a neighbor's daughter enter from the street, and now beheld a stranger,
a beautiful young creature, with a beseeching look in her half familiar
face. "Come you indeed from old Barvick, my dear? You are just off the
sea by your fresh looks. I was thinking of cousin Wallingford within
this very hour; I grieved to think that now we are both so old I can
never see her face again. So you bring me news of her? Sit you down; I
can say that you are most welcome." Her eyes were like a younger
woman's, and they never left Mary's face.
"She is here; she is in the harbor, on board the Golden Dolphin, one of
her own ships. I have not only brought news to you; I have brought her
very self," said the girl joyfully.
There was a quick shadow upon the hostess's face. "Alas, then, poor
soul, I fear she has been driven from her home by trouble; she would be
one of the Loyalists! I 'll send for her at once. Come nearer me; sit
here in the window seat!" begged Mistress Davis affectionately. "You
are little Mary Hamilton, of the fine house I have heard of and never
seen, the pride of my dear old Barvick. But your brother would not
change sides. You are both of the new party,--I have heard all that
months ago; how happens it that the Golden Dolphin brought you hither,
too?"
Mary seated herself in the deep window, while Mistress Davis gazed at
her wonderingly. She had a tender heart; she could read the signs of
great effort and of loneliness in the bright girlish face. She did not
speak, but her long, discerning look and the touch of her hand gave such
motherly comfort that the girl might easily have fallen to weeping. It
was not that Mary thought of any mean pity for herself, or even
remembered that her dear charge had sometimes shown the unconscious
selfishness of weakness and grief; but brave and self-forgetful hearts
always know the true value of sympathy. They were friends and lovers at
first sight, the young girl and the elderly woman who was also
Berwick-born.
"I have had your house filled to its least garrets with Royalists out of
my own country, and here comes still another of them, with a young
friend who is of the other party," Mistress Davis said gayly; and the
guest looked up to see a handsome old man who had entered from another
room, and who frowned doubtfully as he received this information.
Mary's head was dark against the window, and he took small notice of her
at first, though some young men outside in the street had observed so
much of her beauty as was visible, and were walking to and fro on the
pavement, hoping for a still brighter vision.
"This is Miss Mary Hamilton, of Barvick," announced the mistress, "and
your old friend Madam Wallingford is in harbor, on one of her ships."
She knew that she need say no more.
Mr. John Davis, alderman of Bristol and senior warden of his parish
church, now came forward with some gallantry of manner.
"I do not like to lay a new charge upon you," said his wife, pleading
prettily, "but these are not as our other fugitives, poor souls!" and
she smiled as if with some confidence.
"Why, no, these be both of them your own kinsfolk, if I mistake not,"
the merchant agreed handsomely; "and the better part of our living has
come, in times past, from my dealings with the husband of one and the
good brother of the other. I should think it a pity if, for whatever
reason they may have crossed the sea, we did not open wide our door; you
must bid your maids make ready for their comfortable housing. I shall
go at once to find the captain, since he has come safe to land in these
days of piracy, and give so noble a gentlewoman as his owner my best
welcome and service on the ship. Perhaps Miss Hamilton will walk with
me, and give her own orders about her affairs?"
Mary stepped forward willingly from the window, in answer to so kind a
greeting; and when she was within close range of the old man's
short-sighted eyes, she was inspected with such rapid approval and happy
surprise that Mr. Alderman Davis bent his stately head and saluted so
fair a brow without further consideration. She was for following him at
once on his kind errand, but she first ran back and kissed the dear
mistress of the house. "I shall have much to tell you of home," she
whispered; "you must spare me much time, though you will first be so
eager for your own friend."
"We shall find each other changed, I know,--we have both seen years and
trouble enough; but you must tell Mrs. Wallingford I have had no such
happiness in many a year as the sight of her face will bring me. And
dear Nancy Haggens?" she asked, holding Mary back, while the merchant
grew impatient at the delay of their whispering. "She is yet alive?"
And Mary smiled.
"I shall tell you many things, not only of her, but of the gay major,"
she replied aloud. "Yes, I am coming, sir; but it is like home here,
and I am so happy already in your kind house." Then they walked away
together, he with a clinking cane and majestic air, and kindly showing
Miss Hamilton all the sights of Bristol that they passed.
