her hand. "Stop, stop!" she begged them. "Let me first take my friend
away. I am Mary Hamilton of the Patriots, and you all know my brother.
I ask you in his name to let us go in peace."
Her sorrowful face and her beauty for one instant held some of them
irresolute, but from the back of the crowd a great pressure urged the
rest forward. There was a little hush, and one man cried, "Yes, let them
go!" but the wild and lawless, who were for crowding in, would not have
it so. It was a terrible moment, like the sight of coming Death. There
was a crash; the women were overpowered and flung back against the wall.
Suddenly there was a new confusion, a heavier din, and some unexpected
obstacle to this onset; all at once a loud, familiar voice went to
Mary's heart. She was crouching with her arms close about her old
friend, to shield her from bruises and rough handling as the men pushed
by; in the same moment there were loud outcries of alarm without. What
happened next in the hall seemed like the hand of Heaven upon their
enemies. Old Major Tilly Haggens was there in the midst, with friends
behind him, dealing stout blows among those who would sack the house.
Outside on their horses were Judge Chadbourne and General Goodwin, who
had ridden straight into the mob, and with them a little troop of such
authorities as could be gathered, constables and tithing men; and old
Elder Shackley in his scarlet cloak; Parson Pike and Mr. Rollins, his
chief parishioner, were all there together. They rode among the
brawling men as if they were but bushes, and turned their good horses
before the house. The crowd quick lost its solid look; it now had to
confront those who were not defenseless.
"We are Patriots and Sons of Liberty, all of us who are here!" shouted
the minister, in a fine, clear voice. "We are none of us, old or young,
for the King, but we will not see a Christian woman and kind neighbor
made to suffer in such wise as this. Nor shall you do vengeance upon
her son until there is final proof of his guilt."
"We can beat these old parsons!" shouted an angry voice. "To it, lads!
We are three to their one!" But the elderly men on horseback held their
own; most of them were taught in the old school of fighting, and had
their ancient swords well in hand, ready for use with all manly courage.
Major Tilly Haggens still fought as a foot soldier in the hall; his
famous iron fist was doing work worthy of those younger days when he was
called the best boxer and wrestler in the plantations. He came forth
now, sweeping the most persistent before him out of the house.
"I 'll learn ye to strike a poor lame old man like me! Ye are no honest
Patriots, but a pack of thieves and blackguards! The worst pest of
these colonies!" he cried, with sound blows to right and left for
emphasis. He laid out one foe after another on the soft grass as on a
bed, until there was no one left to vanquish, and his own scant breath
had nearly left his body. The trampling horses had helped their riders'
work, and were now for neighing and rearing and taking to their heels.
The town constable was bawling his official threats, as he held one of
the weaker assailants by the collar and pounded the poor repentant
creature's back. It had suddenly turned to a scene of plain comedy, and
the mob was nothing but a rabble of men and boys, all running for
shelter, such as could still run, and disappearing down toward the river
shore.
The old judge got stiffly from his tall Narragansett pacer, and came
into the hall.
"Madam Wallingford's friends stop here to-night," he told the old
servant, who appeared from some dark corner. Poor Rodney was changed to
such an ashen color that he looked very strange, and as if he had rubbed
phosphorus to his frightened eyes. "You may tell your mistress and Miss
Hamilton that there is no more danger for the present," added the judge.
"I shall set a watch about the house till daylight."
Major Haggens was panting for breath, and leaned his great weight
heavily against the wainscoting. "I am near an apoplexy," he groaned
faintly. "Rodney, I hope I killed some of those divils! You may fetch
me a little water, and qualify it with some of Madam's French brandy of
the paler sort. Stay; you can help me get to the dining parlor myself,
and I 'll consider the spirit-case. Too violent a portion would be my
death; 't would make a poor angel of me, Rodney!"
Early in the morning, Judge Chadbourne and his neighbor Squire Hill, a
wise and prudent man, went out to take the morning air before the house.
They were presently summoned by Madam Wallingford, and spoke with her in
her chamber. The broken glass of the window still glittered on the
floor; even at sunrise the day was so mild that there was no chill, but
the guests were struck by something desolate in the room, even before
they caught sight of their lady's face.
