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.
Mary Hamilton stood by the window, to watch if the captain might be
coming. It was already so dark that she could hardly see what might
happen out of doors. She envied her companion the ease with which he
had gone out to take a look at the men in the great kitchen; but Paul
Jones would be sure to look for her when he came; there was nothing to
do but to wait for him, if one could only find proper patience. The
bleak inn parlor, scene of smugglers' feasts and runaway weddings, was
brightened by the good fire. The alderman was soon comforted in both
mind and body, and Mary, concealing her impatience as best she could,
shared his preliminary evening meal, as she had done many a night, in
many an inn, before. She had a persistent fear that Paul Jones or his
messenger might come and go away again, and she grew very anxious as she
sat thinking about him; but as she looked up and began to speak, she saw
that the tired old man could not answer; he was sound asleep in his
chair. The good ale had warmed and soothed him so that she had not the
heart to wake him. She resigned herself to silence, but listened for
footsteps, and to the ceaseless clink of glasses and loud clatter of
voices in the room beyond. The outer door had a loud and painful creak,
and for a long time she heard nobody open it, until some one came to
give a loud shout for passengers who were intending to take the packet.
Then there was a new racket of departure, and the sound of the landlady
angrily pursuing some delinquent guest into the yard to claim her pay;
but still Mr. Davis slept soundly. The poor woman would be getting her
kitchen to rights now; presently it would be no harm to wake her
companion, and see if their business might not be furthered. It was not
late; they really had not been there much above an hour yet, only the
time was very slow in passing; and as Mary watched Mr. John Davis asleep
in his chair, his kind old face had a tired look that went to her
affectionate heart. At last she heard a new footstep coming down the
narrow stairway into the passage. She could not tell why, but there was
a sudden thrill at her heart. There was a tumult in her breast, a sense
of some great happiness that was very near to her; it was like some
magnet that worked upon her very heart itself, and set her whole frame
to quivering.
*XLIV*
*THE ROAD'S END*
"In sum, such a man as any enemy could not wish him worse than to be
himself."
"I found him in a lonely place:
Long nights he ruled my soul in sleep:
Long days I thought upon his face."
After the packet went there were three men left in the kitchen, who sat
by themselves at a small table. The low-storied, shadowy room was ill
lighted by a sullen, slow-burning fire, much obscured by pots and
kettles, and some tallow candles scattered on out-of-the-way shelves.
The mistress of the place scolded over her heap of clattering crockery
and heavy pewter in a far corner. The men at the table had finished
their supper, and having called for more drink, were now arguing over
it. Two of them wore coats that were well spattered with mud; the third
was a man better dressed, who seemed above his company, but wore a
plausible, persistent look on his sallow countenance. This was Dickson,
who had been set ashore in a fishing boat, and was now industriously
plying his new acquaintances with brandy, beside drinking with eagerness
himself at every round of the bottle. He forced his hospitality upon the
better looking of his two companions, who could not be made to charge
his glass to any depth, or to empty it so quickly as his mate. Now and
then they put their heads together to hear a tale which Dickson was
telling, and once burst into a roar of incredulous laughter which made
the landlady command them to keep silence.
She was busy now with trying to bring out of the confusion an orderly
supper for her patient guests of the parlor, and sent disapproving
glances toward the three men near the fire, as if she were ready to
speed their going. They had drunk hard, but the sallow-faced man called
for another bottle, and joked with the poor slatternly girl who went and
came serving their table. They were so busy with their own affairs that
they did not notice a man who slipped into the kitchen behind them, as
the Welshmen went out. As the three drank a toast together he crossed
to the fireside, and seated himself in the corner of the great settle,
where the high back easily concealed his slight figure from their sight.
Both the women saw him there, but he made them a warning gesture. He
was not a yard away from Dickson.
