The Tory Lover 49

The Tory Lover 49

There was some relief in finding herself afoot in the fresh air. For

the first time she wondered if they must yield all their hopes and think

of going home. It must be so if they should come to know that Roger was

really dead, and her heart stopped as if with a sudden shock. Alas,

next moment she remembered that for poor Madam Wallingford there was no

safe return; her son was not yet disproven of Tory crimes. If there were

any chance of sailing, the poor lady was far too ill and feeble in these

last days. The summer, the little that was left of it, looked long and

dreary; the days were already growing short. There had not come a word

from home since they sailed.

 

There was no longer much use in riding abroad on futile quests, and in

these last days most persons had ceased to ask if there were any news of

the lieutenant. Week after week had gone by, and his mother’s proud

courage was gone, while her bodily strength was fast failing. Lord

Newburgh and Mr. Fairfax, even Lord Mount Edgecumbe himself, had shown

very great kindness in so difficult a matter, and Mary never let them go

away unthanked for any favors which it could only be a happiness for any

man to bestow. The gift and spell of beauty were always hers, and a

heart that was always ready to show both gratitude and affection. She

might not speak these things, but she was instant in giving the sweetest

recognition to the smallest service that she might discover.

 

The abbey church of St. Augustine was cool and dim as Mary Hamilton went

in, with a drooping head and a heavy heart. Her courage had never

before seemed so utterly to fail. She had passed two forlorn Royalists

at the gatehouse who were talking of their pensions, and heard one of

them say, "If I were safe home again I’d never leave it, principles or

no principles!" and the words rang dull and heavy in her ears. She sat

down on an old stone bench in the side aisle; the light came sifting

down to the worn stone pavement, but she was in shadow, behind a great

pillar that stood like a monstrous tree to hold the lofty roof. There

was no one in sight. The lonely girl looked up at a familiar old

Jacobean monument on the wall, with the primly ruffed father and mother

kneeling side by side with clasped hands, and their children kneeling in

a row behind them down to the very least, in a pious little succession.

They were all together there in comfortable safety, and many ancient

tablets covered the walls about them with the names and virtues of

soldiers and sailors, priests and noblemen, and gallant gentlemen of Old

England with their children and their good wives.

 

"They have all won through," whispered Mary to herself. "They have all

fought the long battle and have carried care like me, and they have all

won through. I shall not be a coward, either," and her young heart

rose; but still the tears kept coming, and she sat bowed in the shadow

and could not lift her head, which until lately had faced the sun like a

flower. She sat there, at last, not thinking of her present troubles,

but of home: of old Peggy and the young maids who often sang at their

pleasant work; the great river at full tide, with its wooded shores and

all its points and bays; the fishing weirs in the distance; the slow,

swaying flight of the eagles and the straight course of the herons

overhead. She thought of the large, quiet house facing southward, and

its rows of elms, and the slender poplars going down the garden

terraces; she even heard the drone of the river falls; she saw the house

standing empty, all the wide doors shut to their old hospitality. A

sense of awful distance fell upon her heart. The responsibility and

hopelessness of her errand were too heavy on her young heart. She

covered her face and bent still lower, but she could not stop her tears.

 

There came the sound of footsteps up the nave: it might be the old

verger in his rusty gown, or some sightseer stopping here and there to

read an inscription. Poor Mary’s tears would have their way: to one of

her deep nature weeping was sad enough in itself; to cry for sorrow’s

sake was no common sorrow. She was safe in her dim corner, and thought

little of being seen; she was only a poor girl in sore trouble, with her

head sunk in her hands, who could not in any way concern a stranger.

The wandering footsteps stopped near by, instead of going on and

entering the choir. She noticed, then, in a dull way, the light echo of

their sound among the arches overhead.

 

"My God!" said a man’s voice, as if in great dismay.

 

The speaker stepped quickly to Mary’s side, and laid his hand gently on

her shoulder. She looked up into the face of Captain Paul Jones of the

Ranger.

 

 

 

 

*XXXIX*

 

*MERCY AND MANLY COURAGE*

 

"Look on his honour!

That bears no stamp of time, no wrinkles on it;

No sad demolishment nor death can reach it."

 

"O my dear better Angel and my star,

My earthly sight needs yours, your heavenly, mine!"

 

 

The captain’s eyes were full of tears; it was no sign that he lacked

manliness. To find Miss Hamilton in England, to find her alone and in

piteous despair, was the opportunity of his own heart. He could not but

be startled into wondering silence; the event was too astonishing even

for one so equal to emergencies; but he stood ready, with beating heart

and sure sense of a man’s abundant strength, to shelter her and to fight

against the thing that troubled her, whatever it might be. Presently he

seated himself by Mary’s side, and took her hand in his and held it

fast, still without speaking. She was the better for such friendliness,

and yet wept the more for his very sympathy.

 

The captain waited until her passion of tears had spent itself. It was

a pity she could not watch his compassionate face; all that was best and

kindest in the man was there to see, with a grave look born of conflict

and many grievous disappointments. To see Paul Jones now, one could not

but believe him capable of the sternest self-command; he had at least

the unassuming and quiet pride of a man who knows no master save

himself. His eyes were full of womanly tenderness as he looked down at

the pathetic bowed head beside him. Next moment they had a keen

brightness as he caught sight of a tablet on the abbey wall to some

Bristol hero long dead,—the gallant servant, through many perils by sea

and land, of Anne his Queen: it was a record that the captain’s heart

could perfectly understand.

