were accompanied to the shore by many friends,

whose hearts were moved at so piteous a sight. When the mistress and

maid were safe on the deck of the Golden Dolphin, Mary Hamilton stood

there before them; the beauty of her young face was like some heavenly

creature’s.

 

"I know that you said last night, when I was for bidding you farewell,

that you should see me again. I have been thinking all this morning that

you had been prevented," whispered Madam Wallingford tenderly. They

were long in each other’s arms. "I have a few things left to say; it is

impossible to remember all proper messages, at such short warning. Let

them keep the boat for Miss Hamilton, until the last moment before we

sail," she said to the captain.

 

"They are heaving up the anchor now," the captain answered. "I must not

lose this fair wind to get us out of the river."

 

Mary was impatient to speak; she cast a smiling glance at Susan, who

wore a timid look, not being used to plots, or to taking instructions

from any but her mistress.

 

"Dear friend," cried Mary then, "you must let me have my way! I could

not let you go alone. I tried to think as you bade me, but I could not.

I am going with you wherever you may go: I think it is my right. You

have short time now to give Susan your last charges, as I have given

mine to Peggy. I stay with you and Phebe with me, and Susan goes

ashore. Please God, some short weeks or months may see us sailing home

again up the river, with our errand well done!"

 

"I could not stand against them, Madam," and Susan looked more

apprehensive than triumphant, though she was grateful to Heaven to be

spared a voyage at sea. Her mistress was not one to have her own plans

set aside. "I listened well, Madam, to all you said to Rodney and the

maids. They are good girls, but they need a head over them. And I

could do nothing against Miss Mary; for Peggy, that has a love for great

ploys to be going on, and the world turned upside down, has backed her

from the first."

 

 

 

 

*XXXI*

 

*THE MILL PRISON*

 

"Lackyng my love, I goe from place to place."

 

"’Twixt every prayer he says, he names you once

As others drop a bead."

 

 

One morning late in spring the yellow primroses were still abloom on the

high moorlands above Plymouth; the chilly sea wind was blowing hard, and

the bright sunshine gave little warmth, even in a sheltered place. The

yard of the great Mill Prison was well defended by its high stockade,

but the wind struck a strong wing into it in passing, and set many a

poor half-clad man to shivering. The dreary place was crowded with

sailors taken from American ships: some forlorn faces were bleached by

long captivity, and others were still round and ruddy from recent

seafaring. There was a constant clack of sharp, angry voices. Outside

the gate was a group of idle sightseers staring in, as if these poor

Yankees were a menagerie of outlandish beasts; now and then some

compassionate man would toss a shilling between the bars, to be

pitifully scrambled for, or beckon to a prisoner who looked more

suffering than the rest. Even a south-westerly gale hardly served to

lighten the heavy air of such a crowded place, and nearly every one

looked distressed; the small-pox had blighted many a face, so that the

whole company wore a piteous look, though each new day still brought new

hopes of liberty.

 

There were small groups of men sitting close together. Some were

playing at games with pebbles and little sticks, their draughts board or

fox-and-geese lines being scratched upon the hard trodden ground. Some

were writing letters, and wondering how to make sure of sending them

across the sea. There were only two or three books to be seen in hand;

most of the prisoners were wearily doing nothing at all.

 

In one corner, a little apart from the rest, sat a poor young captain

who had lost his first command, a small trading vessel on the way to

France. He looked very downcast, and was writing slowly, a long and

hopeless letter to his wife.

 

"I now regret that I had not taken your advice and Mother’s and remained

at home instead of being a prisoner here," he had already written, and

the stiff, painfully shaped words looked large and small by turns

through his great tears. "I was five days in the prison ship. I am in

sorrow our government cares but little for her subjects. They have

nothing allowed them but what the British government gives them.

Shameful,—all other nations feels for their subjects except our Country.

There is no exchange of prisoners. It is intirely uncertain when I

return perhaps not during the war. I live but very poor, every thing is

high. I hope you have surmounted your difficulties and our child has

come a Comfort to imploy your fond attention. It is hard the loss of my

ship and difficult to bare. God bless you all. My situation is not so

bad but it might be worse. This goes by a cartel would to God I could

go with it but that happiness is denied me. It would pain your tender

heart to view the distressed seamen crowded in this filthy prison, there

is kind friends howiver in every place and some hours passed very

pleasant in spite of every lack some says the gallows or the East Indias

will be our dreadful destiny, ’t would break a stone’s heart to see good

men go so hungry we must go barefoot when our shoes is done. Some eats

the grass in the yard and picks up old bones, and all runs to snatch the

stumps of our cabbage the cooks throws out. Some makes a good soup they

say from snails a decent sort that hives about the walls, but I have not

come to this I could not go it. They says we may be scattered on the

King’s ships. I hear the bells in Plymouth Town and Dock pray God ’t is

for no victory—no I hear in closing ’t is only their new Lord Mayor coming in"—