The Tory Lover 54

The Tory Lover 54

THEY FOLLOW THE DIKE*

 

"There’s not a fibre in my trembling frame

That does not vibrate when thy step draws near."

 

 

Early in the morning of that day, when Mr. John Davis had been returning

from a brief visit to his counting-room, he was surprised at being run

against by a disreputable looking fellow, who dashed out of a dirty

alley, and disappeared again as quickly, after putting a letter into his

hand. The alderman turned, irate, to look after this lawless person,

and then marched on with offended dignity up the hill. When he had

turned a safe corner he stopped, and, holding his stout cane under his

arm, proceeded to unfold the paper. He had received threats before in

this fashion, like all magistrates or town officials; some loose fellow

warned off, or a smuggler heavily fined, would now and then make threats

against the authorities.

 

The letter in his hand proved to be of another sort. It might be dingy

without, but within the handwriting was that of a gentleman.

 

"Dear Sir," he read slowly, "my father’s old friend and mine,—I ask your

kind assistance in a time of great danger, and even distress. I shall

not venture to Bristol before I have your permission. I am late from

prison, where I was taken from an American frigate. At last I have

found a chance to get to Chippenham market as a drover, and I hope to

reach Old Passage Inn (where I was once in your company) early in the

night on Friday. Could you come or send to meet me there, if it is

safe? I know or guess your own principles, but for the sake of the past

I think you will give what aid he needs to Roger W——, of Piscataqua, in

New England. Your dear lady, my kinswoman, will not forget the boy to

whom she was ever kind, nor will you, dear sir, I believe. I can tell

you everything, if we may meet. What I most desire is to get to France,

where I may join my ship. This goes by a safe hand."

 

The reader struck his cane to the sidewalk, and laughed aloud.

 

"What will little missy say to this?" he said, as he marched off. "I

’ll hurry on to carry her the news!"

 

Miss Hamilton ran out to meet the smiling old man, as she saw him coming

toward the house, and was full of pretty friendliness before he could

speak.

 

"You were away before I was awake," she said, "and I have been watching

for you this half hour past, sir. First, you must know that dear Madam

Wallingford is better than for many days, and has been asking for you to

visit her, if it please you. And I have a new plan for us. Some one

has sent me word that there may be news out of the Mill Prison, if we

can be at the inn at Passage to-night. I hope you will not say it is

too far to ride," she pleaded; "you have often shown me the place when

we rode beyond Clifton"—

 

Mr. Davis’s news was old already; his face fell with disappointment.

 

"It was a poor sailor who brought me word," she continued, speaking more

slowly, and watching him with anxiety. "Perhaps we shall hear from

Roger. He may have been retaken, and some one brings us word from him,

who has luckily escaped."

 

The old merchant looked at Mary shrewdly. "You had no message from

Wallingford himself?" he asked.

 

"Oh no," said the girl wistfully; "that were to put a happy end to

everything. But I do think that we may have news of him. If you had

not come, I should have gone to find you, I was so impatient."

 

Mr. Davis seated himself in his chair, and took on the air of a

magistrate, now that they were in the house. After all, Roger

Wallingford could know nothing of his mother or Miss Hamilton, or of

their being in England; there was no hint of them in the note.

 

"I suppose that we can make shift to ride to Passage," he said soberly.

"It is not so far as many a day’s ride that you and I have taken this

year; but I think we may have rain again, from the look of the clouds,

and I am always in danger of the gout in this late summer weather.

Perhaps it will be only another wild-goose chase," he added gruffly, but

with a twinkle in his eyes.

 

"If I could tell you who brought the news!" said Mary impulsively. "No,

I must not risk his name, even with you, dear friend. But indeed I have

great hope, and Madam is strangely better; somehow, my heart is very

light!"

 

The old man looked up with a smile, as Mary stood before him. He had

grown very fond of the child, and loved to see that the drawn look of

pain and patience was gone now from her face.

 

"I wish that it were night already. When can we start?" she asked.

 

"Friday is no lucky day," insisted Mr. John Davis, "but we must do what

we can. So Madam’s heart is light, too? Well, all this may mean

something," he said indulgently. "I must first see some of our town

council who are coming to discuss important matters with me at a stated

hour this afternoon, and then we can ride away. We have searched many

an inn together, and every village knows us this west side of Dorset,

but I believe we have never tried Old Passage before. Put on your thick

riding gown with the little capes; I look for both rain and chill."

 

 

The weather looked dark and showery in the east; the clouds were

gathering fast there and in the north, though the sun still fell on the

long stretch of Dundry. It had been a bright day for Bristol, but now a

dark, wet night was coming on. The towers of the abbey church and St.