The talk was freer than ever; the giver of the feast, in an unwonted
outburst of generosity, flung a shilling on the flagged floor, and bade
the poor maid scramble for it and keep it for herself. Then Dickson let
his tongue run away with all his discretion. He began to brag to these
business acquaintances of the clever ways in which he had gained his own
ends on board the Ranger, and outwitted those who had too much
confidence in themselves. He even bragged that Captain John Paul Jones
was in his power, after a bold fashion that made his admiring audience
open their heavy eyes.
"We 're safe enough here from that mistaken ferret," he insisted, after
briefly describing the ease with which he had carried out their evening
plans. "You might have been cooling your heels here waiting for me the
whole week long, and I waiting for my money, too, but for such a turn of
luck! If I did n't want to get to France, and get my discharge, and go
back to America as quick as possible without suspicion, I'd tell you
just where he landed, and put him into your hands like a cat in a bag,
to be easy drowned!"
"He 's in Bristol to-night, if you must know," Dickson went on, after
again refreshing himself with the brandy; "we set him ashore to ride
there over Clifton Downs. Yes, I might have missed ye. He 's a bold
devil, but to-night the three of us here could bag him easy. I 've put
many a spoke in his wheel. There was a young fellow aboard us, too,
that had done me a wrong at home that I never forgave; and that night at
Whitehaven I 've already told ye of, when I fixed the candles, after I
got these papers that you 've come for, I dropped some pieces of 'em,
and things that was with 'em, in my pretty gentleman's locker. So good
friends were parted after that, and the whole Whitehaven matter laid to
his door. I could tell ye the whole story. His name's Wallingford,
curse him, and they say he 's got a taste o' your Mill Prison by this
time that's paid off all our old scores. I hope he 's dead and damned!"
"Who 's your man Wallingford? I 've heard the name myself. There 's a
reward out for him; or did I hear he was pardoned?" asked one of the
men.
"'T was a scurvy sort o' way to make him pay his debts. I'd rather
ended it man fashion, if I had such a grudge," said the other listener,
the man who had been drinking least.
Dickson's wits were now overcome by the brandy, hard-headed as he might
boast himself. "If you knew all I had suffered at his hands!" he
protested. "He robbed me of a good living at home, and made me fail in
my plans. I was like to be a laughingstock!"
The two men shrugged their shoulders when he next pushed the bottle
toward them, and said that they had had enough. "Come, now," said one
of them, "let's finish our business! You have this document o' one
Yankee privateersman called Paul Jones that our principal 's bound for
to get. You 've set your own thieves' price on it, and we 're sent here
to pay it. I 'm to see it first, to be sure there's no cheat, and then
make a finish."
"The paper 's worth more than't was a month ago," said Dickson shrewdly.
His face was paler than ever, and in strange contrast to the red faces
of his companions. "The time is come pretty near for carrying out the
North Sea scheme. He may have varied from this paper when he found the
writing gone, but I know for a fact he has the cruise still in mind, and
't would be a hard blow to England."
"'T is all rot you should ask for more money," answered the first
speaker doggedly. "We have no more money with us; 't is enough, too;
the weight of it has gallded me with every jolt of the horse. Say, will
you take it or leave it? Let me but have a look at the paper! I 've a
sample of their cipher here to gauge it by. Come, work smart, I tell
ye! You 'll be too drunk to deal with soon, and we must quick begone."
Dickson, swearing roundly at them, got some papers out of his pocket,
and held one of them in his hand.
"Give me the money first!" he growled.
"Give us the paper," said the other; "'t is our honest right."
There was a heavy tramping in the room above, as if some one had risen
from sleep, and there was a grumble of voices; a door was opened and
shut, and steady footsteps came down the creaking stair and through the
dark entry; a moment more, and the tall figure of a young man stood
within the room.
"Well, then, and is my supper ready?" asked Wallingford, looking about
him cheerfully, but a little dazed by the light.
There was a smothered outcry; the table was overset, and one of the
three men sprang to his feet as if to make his escape.