"So you sailed on the Golden Dolphin?" he asked, as they reached the
water side. "She is a small, old vessel, but she wears well; she has
made this port many a time before," said John Davis. "And lumber-laden,
you say? Well, that is good for me, and you are lucky to escape the
thieving privateers out of your own harbors. So Madam Wallingford has
borne her voyage handsomely, you think? What becomes of her young son?"
*XXXIV*
*GOOD ENGLISH HEARTS*
"'T is all an old man can do, to say his prayers for his country."
Late that evening, while the two elder ladies kept close together, and
spoke eagerly of old days and friends long gone out of sight, John Davis
sat opposite his young guest at the fireplace, as he smoked his
after-supper pipe.
The rich oak-paneled room was well lit by both firelight and candles,
and held such peace and comfort as Mary never had cause to be grateful
for before. The cold dampness of the brig, their close quarters, and all
the dullness and impatience of the voyage were past now, and they were
safe in this good English house, among old friends. It was the
threshold of England, too, and Roger Wallingford was somewhere within;
soon they might be sailing together for home. Even the worst
remembrance of the sea was not unwelcome, with this thought at heart!
The voyagers had been listening to sad tales of the poverty and distress
of nearly all the Loyalist refugees from America, the sorrows of
Governor Hutchinson and his house, and of many others. The Sewalls and
Russells, the Faneuils, and the Boutineaus, who were still in Bristol,
had already sent eager messages. Mistress Davis warned her guests that
next day, when news was spread of their coming, the house would be full
of comers and goers; all asking for news, and most of them for money,
too. Some were now in really destitute circumstances who had been rich
at home, and pensions and grants for these heartsick Loyalists were not
only slow in coming, but pitiful in their meagreness. There was a poor
gentleman from Salem, and his wife with him, living in the Davises
house; they had lodged upward of thirty strangers since the year came
in; it was a heavy charge upon even a well-to-do man, for they must
nearly all borrow money beside their food and shelter. Madam
Wallingford was not likely to come empty-handed; the heavy box with
brass scutcheons which the captain himself had escorted from the Golden
Dolphin, late that afternoon, was not without comfortable reassurance,
and the lady had asked to have a proper English waiting-maid chosen for
her, as she did not wish to bring a weight upon the household. But
there were other problems to be faced. This good merchant, Mr. Davis,
was under obligations to so old a friend, and he was not likely to be a
niggard, in any sense, when she did him the honor to seek his
hospitality.
"I must go to my library, where I keep my business matters; 'tis but a
plain book room, a place for my less public affairs. We may have some
private talk there, if you are willing," he said, in a low voice; and
Mary rose at once and followed him. The ladies did not even glance
their way, though the merchant carefully explained that he should show
his guest a very great ledger which had been brought up from his
counting-room since business had fallen so low. She might see her
brother's name on many of the pages.
"Let us speak frankly now," he urged, as they seated themselves by as
bright a fire of blazing coals as the one they had left. "You can trust
me with all your troubles," said the fatherly old man. "I am distressed
to find that Madam Wallingford's case is so desperate."
Mary looked up, startled from the peace of mind into which she had
fallen.
"Do you know anything, sir?" she begged him earnestly. "Is it likely"--
But there she stopped, and could go no further.
"I had not the heart to tell her," he answered, "but we have already
some knowledge of that officer of the Ranger who was left ashore at
Whitehaven: he has been reported as gravely wounded, and they would not
keep him in any jail of that northern region, but sent him southward in
a dying state, saying that he should by rights go to his own kind in the
Mill Prison. You must be aware that such an unprovoked attack upon a
British seaport has made a great stir among us," added the merchant,
with bitterness.
Mary remembered the burning of Falmouth in her own province, and was
silent.
"If he had been a deserter, and treacherous at heart, as I find there
was suspicion," he continued; "yes, even if his own proper feelings
toward the King had mastered your lieutenant, I do not know that his
situation would have been any better for the moment. They must lack
spirit in Whitehaven; on our Bristol wharves the mob would have torn
such a prisoner limb from limb. You must remember that I am an
Englishman born and bred, and have no patience with your rebels. I see
now 't was a calmer judgment ruled their course when they sent him
south; but if he is yet in the Mill Prison, and alive, he could not be
in a worse place. This war is costing the King a fortune every week
that it goes on, and he cannot house such pirates and spies in his
castle at Windsor."