"I must go away, my good friends," she declared quietly, after she had
thanked them for their service. "I must not put my friends in peril,"
she said, "but I am sure of your kind advice in my sad situation.
"We wait upon you to say that it would be best, Madam," said the judge
plainly. "I hear that New Hampshire as well as Massachusetts has in
consideration an act of great severity against the presence or return of
Loyalists, and I fear that you would run too much risk by staying here.
If you should be proscribed and your estates confiscated, as I fear may
be done in any case, you are putting your son's welfare in peril as well
as your own. If he be still living now, though misfortunes have
overtaken him, and he has kept faith, as we who know him must still
believe, these estates which you hold for him in trust are not in
danger; if the facts are otherwise"--and the old justice looked at her,
but could not find it in his heart to go on.
Madam Wallingford sat pondering the matter with her eyes fixed upon his
face, and was for some time lost in the gravest thoughts.
"What is this oath?" she asked at last, and her cheeks whitened as she
put the question.
The judge turned to Mr. Hill, and, without speaking, that gentleman took
a folded paper from among some documents which he wore in his pocket,
and rose to hand it to the lady.
"Will you read it to me?" she asked again; and he read the familiar oath
of allegiance in a steady voice, and not without approval in his tone:--
"I do acknowledge the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA to be free, independent;
and sovereign states, and declare that the people thereof owe no
allegiance or obedience to GEORGE THE THIRD, KING OF GREAT BRITAIN: and
I renounce, refuse, and abjure any allegiance or obedience to him; and I
do swear that I will, to the utmost of my power, support, maintain, and
defend the said UNITED STATES against the said KING GEORGE THE THIRD,
his heirs and successors, and his or their abettors, assistants, and
adherents, and will serve the said United States in the office ... which
I now hold, with fidelity, according to the best of my skill and
understanding."
As he finished he looked at the listener for assent, as was his habit,
and Judge Chadbourne half rose in his eagerness; everything was so
simple and so easy if she would take the oath. She was but a
woman,--the oath was made for men; but she was a great land holder, and
all the country looked to her. She was the almoner of her own wealth
and her husband's, and it were better if she stood here in her lot and
place.
"I cannot sign this," she said abruptly. "Is this the oath that Roger,
my son, has taken?"
"The same, Madam," answered Mr. Hill, with a disappointed look upon his
face, and there was silence in the room.
"I must make me ready to go," said Madam Wallingford at last, and the
tears stood deep in her eyes. "But if my son gave his word, he will keep
his word. I shall leave my trust and all our fortunes in your hands, and
you may choose some worthy gentlemen from this side of the river to
stand with you. The papers must be drawn in Portsmouth. I shall send a
rider down at once with a message, and by night I shall be ready to go
myself to town. I must ask if you and your colleagues will meet me
there at my house.... You must both carry my kind farewells to my
Barvick friends. As for me,"--and her voice broke for the first
time,--"I am but a poor remainder of the past that cannot stand against
a mighty current of change. I knew last night that it would come to
this. I am an old woman to be turned out of my home, and yet I tell you
the truth, that I go gladly, since the only thing I can hope for now is
to find my son. You see I am grown frail and old, but there is
something in my heart that makes me hope.... I have no trace of my son,
but he was left near to death, and must now be among enemies by reason
of having been upon the ship. No, no, I shall not sign your oath; take
it away with you, good friends!" she cried bitterly. Then she put out
her weak hands to them, and a pathetic, broken look came upon her face.
"'T was most brotherly, what you did for me last night. You must thank
the other good men who were with you. I ask your affectionate
remembrance in the sad days that come; you shall never fail of my
prayers."
And so they left her standing in the early sunshine of her chamber, and
went away sorrowful.
An hour later Mary Hamilton came in, bright and young. She was dressed
and ready to go home, and came to stand by her old friend, who was
already at her business, with many papers spread about.
"Mary, my child," said Madam Wallingford, taking her hand and trembling
a little, "I am going away. There is new trouble, and I have no choice.
You must stay with me this last day and help me; I have no one to look
to but you."
