The Tory Lover 42

The Tory Lover 42

"No, no, she would never talk of her trials; ’t was not her way,"

protested Madam Wallingford, and a shadow crossed her face. "’T was her

only happiness to forget such things. I can see her sitting in the sun

with a fescue in her hand, teaching the little children. They needed

bravery in those old days; nothing can haunt us as their fear of sudden

assault and savage cruelty must have haunted them."

 

Mary thought quickly enough of that angry mob which had so lately

gathered about her old friend’s door, but she said nothing. The Sons of

Liberty and their visit seemed to have left no permanent discomfort in

Madam’s mind. "No, no!" said the girl aloud. "We have grown so

comfortable that even war has its luxuries; they have said that a common

soldier grows dainty with his food and lodging, and the commanders are

daily fretted by such complaints."

 

"There is not much comfort to be had, poor fellows!" exclaimed Madam

Wallingford rebukingly, as if she and Mary had changed sides. "Not at

your Valley Forge, and not with the King’s troops last year in Boston.

They suffered everything, but not more than the rebels liked."

 

Mary’s cheeks grew red at the offensive word. "Do not say ’rebels’!" she

entreated. "I do not think that Mistress Hetty Goodwin would side with

Parliament, if she were living still. Think how they loved our young

country, and what they bore for it, in those early days!"

 

"’T is not to the purpose, child!" answered the old lady sharply. "They

were all for England against France and her cruel Indian allies; I meant

by ’rebels’ but a party word. Hetty Goodwin might well be of my mind;

too old to learn irreverence toward the King. I hate some of his

surrounders,—I can own to that! I hate the Bedfords, and I have but

scorn for his Lord Sandwich or for Rockingham. They are treating our

American Loyalists without justice. Sir William Howe might have had

five thousand men of us, had he made proclamation. Fifty of the best

gentlemen in Philadelphia who were for the Crown waited upon him only to

be rebuffed."

 

She checked herself quickly, and glanced at Mary, as if she were sorry

to have acknowledged so much. "Yes, I count upon Mr. Fox to stand our

friend rather than upon these! and we have Mr. Franklin, too, who is

large-minded enough to think of the colonies themselves, and to forget

their petty factious and rivalries. Let us agree, let us agree, if we

can!" and Madam Wallingford, whose dignity was not a thing to be lightly

touched, turned toward Mary with a winning smile. She knew that she

must trust herself more and more to this young heart’s patience and

kindness; yes, and to her judgment about their plans. Thank God, this

child who loved her was always at her side. With a strange impulse to

confess all these things, she put out her frail hand to Mary, and Mary,

willingly drawing a little closer, held it to her cheek. They could

best understand each other without words. The girl had a clear mind,

and had listened much to the talk of men. The womanish arguments of

Madam Wallingford always strangely confused her.

 

"Mr. Franklin will ever be as young at heart as he is old in years,"

said the lady presently, with the old charm of her manner, and all

wistfulness and worry quite gone from her face. She had been

strengthened by Mary’s love in the failing citadel of her heart. "’Tis

Mr. Franklin’s most noble gift that he can keep in sympathy with the

thoughts and purposes of younger men. Age is wont to be narrow and to

depend upon certainties of the past, while youth has its easily gathered

hopes and quick intuitions. Mr. Franklin is both characters at once,—as

sanguine as he is experienced. I knew him well; he will be the same man

now, and as easy a courtier as he was then content with his thrift and

prudence. I trust him among the first of those who can mend our present

troubles.

 

"I beg you not to think that I am unmindful of our wrongs in the

colonies, Mary, my dear," she added then, in a changed voice. "’T is

but your foolish way of trying to mend them that has grieved me,—you who

call yourselves the Patriots!"

 

Mary smiled again and kept silence, but with something of a doubtful

heart. She did not wish to argue about politics, that sunny day on the

sea. No good could come of it, though she had a keen sense that her

companion’s mind was now sometimes unsettled from its old prejudices and

firm beliefs. The captain was a stanch Royalist, who believed that the

rebels were sure to be put down, and that no sensible man should find

himself left in the foolish situation of a King’s antagonist, or suffer

the futility of such defeat.

 

"Will Mistress Davis look like her mother, do you think?" Mary again

bethought herself to return to the simpler subject of their

conversation.

 

"Yes, no doubt; they had the same brave eyes and yet strangely timid

look. ’T is a delicate, frail, spirited face. Our cousin Davis would

be white-headed now; she was already gray in her twenties, when I last

saw her. It sometimes seems but the other day. They said that Mistress

Goodwin came home from Canada with her hair as white as snow. Yes,

their eyes were alike; but the daughter had a Goodwin look, small

featured and neatly made, as their women are. She could hold to a

purpose and was very capable, and had wonderful quickness with figures;

’t is common to the whole line. Mistress Hetty, the mother, had a

pleasing gentleness, but great dignity; she was born of those who long

had been used to responsibility and the direction of others."