Mary's eyes flashed; she was keeping a firm hold upon her patience. "I
think, from what we are told of the Mill Prison, that the King has gone
too far to the other extreme," she could not forbear saying, but with
perfect quietness.
"Well, we are not here to talk politics," said the alderman uneasily.
"I have a deep desire to serve so old and respected a friend as this
young man's mother. I saw the boy once when he came to England; a
promising lad, I must own, and respectful to his elders. I am ready to
serve him, if I can, for his father's sake, and to put all talk of
principles by, or any question of his deserts. We have been driven to
the necessity of keeping watchers all along the sea-coast by night and
day, to send alarm by beacons into our towns. They say Paul Jones is a
born divil, and will stick at nothing. How came Colonel Wallingford's
son to cast in his lot with such a gallows rogue?"
"If you had lived on our river instead of here in Bristol, you would
soon know," Mary answered him. "Our honest industries have long been
hindered and forbidden; we are English folk, and are robbed of our
rights."
"Well, well, my dear, you seem very clear for a woman; but I am an old
man, and hard to convince. Your brother should be clear-headed enough;
he is a man of judgment; but how such men as he have come to be so
mistaken and blind"--
"It is Parliament that has been blind all the time," insisted Mary. "If
you had been with us on that side of the sea, you would be among the
first to know things as they are. Let us say no more, sir; I cannot
lend myself to argument. You are so kind and I am so very grateful for
it, in my heart."
"Well, well," exclaimed the old man again, "let us speak, then, of this
instant business that you have in hand! I take it you have a heart in
the matter, too; I see that you cherish Madam Wallingford like her own
child. We must find out if the lad is still alive, and whether it is
possible to free him. I heard lately that they have had the worst sort
of small-pox among them, and a jail fever that is worse than the plague
itself. 'T is not the fault of the jail, I wager you, but some dirty
sailor brought it from his foul ship," he added hastily. "They are all
crowded in together; would they had kept at home where they belong!"
"You speak hard words," said the girl impatiently, and with plain
reproach, but looking so beautiful in her quick anger that the old man
was filled with wonder and delight before his conscience reminded him
that he should be ashamed. He was not used to being so boldly fronted
by his own women folk; though his wife always had her say, she feared
and obeyed him afterward without question.
"I wish that this foolish tea had never been heard of; it has been a
most detestable weed for England," grumbled the old merchant. "They say
that even your Indians drink it now, or would have it if they could."
"Mr. Davis, you have seen something of our young country," said the
girl, speaking in a quiet tone. "You have known how busy our men are at
home, how steadily they go about their business. If you had seen, as I
did, how they stood straight, and dropped whatever they had in hand, and
were hot with rage when the news came from Boston and we knew that we
were attacked at Lexington and Concord, you would have learned how we
felt the bitter wrong. 'T was not the loss of our tea or any trumpery
tax; we have never been wanting in generosity, or hung back when we
should play our part. We remembered all the old wrongs: our own timber
rotting in our woods that we might not cut; our own waterfalls running
to waste by your English law, lest we cripple the home manufacturers.
We were hurt to the heart, and were provoked to fight; we have turned
now against such tyranny. All we New England women sat at home and
grieved. The cannon sounded loud through our peaceful country. They
shut our ports, and we could not stand another insult without boldly
resenting it. We had patience at first, because our hearts were English
hearts; then we turned and fought with all our might, because we were
still Englishmen, and there is plenty of fight left in us yet."
"You are beset by the pride of being independent, and all for
yourselves," Mr. Davis accused her.
"Our hearts are wounded to the quick, because we are the same New
England folk who fought together with the King's troops at Louisburg,
and you have oppressed us," said Mary quickly. "I heard that Mr. John
Adams said lately--and he has been one of our leaders from the
first--that there had not been a moment since the beginning of
hostilities when he would not have given everything he possessed for a
restoration to the state of things before the contest began, if we could
only have security for its continuance. We did not wish to separate from
England, and if the separation has come, it is only from our sad
necessity. Cannot you see that, being English people, we must insist
upon our rights? We are not another race because we are in another
country."