"Stand where you are till I have done with you!" cried the lieutenant
instantly, facing him. "You have a reckoning to pay! By Heaven, I
shall kill you if you move!" and he set his back against the door by
which he had just entered. "Tell me first, for Heaven's sake, you
murderer, is the Ranger within our reach?"
"She is lying in the port of Brest," answered the trapped adventurer,
with much effort. He was looking about him to see if there were any way
to get out of the kitchen, and his face was like a handful of dirty
wool. Outside the nearest window there were two honest faces from the
Roscoff boat's crew pressed close against the glass, and looking in
delightedly at the play. Dickson saw them, and his heart sank; he had
been sure they were waiting for Paul Jones, half a dozen miles down
shore.
"Who are these men with you, and what is your errand here?" demanded
Wallingford, who saw no one but the two strangers and his enemy.
"None of your damned business!" yelled Dickson, like a man suddenly
crazed; his eyes were starting from his head. The landlady came
scolding across the kitchen to bid him pay and begone, with his company,
and Dickson turned again to Wallingford with a sneer.
"You 'll excuse us, then, at this lady's request," he said, grinning.
The brandy had come to his aid again, now the first shock of their
meeting was past, and made him overbold. "I 'll bid you good-night, my
hero, 'less you 'll come with us. There's five pounds bounty on his
head, sirs!" he told the messengers, who stood by the table.
They looked at each other and at Dickson; it was a pretty encounter, but
they were not themselves; they were both small-sized men, moreover, and
Wallingford was a strapping great fellow to tackle in a fight. There he
stood, with his hack against the door, an easy mark for a bullet, and
Dickson's hand went in desperation a second time to his empty pocket.
The woman, seeing this, cried that there should be no shooting, and
stepping forward stood close before Wallingford; she had parted men in a
quarrel many a time before, and the newcomer was a fine upstanding young
gentleman, of a different sort from the rest.
"You have no proof against me, anyway!" railed Dickson. He could not
bear Wallingford's eyes upon him. His Dutch courage began to ebb, and
the other men took no part with him; it was nothing they saw fit to
meddle with, so far as the game had gone. He still held the paper in
his hand.
"You have n't a chance against us!" he now bellowed, in despair. "We
are three to your one here. Take him, my boys, and tie him down! He's
worth five pounds to you, and you may have it all between ye!"
At this moment there was a little stir behind the settle, and some one
else stepped out before them, as if he were amused by such bungling
play.
"I have got proof enough myself now," said Captain Paul Jones quietly,
standing there like the master of them all, "and if hanging 's enough
proof for you, Dickson, I must say you 've a fair chance of it. When
you 've got such business on hand as this, let brandy alone till you 've
got it done. The lieutenant was pardoned weeks ago; the papers wait for
him in Bristol. He is safer than we are in England."
Wallingford leaped toward his friend with a cry of joy; they were in
each other's arms like a pair of Frenchmen. As for Dickson, he sank to
the floor like a melted candle; his legs would not hold him up; he
gathered strength enough to crawl toward Wallingford and clutch him by
the knees.
"Oh, have pity on my sick wife and little family!" he wailed aloud
there, and blubbered for mercy, till the lieutenant shook him off, and
he lay, still groaning, on the flagstones.
The captain had beckoned to his men, and they were within the room.
"Give me my papers, Dickson, and begone," he said; "and you two fellows
may get you gone, too, with your money. Stay, let me see it first!" he
said.
They glanced at each other in dismay. They had no choice; they had left
their pistols in their holsters; the business had seemed easy, and the
house so decent. They could not tell what made them so afraid of this
stern commander. The whole thing was swift and irresistible; they
meekly did his bidding and gave the money up. It was in a leather bag,
and the captain held it with both hands and looked gravely down at
Dickson. The other men stared at him, and wondered what he was going to
do; but he only set the bag on the table, and poured some of the yellow
gold into his hand.
