The Tory Lover 50

The Tory Lover 50

"Captain Paul Jones," she said, rising quickly to confront him, "I beg

you to tell me everything. I cannot believe that Roger Wallingford is a

traitor, and I love his mother almost as if she were my own. I came to

England with her of my own wish and free will, and because it was my

right to come. Will you tell me plainly what has happened, and why you

do not take his part?"

 

The captain’s quick change from such deep sympathy as he had shown for

her tears to a complete scorn of their cause could only give a sad shock

to Mary Hamilton’s heart. He was no helper, after all. There came a

dizzy bewilderment like a veil over her mind; it seemed as if she felt

the final blow of Fate. She had not known how far she had spent her

strength, or how her very homesickness had weakened her that day.

 

"I fear it is true enough that he betrayed us at Whitehaven," said Paul

Jones slowly, and not unmindful of her piteous look. "I could not bring

myself to doubt him at first; indeed, I was all for him. I believe that

I trusted him above every man on board. I was his champion until I

found he had been meddling with my papers,—my most secret dispatches,

too; yes, I have proof of this! And since then some of the stolen pages

have found their way into our enemies’ hands. He has not only betrayed

me, but his country too; and worst of all in men’s eyes, he has sinned

against the code of honor. Yet there is one thing I will and must

remember: ’t is never the meanest men who serve their chosen cause as

spies. The pity is that where success may be illustrious, the business

asks completest sacrifice, and failure is the blackest disgrace. ’Tis

Wallingford’s reward. I loved him once, and now I could stand at the

gallows and see him hanged! Perhaps he would say that he acted from

high motives,—’t is ever a spy’s excuse; but I trusted him, and he would

have ruined me."

 

"I do not believe that he is guilty," declared Mary Hamilton, with

perfect calmness, though she had drawn back in horror as she heard the

last words and saw such blazing anger in Paul Jones’s eyes. "You must

look elsewhere for your enemy," she insisted,—"for some other man whose

character would not forbid such acts as these. If Roger Wallingford has

broken his oath of allegiance, my faith in character is done; I have

known him all my life, and I can answer for him. Believe me, there is

some mistake." Her eyes did not fall; as the captain held them straight

and answerable with his own she met the challenge of his look, and there

came a beautiful glow of pity and gentleness upon her face.

 

The captain gave a long sigh.

 

"I am sure that you are mistaken," she said again, quietly, since he did

not speak. "We are now in great trouble, and even despair, about Mr.

Wallingford, and have been able to get no word from him. We have his

pardon in hand; it would make you wonder if I told you how it came to

us. Your lieutenant was left most cruelly wounded on the shore at

Whitehaven, and was like to die on the long journey to Plymouth jail

where they sent him. How he has lived through all his sufferings I do

not know. I have seen the Mill Prison, myself; they would not even let

us speak with those who knew him among our poor captives. The night

before we reached the prison he had escaped; there were some men shot

down who were of his party. We can get no trace of him at all. Whether

he is dead on the great moors, or still alive and wandering in distress,

no one can tell. This does not look as if he were a spy for England; it

were easy to give himself up, and to prove such a simple thing, if only

to be spared such misery. I am afraid that his mother will soon fade out

of life, now that, after all these weeks, she believes him dead. She

thought he would return with us, when she saw us ride away to Plymouth,

and the disappointment was more than she could bear."

 

The bitter memory of that morning at the Mill Prison was like a sword in

Mary’s heart, and she stopped; she had spoken quickly, and was now

trembling from head to foot. "I thought, when I saw your face, that you

would know how to help us find him," she said sorrowfully, under her

breath.

 

"If I have been wrong," exclaimed the captain, "if I have been wrong, I

should give my life to make amends! But all the proofs were there. I

even found a bit of one of my own papers among his effects,—’t was in a

book he had been reading. But I hid the matter from every one on board;

I could not bear they should know it. Dickson’s word was their mainstay

at first; but that counted worse than nothing to me, till there were

other matters which fully upheld his account."

 

"Dickson has always been a man mistrusted and reproached," protested

Miss Hamilton, with indignation. "There is a man for you whose

character would not forbid such treachery! You must know, too, that he

has a deep hatred for the Wallingfords, and would spare no pains to

revenge himself."

 

The captain stood doubtful and dismayed. "I have gone over this sad

matter by day and by night," he said; "I do not see where I could be

mistaken. I went to the bottom of my evidence without regard to

Dickson, and I found proof enough. I hate that man, and distrust him,

yet I can find little fault with his service on the ship; and when I

have been surest of catching him in a lie, he always proves to have told

the exact truth, and wears a martyr’s air, and is full of his cursed

cant and talk of piety. Alas, I know not what can be done at this late

day."