"Tut, tut, my dear," said the old man uneasily. "What does a pretty girl
like you know about rights? So that's the talk you 've listened to? We
may need to hear more of it; you sound to me as if Fox had all along
been in the right, and knew the way to bring back our trade." He began
to fidget in his elbow chair and to mend the fire. "I can't go into all
this; I have had a wearying day,"--he began to make faint excuse.
"There's much you should hear on England's side; you only know your own;
and this war is costing Parliament a terrible drain of money."
"Do you know anything of Lord Newburgh, and where he may be found?"
asked Mary, with sudden directness.
"My Lord Newburgh?" repeated Mr. Davis wonderingly. "And what should you
want with him? I know him but by name. He would be the son of that
Radcliffe who was a Scotch rebel in '45, and lost his head by it, too;
he was brother to the famous Lord Darwentwater. 'T was a wild family,
an unfortunate house. What seek you at their hands?"
Mary sat looking into the fire, and did not answer.
"Perhaps you can send some one with me toward Plymouth to-morrow?" she
asked presently, and trembled a little as she spoke. She had grown
pale, though the bright firelight shone full in her face. "The captain
learned when we first came ashore that Lord Mount Edgecumbe is likely to
be commander of that prison where our men are; the Mill Prison they said
it was, above Plymouth town. I did not say anything to Madam
Wallingford, lest our hopes should fail; but if you could spare a proper
person to go with me, I should like to go to Plymouth."
The old man gazed at her with wonder.
"You do not know what a wild goose chase means, then, my little lady!"
he exclaimed, with considerable scorn. "Lord Mount Edgecumbe! You
might as well go to Windsor expecting a morning talk and stroll in the
park along with the King. 'T is evident enough one person is the same
as another in your colonies! But if you wish to try, I happened to hear
yesterday that the great earl is near by, in Bath, where he takes the
waters for his gout. You can go first to Mr. George Fairfax, of
Virginia, with whom Madam Wallingford is acquainted; she has told me
that already. He is of a noble house, himself, Mr. Fairfax, and may
know how to get speech with these gentlemen: why, yes, 't is a chance,
indeed, and we might achieve something." Mr. Davis gave a satisfied
look at the beautiful face before him, and nodded his sage head.
"I shall go with you, myself, if it is a fair day tomorrow," he assured
her. "I am on good terms with Mr. Fairfax. I was long agent here for
their tobacco ships, the old Lord Fairfaxes of Virginia; but all that
rich trade is good as done," and he gave a heavy sigh. "We think of your
sailors in the Mill Prison as if they were all divils. You won't find
it easy to get one of them set free," he added boldly.
Mary gave a startled look, and drew back a little. "I hear the King is
glad to ship them on his men-of-war," she said, "and that the Mill
Prison is so vile a place the poor fellows are thankful to escape from
it, even if they must turn traitor to their own cause."
"Oh, sailors are sailors!" grumbled the old man. "I find Madam
Wallingford most loyal to the King, however, so that there is a chance
for her. And she is no beggar or would-be pensioner; far from it! If
her foolish son had been on any other errand than this of the Ranger's,
she might easier gain her ends, poor lady. 'What stands in the way?'
you may ask. Why, only last week our own coast was in a panic of fear!"
John Davis frowned at the fire, so that his great eyebrows looked as if
they were an assaulting battery. He shrugged his shoulders angrily, and
puffed hard at his pipe, but it had gone out altogether; then he smiled,
and spoke in a gentler tone:--
"Yes, missy, we 'll ride to Bath to-morrow, an the weather should be
fair; the fresh air will hearten you after the sea, and we can talk with
Mr. Fairfax, and see what may be done. I'm not afraid to venture,
though they may know you for a little rebel, and set me up to wear a
wooden ruff all day in the pillory for being seen with you!"
"I must speak ye some hard words," the old man added unexpectedly,
leaning forward and whispering under his breath, as if the solid oak
panels might let his forebodings reach a mother's ears in the room
beyond. "The young man may be dead and gone long before this, if he was
put into the Mill Prison while yet weak from his wounds. If he is
there, and alive, I think the King himself would say he could not let
him out. There 's not much love lost in England now for Paul Jones or
any of his crew."