"Look there, my lads!" he said. "There must be some infernal magic in
the stuff that makes a man sell his soul for it. Look at it, Dickson,
if you can! Mr. Wallingford, you have suffered too much, I fear, through
this man's infamy. I have doubted you myself by reason of his
deviltries, and I am heartily ashamed of it. Forgive me if you can, but
I shall never forgive myself.
"Put this man out!" said the captain loudly, turning to his sailors, and
they stepped forward with amusing willingness. "Take him down to the
boat and put off. I shall join you directly. If he jumps overboard,
don't try to save him; 't were the best thing he could do."
Dickson, wretched and defeated, was at last made to stand, and then took
his poor revenge; he sent the crumpled paper that was in his hand flying
into the fire, and Paul Jones only laughed as he saw it blaze. The game
was up. Dickson had lost it, and missed all the fancied peace and
prosperity of the future by less than a brief half hour. The sailors
kicked him before them out of the door; it was not a noble exit for a
man of some natural gifts, who had undervalued the worth of character.
The captain took up the bag of gold and gave it back to the men. "This
is in my power, but it is spies' money, and I don't want such!" he said
scornfully. "You may take it to your masters, and say that Captain John
Paul Jones, of the United States frigate Ranger, sent it back."
They gave each other an astonished look as they departed from the room.
"There 's a man for my money," said one of the men to the other, when
they were outside. "I'd ship with him to-night, and I 'd sail with him
round the world and back again! So that's Paul Jones, the pirate.
Well, I say here 's his health and good luck to him, Englishman though I
be!" They stood amazed in the dark outside with their bag of money,
before they stole away. There was nothing they could do, even if they
had wished him harm, and to-morrow they could brag that they had seen a
hero.
The mistress of the inn had betaken herself to the parlor to lay the
table for supper. Mr. Alderman Davis had just waked, hearing a fresh
noise in the house, and the lady was bidding him to go and look if the
captain were not already come. But he first stopped to give some orders
to the landlady.
The two officers of the Ranger were now alone in the kitchen; they stood
looking at each other. Poor Wallingford's face was aged and worn by his
distresses, and the captain read it like an open book.
"I thank God I have it in my power to make you some amends!" he
exclaimed. "I believe that I can make you as happy as you have been
miserable. God bless you, Wallingford! Wait here for me one moment, my
dear fellow," he said, with affection, and disappeared.
Wallingford, still possessed by his astonishment, sat down on the great
settle by the fire. This whole scene had been like a play; all the
dreary weeks and days that had seemed so endless and hopeless had come
to this sudden end with as easy a conclusion as when the sun comes out
and shines quietly after a long storm that has wrecked the growing
fields. He thought of the past weeks when he had been but a hunted
creature on the moors with his hurt comrade, and the tread of their
pursuers had more than once jarred the earth where their heads were
lying. He remembered the dull happiness of succeeding peace and safety,
when he had come to be wagoner in the harvest time for a good old farmer
by Taunton, and earned the little money and the unquestioned liberty
that had brought him on his way to Chippenham market and this happy
freedom. He was free again, and with his captain; he was a free
unchallenged man. Please God, he should some day see home again and
those he loved.
There was a light footstep without, and the cheerful voice of an elderly
man across the passage. The kitchen door opened, and shut again, and
there was a flutter of a woman's dress in the room. The lieutenant was
gazing at the fire; he was thinking of his mother and of Mary. What was
the captain about so long in the other room?
There was a cry that made his heart stand still, that made him catch his
breath as he sprang to his feet; a man tall and masterful, but worn with
hardships and robbed of all his youth. There was some one in the room
with him, some one looking at him in tenderness and pity, with the light
of heaven on her lovely face; grown older, too, and struck motionless
with the sudden fright of his presence. There stood the woman he loved.
There stood Mary Hamilton herself, come to his arms--Heaven alone knew
how--from the other side of the world.
*XLV*
*WITH THE FLOOD TIDE*
"Swift are the currents setting all one way."