 

"Did you never think that Dickson could put many a proof like your bit

of paper where your eyes alone could fall upon it?" asked Mary. "I

remember well that he has tried more than once to cast blame upon others

when he himself was the sinner. He has plenty of ability; ’t is his bad

use of it that one may always fear."

 

The captain moved restlessly, as if conscious of her accusation. "Many

believed Wallingford to be a Tory on the ship," he answered. "They were

jealous and suspicious of his presence; but Dickson, who has warped

Simpson’s honest mind against me, may also have set his energies to

this. If we could only find Wallingford! If we could only hear his own

story of that night! In all this time he should have sent some word to

me, if he were innocent. If I were free, I’d soon know what they

learned from him in the prison; he must have spoken openly with some of

the Portsmouth men who are there. What can we do?" the speaker ended,

in a different tone altogether, making a direct appeal to Mary. "If I

have fallen a dupe to such a man as Dickson in this matter, I shall

never recover from the shame. You would never forgive me. Alas, how

can I ask the question that my heart prompts! You are most unhappy,"

said Paul Jones, with exquisite compassion. "Is it because of

Wallingford alone? Oh, Mary, is there no hope for me? You have had my

letters? You cannot but remember how we parted!"

 

She looked at him imploringly.

 

"Tell me," said the captain. "I must ask a question that is very hard

for me. I believe that you love this unfortunate officer, and desire

his safety beyond everything else. Is it not true?"

 

Mary waited only a moment before she spoke.

 

"Yes, it is true," she said then. "I know now that we have always

belonged to each other."

 

"Alas for my own happiness!" said the captain, looking at her. "I

thought when we parted that last night"— He groaned, his words

faltering. "Oh, that I had only spoken! Glory has been a jealous

mistress to me, and I dared not speak; I feared ’t would cost me all her

favor, if my thoughts were all for you. It seems a lifetime ago. I

could throw my hope of glory down at your feet now, if it were any use.

I can do nothing without love. Oh, Mary, must you tell me that it is

too late?"

 

The captain’s voice made poignant outcry to the listener’s heart. The

air seemed to quiver in strange waves, and the walls of the abbey seemed

to sway unsteadily. The strong, determined soul before her was pleading

for an impossible happiness. Even better than he could know, she knew

that he lacked a woman’s constant love and upholding, and that, with all

his noble powers, his life tended toward ruin and disappointment. She

stood there, white and wistful; her compassionate heart was shaken with

pity for his loneliness.

 

There was a change on the man’s dark face; he took one step toward her,

and then was conscious of a strange separation between them. Mary did

not move, she did not speak; she stood there as a ghost might stand by

night to pity the troubles of men. She knew, with a woman’s foresight,

the difference it would make if she could only stand with love and

patience by his side.

 

"There must be some one to love you as it is in your heart to love," she

told him then. "God bless you and give you such a happiness! You are

sure to find each other in this sad world. I know you will! I know you

will!"

 

One of the great bells began to ring in the tower, and its vibrations

jarred her strangely; she could hardly hinder herself now from a new

outburst of tears, and could not think clearly any more, and was

trembling with weakness.

 

"I must go home if I can," she whispered, but her voice was very low.

"I cannot get home alone— No, no, I must not let you be so kind!"

 

He placed her gently on the stone bench, and she leaned back heavily

with his arm about her, thankful for some protecting affection in her

brief bewilderment. She could not but hear his pitying, endearing words

as her faintness passed; the poor girl was so breathless and weak that

she could only throw herself upon his mercy. There was even an

unexpected comfort in his presence,—she had been so much alone with

strangers; she forgot everything save that he was a friend of her

happier days. And as for the captain, he had held her in his arms, she

had turned to him with touching readiness in her distress; nothing could

ever rob his heart of the remembrance.

 

He watched her with solicitude as her color came back, and lingered

until he saw that she was herself again. They must part quickly, for he

could not venture to be seen with her in the open streets.

 

"You have convinced me that I may have been wrong about Wallingford," he

said impulsively. "I shall now do my best to aid you and to search the

matter out. I shall see you again. Your happiness will always be very

dear to me. I can but thank Heaven for our being here together, though

I have only added something to your pain. Perhaps these troubles may

not be far from their solution, and I shall see you soon in happier hours."