"But you can look to me, dear lady." Mary spoke cheerfully, not
understanding to the full, yet being sure that she should fail in no
service. There was a noble pride of courage in her heart, a gratitude
because they were both safe and well, and the spring sun shining, after
such a night. God gives nothing better than the power to serve those
whom we love; the bitterest pain is to be useless, to know that we fail
to carry to their lives what their dear presence brings to our own.
Mary laid her hand on her friend's shoulder. "Can I write for you just
now?" she asked.
"I am going to England," explained Madam Wallingford quietly. "Judge
Chadbourne and Mr. Hill have both told me that I must go away... I
shall speak only of Halifax to my household, but my heart is full of the
thought of England, where I must find my poor son. I should die of even
a month's waiting and uncertainty here; it seems a lifetime since the
news came yesterday. I must go to find Roger!"
All the bright, determined eagerness forsook Mary Hamilton's face. It
was not that the thought of exile was new or strange, but this poor
wistful figure before her, with its frayed thread of vitality and thin
shoulders bent down as if with a weight of sorrow, seemed to forbid even
the hard risks of seafaring. The girl gave a cry of protest, as if she
felt the sharp pain of a sudden blow.
"I have always been well enough on the sea. I do not dread the voyage
so much. I am a good sailor," insisted Madam Wallingford, with a smile,
as if she must comfort a weaker heart than her own. "My plans are
easily made, as it happens; one of my own vessels was about to sail for
West Indian ports. It was thought a useless venture by many, but the
captain is an impatient soul, and an excellent seaman. He shall take us
to Halifax, Susan and me. I thought at first to go alone; but Susan has
been long with me, and can be of great use when we are once ashore. She
is in sad estate on the ocean, poor creature, and when we went last to
Virginia I thought never to distress her so much again."
There was a shining light on the girl's face as she listened.
"I shall go with you, not Susan," she said. "Even with her it would be
like letting you go alone. I am strong, and a good sailor too. We must
leave her here to take care of your house, as I shall leave Peggy."
Madam Wallingford looked at Mary Hamilton with deep love, but she lifted
her hand forbiddingly.
"No, no, dear child," she whispered. "I shall not think of it."
"There may be better news," said Mary hopefully.
"There will be no news, and I grudge every hour that is wasted," said
the mother, with strange fretfulness. "I have friends in England, as
you know. If I once reach an English port, the way will be easy. When
prison doors shut they do not open of themselves, in these days, but I
have some friends in mind who would have power to help me. I shall take
passage from Halifax for Bristol, if I can; if no better vessel offers,
I shall push on in the Golden Dolphin rather than court delay."
Mary stood smiling into her face.
"No, no, my dear," said Madam Wallingford again, and drew the girl
closer. "I cannot let you think of such a thing. Your young heart
speaks now, and not your wise reflection. For your brother's sake I
could not let you go, still less for your own; it would make you seem a
traitor to your cause. You must stand in your own place."
"My brother is away with his troop. He begged me to leave everything
here, and go farther up the country. The burning of Falmouth made him
uneasy, and ever since he does not like my staying alone in our house,"
insisted Mary.
"There is knowledge enough of the riches of this river, among seamen of
the English ports," acknowledged Madam Wallingford. "In Portsmouth
there are many friends of England who will not be molested, though all
our leaders are gone. Still I know that an attack upon our region has
long been feared," she ended wistfully.
"I told my brother that I should not leave home until there was really
such danger; we should always have warning if the enemy came on the
coast. If they burnt our house or plundered it, then I should go
farther up the country. I told Jack," continued Mary, with flushing
cheeks, "that I did not mean to leave you; and he knew I meant it, but
he was impatient, too. 'I have well-grown timber that will build a
hundred houses,' he answered me, and was rough-spoken as to the house,
much as he loves it,--'but I shall not have one moment's peace while I
think you are here alone. Yet, you must always look to Madam
Wallingford,' he said more than once."