*XXXV*
*A STRANGER AT HOME*
"Would that she had told us of the trials of that time, and why it was
that her heart rose against the new world and the new manners to which
she had come!"
The next morning Miss Hamilton came down dressed in her riding gear, to
find her host already in the saddle and armed with a stout hunting crop,
which he flourished emphatically as he gave some directions to his
groom. The day was fine and clear after a rainy night, with a hearty
fragrance of the showery summer fields blowing through the Bristol
streets.
They were quick outside the town on the road to Bath. Mary found
herself well mounted, though a little too safely for her liking. Her
horse was heavy of build, being used to the burden of a somewhat
ponderous master; but the lighter weight and easy prompting hand of a
young girl soon made him like a brave colt again. The old merchant
looked on with approval at such pretty skill and acquaintance with
horsemanship as his companion showed at the outset of their journey; and
presently, when both the good horses had finished their discreet frolic
and settled to sober travel, he fell into easy discourse, and showed the
fair rider all the varied interests of the way. It was a busy
thoroughfare, and this honored citizen was smiled at and handsomely
saluted by many acquaintances, noble and humble. Mr. Davis was stingy
of holidays, even in these dull times, but all the gallantry he had ever
possessed was glowing in his heart as he rode soberly along in such
pleasant company.
The dreary suspense and anxiety of six long weeks at sea were like a
half-forgotten dream in the girl's own mind; at last she could set forth
about her business. The sorrows of seafaring were now at an end; she was
in England at last, and the very heart of the mother country seemed to
welcome her; yet a young heart like Mary Hamilton's must needs feel a
twinge of pain at the height of her morning's happiness. The fields and
hedges, the bright foxglove and green ivy, the larks and blackbirds and
quiet robins, the soft air against her cheeks,--each called up some
far-inherited memory, some instinct of old relationship. All her elders
in Berwick still called England home, and her thrilled heart had come to
know the reason.
Roger Wallingford had lived in England. She suddenly understood against
her will why he could find it so hard to go to sea in the Ranger to
attack these shores, and why he had always protested against taking part
in the war. England was no longer an angry, contemptuous enemy,
tyrannous and exacting, and determined to withhold the right of liberty
from her own growing colonies. All those sad, familiar prejudices faded
away, and Mary could only see white clouds in a soft sky above the hazy
distance, and hear the English birds singing, and meet the honest
English faces, like old friends, as she rode along the road. There was
some witchery that bewildered her; it was like some angry quarrel sprung
up between mother and child while they were at a distance from each
other, that must be quick forgotten when they came face to face. There
was indeed some magic touch upon her: the girl's heart was beating fast;
she was half afraid that she had misunderstood everything in blaming old
England so much, and even stole a quick glance at her companion to see
if he could have guessed her strange thoughts.
"'T is a pretty morning," said Mr. Davis kindly, seeing that she looked
his way. "We shall reach Bath in proper season," and he let his horse
come to a slow walk.
Whether it was the fresh air of the summer day, very strengthening to
one who had been long at sea, or whether it was the justice of their
errand itself, the weakness of this happy moment quickly passed, and
Miss Hamilton's hand eagerly sought for a packet in the bosom of her
gown, to see if it were safe. The reason for being on this side the sea
was the hope that an anxious errand could be well done. She thought now
of Master Sullivan on his bleak New England hillside; of the far blue
mountains of the north country, and the outlook that was clearer and
wider than this hazy landscape along the Avon; she looked down at the
tame English river, and only remembered the wide stream at home that ran
from the mountains straight to sea,--how it roared and droned over the
great rocky fall near the master's own house, and sounded like the
calling sea itself in his ears.
"You may see Bath now, there in the valley," said Mr. Davis, pointing
with his big hand and the hunting crop. "'T is as fine a ride from
Bristol to Bath as any you may have in England." They stopped their
horses, a little short of breath, and looked down the rich wooded
country to the bright town below.
"'T is a fine ride indeed," said Mary, patting her horse's neck, and
thinking, with uncontrollable wistfulness, of the slenderer and less
discreet young Duke at home, and of the old coachman and his black
helpers as they always stood by the stable, eager to watch her, with
loud cautions, as she rode away. It was a sharp touch of homesickness,
and she turned her head so that she could hide her face from sight.