Mary Radcliffe stood like gray rocks in a lake of fog, and if he had

been on any other errand, the alderman would have turned their horses on

the height of Clifton, and gone back to his comfortable home. The

pretty chimes in the old church at Westbury called after them the news

that it was five o’clock, as they cantered and trotted on almost to the

borders of the Severn itself, only to be stopped and driven to shelter

by a heavy fall of rain. They were already belated, and Mr. Davis

displeased himself with the thought that they were in for a night’s

absence, and in no very luxurious quarters. He had counted upon the

waning moon to get them back, however late, to Bristol; but the roads

were more and more heavy as they rode on. At last they found themselves

close to the water-side, and made their two horses scramble up the high

dike that bordered it, and so got a shorter way to Passage and a drier

one than the highway they had left.

 

The great dike was like one of the dikes of Holland, with rich meadow

farms behind it, which the high tides and spring floods had often

drowned and spoiled in ancient days. The Severn looked gray and sullen,

as they rode along beside it; there were but two or three poor fishing

craft running in from sea, and a very dim gray outline of the Welsh

hills beyond. There was no comfortable little haven anywhere in view in

this great landscape and sea border; no sign of a town or even a fishing

hamlet near the shore; only the long, curving line of the dike itself,

and miles away, like a forsaken citadel, the Passage Inn stood high and

lonely. The wind grew colder as they rode, and they rode in silence,

each lamenting the other’s discomfort, but clinging to the warm,

unquenchable hope of happiness that comforted their hearts. There were

two or three cottages of the dikekeepers wedged against the inner side

of the embankment, each with a little gable window that looked seaward.

One might lay his hand upon the low roofs in passing, and a stout bench

against the wall offered a resting-place to those travelers who had

trodden a smooth footpath on the top of the dike.

 

Now and then the horses must be made to leap a little bridge, and the

darkness was fast gathering. Down at the cottage sides there were

wallflowers on the window-sills, and in the last that they passed a

candle was already lighted, and bright firelight twinkled cheerfully

through the lattice. They met no one all the way, but once they were

confronted by a quarrelsome, pushing herd of young cattle returning from

the salt sea-pasturage outside. There was a last unexpected glow of red

from the west, a dull gleam that lit the low-drifting clouds above the

water, and shone back for a moment on the high windows of the inn

itself, and brightened the cold gray walls. Then the night settled

down, as if a great cloud covered the whole country with its wings.

 

 

Half an hour later Mr. John Davis dismounted with some difficulty, as

other guests now in the inn had done before him, and said aloud that he

was too old a man for such adventures, and one who ought to be at home

before his own good fire. They were met at the door by the mistress of

the inn, who had not looked for them quite so early, though she had had

notice by the carrier out of Bristol of their coming. There was a loud

buzz of voices in the inn kitchen; the place was no longer lonely, and

an unexpected, second troop of noisy Welsh packmen and drovers were

waiting outside for their suppers, before they took the evening packet

at the turn of tide. The landlady had everything to do at once; one of

her usual helpers was absent; she looked resentful and disturbed.

 

"I’d ought to be ready, sir, but I’m swamped with folks this night," she

declared. "I fear there ’ll be no packet leave, either; the wind ’s

down, and the last gust’s blown. If the packet don’t get in, she can’t

get out, tide or no tide to help her. I ’ve got your fire alight in the

best room, but you ’ll wait long for your suppers, I fear, sir. My

kitchen ’s no place for a lady."

 

"Tut, tut, my good lass!" said the alderman. "We ’ll wait an’ welcome.

I know your best room,—’t is a snug enough place; and we ’ll wait there

till you ’re free. Give me a mug of your good ale now, and some bread

and cheese, and think no more of us. I expect to find a young man here,

later on, to speak with me. There ’s no one yet asking for me, I dare

say? We are before our time."

 

[Illustration: ALONG THE DIKE]

 

The busy woman shook her head and hurried away, banging the door behind

her; and presently, as she crossed the kitchen, she remembered the young

gentleman in the rough clothes upstairs, and then only thanked Heaven to

know that he was sound asleep, and not clamoring for his supper on the

instant, like all the rest.

 

"I ’ll not wake him yet for a bit," she told herself; "then they can all

sup together pleasant, him and the young lady."

 

Mr. Davis, after having warmed himself before the bright fire of coals,

and looked carefully at the portrait of his Majesty King George the

Third on the parlor wall, soon began to despair of the ale, and went out

into the kitchen to take a look at things. There was nobody there to

interest him much, and the air was stifling. Young Wallingford might

possibly have been among this very company in some rough disguise, but

he certainly was not; and presently the alderman returned, followed by a

young maid, who carried a tray with the desired refreshments.

 

"There’s a yellow-faced villain out there; a gallows bird, if ever I saw one!" he said, as he seated himself again by the fire.