"Go now, my dear child; send me Susan, who is no doubt dallying in the
kitchen!" commanded the mistress abruptly. "I must not lose a minute of
this day. You must do as your brother bade you; but as for doing the
thing which would vex him above everything else,--I cannot listen to
more words. I see that you are for going home this morning; can you
soon return to me, when you have ordered your affairs? You can help me
in many small matters, and we shall be together to the last. I could
not take you with me, darling," she said affectionately. "'T was my
love for you--no, I ought to say 't was my own poor selfishness--that
tempted my heart for the moment. Now we must think of it no more, either
of us. You have no fellowship with those to whom I go; you are no
Loyalist," and she even smiled as she spoke. "God bless you for such
dear kindness, Mary. I think I love you far too much to let you go with
me."
Mary's face was turned away, and she made no answer; then she left her
friend's side, wondering at the firm decision and strong authority which
had returned in this time of sorrow and danger. It frightened her, this
flaring up of what had seemed such a failing light of life. It was
perhaps wasting to no purpose the little strength that remained.
She stood at the window to look down the river, and saw the trampled
ground below; it seemed as if the last night's peril were but the peril
of a dream. The fruit-trees were coming into bloom: a young
cherry-tree, not far away, was white like a little bride, and the
pear-trees were ready to follow; their buds were big, and the white
petals showing. It was high water; the tide had just turned toward the
ebb, and there were boats going down the river to Portsmouth, in the
usual fashion, to return with the flood. There was a large gundalow
among them, with its tall lateen sail curved to the morning breeze. Of
late the river had sometimes looked forsaken, so many men were gone to
war, and this year the fields would again be half tilled at best, by
boys and women. To country eyes, there was a piteous lack of the
pleasant hopefulness of new-ploughed land on the river farms.
"There are many boats going down to-day," reported Mary, in her usual
tone; "they will be for telling the news of last night at the wharves in
Portsmouth. There will be a fine, busy crowd on the Parade."
Then she sighed heavily; she was in the valley of decision; she felt as
if she were near to tearing herself from this dear landscape and from
home,--that she was on the brink of a great change. She could not but
shrink from such a change and loss.
She returned from her outlook to Madam Wallingford's side.
"I must not interrupt your business. I will not press you, either,
against your will. I shall soon come back, and then you will let me
help you and stay with you, as you said. When will your brig be ready?"
"She is ready to sail now, and only waits her clearance papers; the
captain was here yesterday morning. She is the Golden Dolphin, as I have
already told you, and has often lain here at our river wharves; a very
good, clean vessel, with two lodgings for passengers. I have sent word
that I shall come on board to-morrow; she waits in the stream by
Badger's Island."
"And you must go from here"--
"To-night. I have already ordered my provision for the voyage. Rodney
went down on the gundalow before you were awake, and he will know very
well what to do; this afternoon I shall send many other things by boat."
"I was awake," said Mary softly, "but I hoped that you were resting"--
"If the seas are calm, as may happen, I shall not go to Halifax,"
confessed the other; "I shall push on for Bristol. Our cousin Davis is
there, and the Russells, and many other friends. The brig is
timber-laden; if we should be captured"--
"By which side?" laughed Mary, and a sad gleam of answering humor
flitted over Madam Wallingford's face.
"Oh, we forget that my poor child may be dead already!" she cried, with
sharp agony, next moment. "I think and think of his hurting wounds. No
pity will be shown a man whom they take to be a spy!" and she was shaken
by a most piteous outburst of tears.
Then Mary, as if the heart in her own young breast were made of love
alone, tried to comfort Madam Wallingford. It was neither the first
time nor the last.
*XXX*
*MADAM GOES TO SEA*
"The paths to a true friend lie direct, though he be far away."
The bright day had clouded over, and come to a wet and windy spring
night. It was past eight o'clock; the darkness had early fallen. There
was a sense of comfort in a dry roof and warm shelter, as if it were
winter weather, and Master Sullivan and old Margery had drawn close to
their warm fireplace. The master was in a gay mood and talkative, and
his wife was at her usual business of spinning, stepping to and fro at a
large whirring wheel. To spin soft wool was a better trade for evening
than the clacking insistence of the little wheel with its more demanding
flax. Margery was in her best mood, and made a most receptive and
admiring audience.
"Well, may God keep us!" she exclaimed, at the end of a story. "'T was
as big a row as when the galleries fell in Smock Alley theatre. I often
heard of that from my poor father."