 

"Calm yourself now, my dearest girl," he said at last, with gentle

authority. "I must not stay long beside you; I am always in danger

here. I was not unknown in Bristol as a younger man."

 

Mary lifted her head; for a moment the sight of his face helped to put

her own miseries quite out of mind. Her ready sympathy was quickly

enough roused when she saw how Paul Jones had changed. He had grown much

older; years might have passed instead of months since that last evening

he had spent in America, when she had seen him go away with his men by

moonlight down the river. Now more than ever he might easily win the

admiration of a woman’s heart! She had half forgotten the charm of his

voice, the simple directness of his eyes and their strange light, with

something in his behavior that men called arrogance and willful rivalry,

and women recognized as a natural royalty and irresistible, compelling

power. To men he was too imperious, to women all gentleness and

courtesy.

 

"You are in disguise!" she exclaimed, amazed at his courage. "How do

you dare, even you, to be here in Bristol in broad day?" and she found

herself smiling, in spite of her unchecked tears. The captain held a

rough woolen cap in his hand; he was dressed in that poor garb of the

hungry Spanish sailor of Quiberon, which had so often done him good

service.

 

"Tell me what has brought you here," he answered. "That is by far the

greatest wonder. I am no fit figure to sit beside you, but ’t is the

hand of God that has brought us here together. Heaven forbid that you

should ever shed such bitter tears again!" he said devoutly, and sat

gazing at her like a man in a day dream.

 

"Sometimes God wills that we shall be sorry-hearted; but when He sends

the comfort of a friend, God himself can do no more," answered the girl,

and there fell a silence between them. There was a sparrow flying to

and fro among the pillars, and chirping gayly under the high roof,—a

tiny far-fallen note, and full of busy cheer. The late summer sunshine

lay along the floor of that ancient house of God where Mary and the

captain sat alone together, and there seemed to be no other soul in the

place.

 

Her face was shining brighter and brighter; at last, at last she could

know the truth, and hear what had happened at Whitehaven, and ask for

help where help could be surely given.

 

"But why are you here? You must indeed be bold, my lord captain!" she

ventured again, in something very like the old gay manner that he knew;

yet she still looked very white, except for her tear-stained eyes.

"There were new tales of your seafaring told in the town only yesterday.

I believe they are expecting you in every corner of England at once, and

every flock of their shipping is dreading a sight of the Sea Wolf."

 

"I do my own errands,—that is all," replied the captain soberly. "My

poor Ranger is lying now in the port of Brest. I am much hampered by

enemies, but I shall presently break their nets.... I was for a look at

their shipping here, and how well they can defend it. There is a

well-manned, able fish-boat out of Roscoff, on the Breton coast, which

serves me well on these expeditions. I have a plan, later, for doing

great mischief to their Baltic fleet. I had to bring the worst of my

ship’s company with me; ’t is my only discomfort," said Paul Jones, with

bitterness. "I have suffered far too much," and he sighed heavily and

changed his tone. "I believe now that God’s providence has brought me

to your side; such happiness as this makes up for everything. You

remember that I have been a sailor all my life," he continued, as if he

could not trust himself to speak with true feeling. "I have been

acquainted since childhood with these English ports."

 

"You did not know that I had come to Bristol?" said Mary. "Oh yes, we

have been here these many weeks now," and she also sighed.

 

"How should I know?" asked Paul Jones impatiently. "I am overwhelmed by

such an amazing discovery. I could burst into tears; I am near to being

unmanned, though you do not suspect it. Think, dear, think what it is

to me! I have no discretion, either, when I babble my most secret

affairs aloud, and hardly know what I am saying. I must leave you in a

few short moments. What has brought you here? Tell me the truth, and

how I may safely manage to see you once again. If you were only in

France, with my dear ladies there, they would love and cherish you with

all their kind hearts! ’T is the Duchess of Chartres who has been my

good angel since I came to France, and another most exquisite being whom

I first met at her house,—a royal princess, too. Oh, I have much to

tell you! Their generous friendship and perfect sympathy alone have

kept me from sinking down. I have suffered unbelievable torture from

the jealousy and ignorance of men who should have known their business

better, and given me every aid."

 

"I am thankful you have such friends as these ladies," said Mary, with

great sweetness. "I am sure that you have been a good friend to them.

Some knowledge of your difficulties had reached us before we left home;

but, as you know, intercourse is now much interrupted, and we were often

uncertain of what had passed at such a distance. We hear nothing from

home, either," she added mournfully. "We are in great distress of mind;

you could see that I was not very cheerful.... I fear in my heart that

poor Madam Wallingford will die."

 

"Madam Wallingford!" repeated the captain. "You cannot mean that she is

here!" he exclaimed, with blank astonishment. His tone was full of

reproach, and even resentment. "Poor lady! I own that I have had her

in my thoughts, and could not but pity her natural distress," he added,

with some restraint, and then burst forth into excited speech: "There is

no need that they should make a tool of you,—you who are a Patriot and

Hamilton’s own sister! This is arrant foolishness!"

 

He sprang to his feet, and stood before Miss Hamilton, with his eyes

fixed angrily upon her face. "If I could tell you everything! Oh, I am

outdone with this!" he cried, with a gesture of contempt.