 

Mary laughed a little. "When you say ’capable,’ it makes me think of

old Peggy, at home," she explained. "One day, not long ago, I was in

the spinning room while we chose a pattern for the new table linen, and

she had a child there with her; you know that Peggy is fond of a little

guest. There had been talk of a cake, and the child was currying favor

lest she should be forgotten.

 

"’Mrs. Peggy,’ she piped, ’my aunt Betsey says as how you ’re a very

capering woman!’

 

"’What, what?’ says Peggy. ’Your aunt Betsey, indeed, you mite! Oh, I

expect ’t was capable she meant,’ Peggy declared next moment, a little

pacified, and turned to me with a lofty air. ’Can’t folks have an

English tongue in their heads?’ she grumbled; but she ended our high

affairs then, and went off to the kitchen with the child safe in hand."

 

"I can see her go!" and Madam Wallingford laughed too, easily pleased

with the homely tale.

 

"Ah, but we must not laugh; it hurts my poor heart even to smile," she

whispered. "My dear son is in prison, we know not where, and I have

been forgetting him when I can laugh. I know not if he be live or dead,

and we are so far from him, tossing in the midseas. Oh, what can two

women like us do in England, in this time of bitterness, if the

Loyalists are reckoned but brothers of the rebels? I dreamed it was all

different till we heard such tales in Halifax."

 

"We shall find many friends, and we need never throw away our hope,"

said Mary Hamilton soothingly. "And Master Sullivan bade me remember

with his last blessing that God never makes us feel our weakness except

to lead us to seek strength from Him. ’T was the saying of his old

priest, the Abbé Fénelon."

 

They sat silent together; the motion of the ship was gentle enough, and

the western breeze was steady. It seemed like a quiet night again; the

sun was going down, and there was a golden light in the thick web of

rigging overhead, and the gray sails were turned to gold color.

 

"It is I who should be staying you, dear child," whispered Madam

Wallingford, putting out her hand again and resting it on Mary’s

shoulder, "but you never fail to comfort me. I have bitterly reproached

myself many and many a day for letting you follow me; ’t is like the

book of Ruth, which always brought my tears as I read it. I am far

happier here with you than I have been many a day at home in my lonely

house. I need wish for a daughter’s love no more. I sometimes forget

even my great sorrow and my fear of our uncertainty, and dread the day

when we shall come to land. I wish I were not so full of fears. Yet I

do not think God will let me die till I have seen my son."

 

Mary could not look just then at her old friend’s fragile figure and

anxious face; she had indeed taken a great charge upon herself, and a

weakness stole over her own heart that could hardly be borne. What

difficulties and disappointments were before them God only knew.

 

 

"Dear child," said Madam Wallingford, whose eyes were fixed upon Mary’s

unconscious face, "is it your dreams that keep your heart so light? I

wish that you could share them with the heavy-hearted like me! All this

long winter you have shown a heavenly patience; but your face was often

sad, and this has grieved me. I have thought since we came to sea that

you have been happier than you were before."

 

"’T was not the distresses that we all knew; something pained me that I

could not understand. Now it troubles me no more," and Mary looked at

the questioner with a frank smile.

 

"I am above all a hater of curious questions," insisted the lady. But

Mary did not turn her eyes away, and smiled again.

 

"I can hold myself to silence," said Madam Wallingford. "I should not

have spoken but for the love and true interest of my heart; ’twas not a

vulgar greed of curiosity that moved me. I am thankful enough for your

good cheer; you have left home and many loving cares, and have come with

me upon this forced and anxious journey as if it were but a holiday."

 

Mary bent lower over her sewing.

 

"Now that we have no one but each other I should be glad to put away one

thought that has distressed me much," confessed the mother, and her

voice trembled. "You have never said that you had any word from Roger.

Surely there is no misunderstanding between you? I have sometimes

feared— Oh, remember that I am his mother, Mary! He has not written

even to me in his old open fashion; there has been a difference, as if

the great distance had for once come between our hearts; but this last

letter was from his own true heart, from his very self! The knowledge

that he was not happy made me fearful, and yet I cannot brook the

thought that he has been faithless, galling though his hasty oath may

have been to him. Oh no, no! I hate myself for speaking so dark a

thought as this. My son is a man of high honor." She spoke proudly,

yet her anxious face was drawn with pain.

 

Mary laid down her piece of linen, and clasped her hands together

strongly in her lap. There was something deeply serious in her

__EXPRESSION__, as she gazed off upon the sea.

 

"It is all right now," she said presently, speaking very simply, and not

without effort. "I have been grieved for many weeks, ever since the

first letters came. I had no word at all from Roger, and we had been

such friends. The captain wrote twice to me, as I told you; his letters

were the letters of a gentleman, and most kind. I could be sure that

there was no trouble between them, as I feared sometimes at first," and

the bright color rushed to her face. "It put me to great anxiety; but

the very morning before we sailed a letter came from Roger. I could not

bring myself to speak of it then; I can hardly tell you now."