Master Sullivan was pleased with his success; Margery was not always so
easy to amuse, but he was in no mind for a conflict. Something had made
his heart ache that day, and now her love and approval easily rescued
him from his own thought; so he went on, as if his fortunes depended
upon Margery's favor and frankly expressed amusement.
"One night there was a long-legged apprentice boy to a French
upholsterer; this was in London, and I a lad myself stolen over there
from Paris with a message for Charles Radcliffe. He had great leanings
toward the stage, this poor boy, and for the pride of his heart got the
chance to play the ghost in Hamlet at Covent Garden. Well, it was then
indeed you might see him at the heighth of life and parading in his
pasteboard armor. 'Mark me!' says he, with a voice as if you'd thump
the sides of a cask. '_I'll mark you!_' cries his master from the pit,
and he le'pt on the stage and was after the boy to kill him; and all the
lads were there le'pt after him to take his part; and they held off the
master, and set the ghost in his place again, the poor fellow; and they
said he did his part fine, and creeped every skin that was there. He'd
a great night; never mind the beating that fell to him afterward!"
The delighted listener shook with silent laughter.
"'T was like the time poor Denny Delane was in Dublin. I was there but
the one winter myself," continued the master. "He came of a fine
family, but got stage-struck, and left Trinity College behind him like a
last year's bird's nest. Every woman in Dublin, old and young, was
crazy after him. There were plays bespoke, and the fashion there every
night, all sparked with diamonds, and every officer in his fine uniform.
There was great dressing with the men as you'd never see them now: my
Lord Howth got a fancy he'd dress like a coachman, wig and all; and Lord
Trimlestown was always in scarlet when he went abroad, and my Lord
Gormanstown in blue. Oh, but they were the pictures coming in their
coaches! You would n't see any officer out of his uniform, or a doctor
wanting his lace ruffles! 'T was my foolish young self borrowed all the
lace from my poor mother that she'd lend me, and I but a boy; and then
I'd go help myself out of her boxes, when she'd gone to mass. She'd a
great deal of beautiful lace, and knew every thread of it by heart. I
've a little piece yet that was sewed under a waistcoat. Go get it now,
and we 'll look at it; 't is laid safe in that second book from the end
of the shelf. You may give it to the little lady, when I 'm gone, for a
remembrance; 't is the only--ah, well; I 've nothing else in the world
but my own poor self that ever belonged to my dear mother!"
The old master's voice grew very sad, and all his gayety was gone.
"'Deed, then, Miss Mary Hamilton 'll get none of it, and you having a
daughter of your own!" scolded Margery, instantly grown as fierce as he
was sad. Sometimes the only way to cure the master of his dark sorrows
was to make him soothe her own anger. But this night he did not laugh at
her, though she quarreled with fine determination.
"Oh me!" groaned the master. "Oh me, the fool I was!" and he struck his
knee with a hopeless hand, as he sat before the fire.
"God be good to us!" mourned old Margery, "and I a lone child sent to a
strange country without a friend to look to me, and yourself taking
notice of me on the ship; 't was the King I thought you were, and you'd
rob me now of all that. Well, I was no fit wife for a great gentleman;
I always said it, too. I loved you as I don't know how to love my God,
but I must ask for nothing!"
The evening's pleasure was broken; the master could bear anything better
than her poor whimpering voice.
"You look at a poor man as if he were the front of a cathedral," he
chided her, again trying to be merry. But at this moment they were both
startled into silence; they both heard the heavy tread of horses before
the house.
"Come in, come in, whoever you are!" shouted Master Sullivan, as he
threw open the outer door. "Are ye lost on the road, that ye seek light
and lodging here?"
The horses would not stand; the night was dark as a dungeon; the heavy
rain blew in the old man's face. His heart beat fast at the sound of a
woman's voice.
"By great Jupiter, and all the gods! what has brought you here, Mary
Hamilton, my dear child?" he cried. "Is there some attack upon the
coast? 'T is the hand of war or death has struck you!"
The firelight shone upon Mary's face as she entered, but the wind and
rain had left no color there; it was a wan face, that masked some high
resolve, and forbade either comment or contradiction. She took the
chair to which the master led her, and drew a long breath, as if to
assure herself of some steadiness of speech.